#THEM AND FIG ARE FORMING A GOD COLLECTIVE

[angelwiththeblue-box]

A WIN FOR TRACKERBEES SHIPPERS

[talonabraxas]

“You attract and manifest whatever corresponds to your inner state.” - Eckhart Tolle

Hyperspace – A Scientific Odyssey A look at the higher dimensions Meeting a Higher Dimensional Being To understand some of the mind-bending features of higher dimensions, imagine a two-dimensional world, called Flat land (after Edwin A. Abbott’s celebrated novel) that resembles a world existing on a flat table-top. If one of the Flatlanders becomes lost, we can quickly scan all of Flatland, peering directly inside houses, buildings, and even concealed places. If one of the Flatlanders becomes sick, we can reach directly into their insides and per form surgery, without ever cutting their skin. If one of the Flatlanders is incarcerated in jail (which is a circle enclosing the Flatlander) we can simply peel the person off from Flatland into the third dimension and place the Flatlander back somewhere else. If we become more ambitious and stick our fingers and arms through Flatland, the Flatlanders would only see circles of flesh that hover around them, constantly changing shape and merging into other circles. And lastly, if we fling a Flatlander into our three dimensional world, the Flatlander can only see two dimensional cross sections of our world, i.e. a phantasmagoria of circles, squares, etc. which constantly change shape and merge (see fig. 1 and 2). Now imagine that we are “three dimensional Flatlanders” being visited by a higher dimensional being. If we became lost, a higher dimensional being could scan our entire universe all at once, peering directly into the most tightly sealed hiding places. If we became sick, a higher dimensional being could reach into our insides and perform surgery without ever cutting our skin. If we were in a maximum-security, escape-proof jail, a higher dimensional being could simply “yank” us into a higher dimension and redeposit us back somewhere else. If higher dimensional beings stick their “fingers” into our universe, they would appear to us to be blobs of flesh which float above us and constantly merge and split apart. And lastly, if we are flung into hyperspace, we would see a collection of spheres, blobs, and polyhedra which suddenly appear, constantly change shape and color, and then mysteriously disappear. Higher dimensional people, therefore, would have powers similar to a god: they could walk through walls, disappear and reappear at will, reach into the strongest steel vaults, and see through buildings. They would be omniscient and omnipotent. Not surprisingly, speculation about higher dimensions has sparked enormous literary and artistic interest over the last hundred years.

[object-vault-9]

Origins/Basics of Hush

The Hush bandits are a newly formed group that splintered off from a much larger raider gang, the one Bowling Pin is one of the 'heirs' to, Mountain Gods. They've only really exisited maybe a few months before the vault opened, so their histories started tangling pretty fast. Founded by Charger, who was, and still is, known for his brute force and unusual size/power for an object. Going from an enforcer type role to a leader, rather than using his brute strength to threaten the enemies of his old group he usually uses this to rule over his own smaller group with fear. He has no qualms about threatening, hurting or even killing his own members in order to keep them in line, though his ruthlessness has earned him the fear and respect of his peers. He's genuinely bad news.

Charger isn't the best leader, but no one really dares question him. He has a fly off the handle temper, he's known for picking fights and a has really vindictive streak

However, that doesn't mean he doesn't know how to leave his mark on things. Despite being a smaller group, they have a strong influence on their area, and they're known for completely destroying the places they attack. Often with fire, which is what made the ending of the "second war" the vault had with them somewhat fitting.

They usually target lone travelers over larger settlements. Loot wise they're mostly after weapons and supplies, though some of them like collecting other items, like Hat Rack collecting hats and going out of their way to attack people who're wearing hats.

The people that came over from the old gang were Charger, Bad Apple, Fungus, Fire Axe, Fig, Shale and Razor Blade. The others (like Blue Spruce, Splam, Frame, etc) joined later, in a similar fashion to new joiners findind the vault. Everyone in the gang joined willingly, though it can be difficult to leave. Fungus was the co-founder of the group in a way, but lost all of their influence after they dropped the ball with Shale, making it more salt in the wound that a newer member Frame is holding the second-in command spot. The assosiation with the color purple and the tagging was something formulated by Bad Apple and Fire Axe The mattress store was their original base, and they spent a lot of time building it up to be their home. Their new base is a tightly kept secret.

After their firey defeat at the hands of Bustopher, and the targetting they've recieved from the Foundation along side the vault, Hush keeps to themselves much more than they had in the past.

[apifacture]

｡˚ 𓆤 ˚｡ MUSE AESTHETICS

fill out with 3-5 items / aesthetics that fit your muse for each category . repost, do not reblog .

emotions / feelings

confidence . The Lord’s Blade is nothing if not assured.  Ciaran knows her self-worth, is wholly aware of her capabilities and limitations. She is satisfied with the work she undertakes, the connections she has made and her position under Lord Gwyn.  For the most part, she is centred and composed. daring . To be a Knight of Gwyn, and a leader of a guild of assassins, requires boldness and intrepidity.  Contained though she is, Ciaran is bold when it is required of her, and will face foes many times her size and strength without hesitation. pride . Although not inclined to bragging, she is proud of her achievements – of the rank she has attained and reputation she has garnered, of becoming the only female Knight of Gwyn, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the most skilled and noble warriors alive. vindictive . Don’t think for a minute Ciaran is above bearing a grudge or acting spitefully.  There is a malice that is inherent to the assassin, and she unsheathes it when it suits her, when her paths cross with one she believes deserving of her ill will.   withdrawn . Although a Knight of Gwyn, Ciaran is somewhat removed from the fold – such is the secretive and underhand nature of her work, and the fact that she also holds the tenure as the Lord’s Blade.  Her duty is not only to Lord Gwyn, but to the assassins who train and work beneath her.  It is in her nature to remain guarded, to value her personal space, to trust only a few.

colours

amber . The assassin’s eyes are a rich saffron shade, all golden and honeyed tones. crimson . For the blood she spills, that so often stipples the smooth expanse of her porcelain mask. gold . Elegant streaks paint the air, following the lethal lines of her gold tracer.  A colour significant to her home, a city of sunlight. lavender-violet . Reminiscent of Lord Artorias’ soul.  Unbeknownst to Ciaran, hers is of a similar shade, a muted purple-grey flare with a spark of pale gold flickering at its core. smalt blue . The deep, smoky blue of her garb, a colour that helps her meld with the shadows, leaving the pale face of her mask luminescent.

scents 

blood . Death is her trade, and she is proficient in her butchery.  Metallic and unmistakable, beneath all the notes and layers of Ciaran’s scent there is blood and something akin to decay. clove . Springing from the mineral oil that she uses to sharpen the edges of her innumerable blades, her collection of daggers and knives meticulously and lovingly cared for. perfume . An exquisite, expensive scent that is spicy, woody and faintly floral all at once, blending orange blossom, honey, winter berries, cinnamon, tuberose, pepper, plum, anise, ylang-ylang, labdanum and opoponax. smoke . Reverent and subservient to the gods, the musky aroma of religious incense clings to the assassin, along with the primal scent of woodfire smoke. wine . Her preference is for red, full-bodied and dark, with notes of blackberry, dark cherry, fig and tobacco.

objects

bed . Towering, wide and sumptuous, it was built with taller demigods in mind and dominates her chambers.  At the end of each mission, Ciaran savours sinking her aching, naked body into its softness, losing herself in a sea of sheets and blankets. porcelain mask . Blank and unreadable, pale and distant as the moon, cold as bone, a porcelain tundra in place of a face. signet ring . Emblazoned with a hornet, it is the symbol of her position as a Knight of Gwyn, a recognition of all her efforts stretching back to the War of Fire and earlier. twin tracers . The gold and dark silver tracers are the most beloved weapons in Ciaran’s extensive arsenal, and they are her first choice when it comes to dispensing death in the name of Lord Gwyn.  The assassin has formed an emotional attachment with them, and those close to her might know that she refers to them as her errant daughters. vials . Ornate bottles and jars rattle in drawers and pepper the polished surfaces of Ciaran’s chambers.  Some are innocuous elixirs, their petite vessels filled with oil, perfume or healing draughts.  Other substances have been blended with harm in mind, and house draughts that are highly flammable, corrosive, or poisonous.

body language

at ease . Those deemed close and trustworthy enough to see her stripped of her Lord’s Blade garb, who are permitted to map the constellations of freckles on her bare face, may be witness to a considerably less formal and guarded facet of Ciaran’s being.  When free from her duties, she unwinds her braided hair, golden tresses falling free in a wavy tumble, often pulled forward over one shoulder. eyes . For a woman whose facial features are often obscured, it’s all in those discerning eyes framed by her mask.  Ciaran is perceptive, attentive to her surroundings.  She isn’t afraid to make unwavering eye contact, nor to scrape her gaze over another person’s form, to drink deep of their expressions and read their body language even as she obfuscates her own. poise . For all her neutrality of expression, Ciaran typically stands square and tall – as tall as her short stature permits, at least – her body coiled and primed for action, carrying herself with unmistakable authority and confidence. reverence . Ciaran is deferent to those she serves, respectful of the divines whose noble company she keeps.  No stranger to prayer, she bows her head in holy spaces. stealth . It is second nature that she keep her own body language largely inscrutable.  A diminutive demigod, she is unrevealing and stealthy, and possesses an uncanny ability to conduct herself in near silence, to fade away into the background.

aesthetics

blades . Knives and daggers, forged from all manners of material, coming in a myriad of shapes and sizes.  Beautiful and functional, the assassin boasts a fine and expansive collection, their razor silhouettes glinting like teeth. hornets . This unbeloved insect is the one that Ciaran feels most kinship, a frightful stinging creature, at home within a humming nest populated primarily by females.  The assassin is also drawn to moths – the walls of her chambers have some particularly impressive species pinned and framed – and is not immune to the beauty of fireflies collected in glass jars, nor to the spiders who so expertly weave webs. shadows . The Lord’s Blades cloak themselves in shadow, unseen and omnipresent.  They are deeps wells brimming with secrets, they are the final moments before death, the light dying in a target’s eyes. stinging / burning sensations . Both physical and emotional.  It might be from the kiss of her tracer, or the prick of an uncensored remark.  Ciaran is made up of many sharp edges and she is not in the habit of tempering them for anyone. wildflowers . There is almost always a vase of these in her room and, just as she harbours tenderness for the most unloved of creatures, her favoured flowers are those that go overlooked for their toxic properties.  Foxglove, monkshood, poison hemlock, lords-and-ladies and deadly nightshade frequently keep the assassin company, perfuming the still air of her chambers.

tagged by: nobody, I’m bringing this back! tagging: @through-fire-and-flame, @fishermcn, @hawksblooded, @sunmad, @derjaegermond.

[autisticsupervillain]

It's Fictional Throwdown Friday!

This Week's Fighters...

SMT Thor vs Marvel Thor!

Conditions:

Marvel Thor has the Odinforce. SMT Thor is in his Demon Avatar form.

Scenario:

The God of Law, YHVH, dispatches His agent Thor to the Marvel Multiverse in an attempt to enslave it into worshipping Him. Marvel Thor refuses to stand for this and confronts his counterpart.

Analysis: Thor

Cognition. Observation. Human perception. Religion. These are the things that shape our subjective reality. According to several psychological and philophical schools of thought, this personal unconscious is shared amongst the entire human species as a sort of collective unconsciousness, manifesting as society, culture, and religion. The Megami Tensei franchise as a whole takes this basic idea and runs with it a bit further. All of reality, down to even the smallest of subatomic particles, is created and held together by human observation, understanding, and belief. Everything can be reduced down to human thought made manifest, from the natural phenomena that plague our world, to the gods and monsters we created to explain them.

These Gods are better known throughout the franchise as Demons. And that's the original definition of the term, not the satanic modern definition some might assume. "Daimon" here being a catch all term for all supernatural entites, holy or otherwise. These Demons typically fall somewhere on the spectrum of Law vs Chaos, just like the political ideologies, human histories, and societal customs they represent do, constantly fighting a forever war with each other to determine which ideology should forever rule mankind, completely reshaping reality in the process.

On the side of Law, under the tyrannical command of God Himself, we have Thor Odinson, the most powerful of the Norse mythological gods. YHVH, as God is most often known as here, has less to do with any specific religious interpretation of His word and will and more to do with an absolute understanding and definition of Law as a concept. The fact that He is like this is not a sign that there is anything wrong with believing in Him religiously, but moreso a sign that something is fundamentally wrong with reality, likely stemming from the collective unconsciousness. God and all that serve Him under Law seem to represent benign ideologies and religions having been corrupted by the all consuming cancer of facism. And Thor is almost certainly one of the premier examples of that, with his representation here eerily mirroring the corruption of his iconography by both Nazis and Christians in reality.

Taking the guise of "Thorman" (sterling creativity on display, I know), Thor would use his human guise to wipe out Tokyo with a cluster of ICBMs within the first game, leading to the dystopia under God in the second, kickstarting the entire ongoing plot of the mainline games. Seeing as YHVH trusted Thor with carrying out a genocide, you'd be correct in assuming that he's one of God's most powerful and loyal enforces.

Thor's true form exists as an "Archetype" within the unconscious world, the Collective Unconsciousness that spreads above and across the entire SMT multiverse, from Persona to Digital Devil Saga. It interacts with the various universes within as a Demon, summoned into exist in a variety of ways, from appearing as a part of one's "social masks" in the psyche as in Persona, to appearing as pure digital data as in Digital Devil Saga. He can even appear as a "Shadow" in one's psyche in the Jungian sense of being a part of your own subconscious.

As a being this abstract, most physical limitations are completely meaningless to him. He's completely invisible to humans who don't "understand" what they're looking at, is completely immune to the traditional laws of space and time, and is completely unaffected by pesky things such as "causality" or "death". Other Law Demons comparable to Thor have been straight up killed before... and then just said "No" and kept fighting anyways. While already dead.

Thor can create pocket realities outside of standard Space-Time, can create "Decoherence Fields" that warp space on the Quantum Level to create alternate dimensions, and can not only forcibly teleport people to other universes, but also nullify the ability to enter or leave a universe. Because he's a Demon and this is something that all Demons in the franchise, on multiple occasions have proven the can do, from Shadows creating Palaces and the Dark Hour in Persona, to Demons creating universe sized Domains in SMT IV to warp the laws of Space-Time, making them somehow bigger than the area they actually physically inhabit.

Demons operate on alien laws of physics and, as such, cannot be harmed by normal weapons and cannot be permanently killed even by other Demons. So long as the Collective Unconsciousness exists, they can always eventually come back from human perceptions. Thor takes this one step beyond. Not only is his Demon form just an aspect of his Archetype, but that Archetype is just a single component of God Himself, so ether Archetype Thor or God can just will him back to life if he's ever permanently slain. Demons and Personas frequently have to resort to sealing them away when dealing with peers on the level of Thor. And that's assuming he doesn't just mind control you to completely rewrite your moral code or completely alter your body.

The only reason Thor has any limits at all is because we as humans project limitations onto him. Thor is a being of human understanding, altered by the philosophies of humans as they constantly change over time. This is why, say, in Persona 5, Joker and Co can hurt Shadows with toy guns. Joker perceives that the gun should hurt then, the Demons believe that the guns should hurt them, and the general understanding of humanity is that guns hurt. Ergo, toy guns hurt. But even then, you have to have an incredible willpower and a rock solod personal philosophy for that to effect a being such as Thor, due to the level he exists on.

Assiah, the physical world, is an infinite multiverse with infinite timelines and universes within it, making it a 4-D structure. This means that the two worlds above it, Yetzirah and Beriah, would be 5-D and 6-D respectively. This is where Thor resides and numerous beings on par with Thor have been shown to be capable of effecting these realms in their entirety. The Four Heavenly Kings were powerful enough to create a barrier between these realms and the human one, while The White we capable of absorbing this realm in its entirety into their domain. Simply moving within these Realms allows to exist above time and space: past, present, and future, in the realms below it, allowing to time travel just by traversing it. Simply existing on that level puts Thor well above your average Demon.

As a Demon on this scale, Thor has some powers that the average Demons don't, such as the ability to completely transmute ordinary humans into Demons themselves, as well as into flies or pigs. He can even create illusions so advanced, that your memories are altered to better match up to what you're seeing. But the most devastating thing in Thor's Arsenal would have to be his Allmighty attacks.

Allmighty attacks completely ignore every form of resistance or defense an opponent may have against an attack to do as much damage as possible. It doesn't matter if you're completely immune to lightning, it's going to hurt you anyways. It doesn't matter if you have a shield up, it's going to hit regardless. Allmighty attacks are devastating blows specifically designed to completely side step any resistances you might have against Thor's powerful thunder magic and powers.

Despite all of this literally divine power, Thor does have some weaknesses. For one, his nature can be changed through the power of human observation and societal change by virtue of what he is. As an embodiment of an ideology, he is single-mindedly devoted to whatever he currently represents within the collective unconsciousness, which as frequently allowed Demon Summoners, God Slayers, and Persona Users to turn him to their side by playing off this one track mind. And, if you couldn't tell by the "Thorman" idea, we aren't exactly working with a brilliant iq here. He's a brilliant fighter, having been fighting the forever war since before time began, but knowledge outside of that tends to escape his expertise.

Still, Thor is one of the most nightmarish servants of Law to ever earn God's grace. A zealot and a warrior to the bitter end, Thor will stop at nothing, not even genocide, to see His will be done.

Analysis: Thor

Thor Odinson. Thunder God. Warrior. Prince. Hero. And one day a king. Above all of those, however, Thor is an Avenger.

Thor Odinson was the headstrong son of, well, Odin. He was a proud warrior prince who proved for many millennia that he was just as much a warrior as his father. Sadly, he was not as ready to be king as his father hoped, so Odin banished Thor to Earth where he could learn to be more than a warrior.

On Earth, Thor would meet and team up with many great mortal heroes, eventually joining them to become a founding member of the Avengers. With his newfound friends, Thor would battle against many a mighty foe and protect mankind from certain extermination with all the power he had. And trust me, he has a lot.

Thor has all the powers you might expect him to have from Mjolnir and then some. Yes, he can freely fly, shoot lightning, and create storms just by swinging that little thing around, but he can also do some flat out ridiculous things with it. He can transmute matter on the atomic level, turn completely invisible, become intangible at will, and even seal his foes away inside of glass spheres. This is because Thor's hammer is not merely an enchanted weapon, but it is instead a prison for The God Tempest, a sentient cosmic storm that rampaged across the universe until Odin sealed it away inside the block of Uru that would later be forged into his son's hammer. Of course, a hammer that powerful can't be welded by just anyone, so it's enchanted so that only the worthy can lift it.

Fittingly, Thor can also use his hammer to seal things away, mainly by using to absorb energy attacks and even suck the energy straight out of people. One time, he even used two Mjolnirs to absorb the God Bomb, which would've killed every deity in existence across time and space. Needless to say, he takes after his dad in that sense. But that's only the tip of the iceberg.

See, Thor is the God of Thunder in almost every sense of the word. In that, he will always come back no matter what you try to do to him. Thor has no sold being aged to death, having his soul devoured, and even being torn apart by his individual atoms. And, even if you do managed to kill him, that's no guarantee he'll stay dead. One time, he was erased so throughly from existence that everyone completely forgot about his existence. That is, until the Silver Surfer found his hammer. This faint glimmer of Deja Vu immediately caused Thor to come right back to life good as new. As long as anyone, anywhere, faintly remembers Thor even slightly, he will always return. Though even his unkillability pales in comparison to the sheer raw power he wields.

Thor can consistently fly across the entire Marvel universe, which has consistently been stated to be infinite in size, in a finite amount of time, as well as shake the entire universe just by throwing his hammer. These are feats that would by themselves require infinite power and speed to achieve, but there's still more. Thor is constantly depicted as on par with the Hulk, who can destroy an entire universe with just a clap of his hands, Hyperion, who can tank being sandwiched between two universes completely unharmed, and even Marvel's Hercules, who can match Atlas's feat of lifting up the sky. Thor's most impressive showing, however, is when he overpowered the World Engine, which was controlling all of Nine Realms within the World Tree, showing he's superior to a force that can effect nine universes simultaneously. And as for speed, well, he once flew around the planet so fast that he traveled back in time. That's not just infinite speed, that's moving so fast you arrive at your destination before you even left.

And that's just base Thor. With Warrior's Madness, Thor becomes 10x more powerful in exchange for completely losing all control and flying into a berserker rage. This is an unpardonable sin in Asgardian society and for good reason, a Thor who can't tell the difference between friend or foe is a Thor who could end the world at a moment's notice. Case in point, the Godblast.

The Godblast is easily Thor's most powerful attack, capable of potentially killing Galactus.

G A L A C T U S

As in, the devourer of worlds so powerful that he threatens the existence of the infinite Marvel Multiverse just by fighting. There are gods and then there's Galactus. This is vastly more powerful than anything else Thor has in his arsenal by miles.

Or, at least it was. Until he began to prove to be worthy of his father's respect and throne. Without the power of the Odinforce, Thor is simply a warrior. With it, he becomes a king.

Now that he has access to all of Odin's power, Thor no longer needs the Godblast to slay Galactus. He is every bit Galactus's equal, as Odin is able to not only fight him, but telepathically stalemate him. Galactus is a being so complex and so vast that he has no true physical form, simply appearing as whatever form his victims project onto him. Yet, Odin is capable of completely matching his mind and fighting him as an equal.

Thor didn't just gain Odin's sheer raw power, he gained all of Odin's individual powers as well. For as divine as Thor was before, with his father's life force flowing through his veins, his powers became flat out reality breaking.

Thor can see invisible people, restructure the moon on an atomic level, can manipulate all electromagnetic particles in the multiverse to manipulate all gravity in the universe and keeps the Earth rotating around the sun just by existing. Thor should even have access to some of Odin's powers that he's never used before, such as the ability to turn Gods like himself and Loki into ordinary humans or the ability to seal away a being as powerful as the God Tempest into the block of Uru that would become Mjolnir in the first place.

Odin has even shown the ability to warp abstract concepts themselves, which Thor is this state should scale to. During a battle with Dormammu, Odin's sheer raw power in battle was enough to throw the balance between Lord Chaos and Master Order themselves completely out of wack, affecting the sentient conceptual embodiements of Law and Chaos within the Marvel Multiverse and altering the laws of reality completely. If their battle hadn't been a draw, Odin states that reality itself would've been fundamentally altered. Which isn't that hard to believe when the Avatars of the Marvel Universe abstracts have been stated to exist up to the Sixth Dimension.

Over millennia of battle and decades of heroism and strife, Thor would eventually prove himself to be more than just the warrior he'd lived as for so long. He became more than Earth's Mightiest Hero. He became Asgard's greatest king.

Throwdown Theme:

Throwdown Breakdown:

This fight is.... very, very close.

The stats are basically completely even. Both of them are 6-D abd both of them transcend time to the point of moving faster than it, so there's no considerable edge to either party there. Similarly, both of them should be capable of interacting with each other, as both can see invisible people and harm abstract entities. In fact, it's even arguable that Marvel Asgardian's are abstract entites, as Thor's belief based immortality and some of Loki's dialogue does imply that they are more belief based in nature. Regardless, Odin's feat of accidentally effecting Order and Chaos does definitely prove that Marvel Thor should be able to harm SMT Thor.

That said, these two also can't kill each other. So long as people still believe in or even have a concept of Thor, they'll both just come back and neither can completely erase humanity across both the Marvel and SMT multiverses in order to bypass it (nor would they necessarily in character). However, both of them can bypass this through incapacitation. Both characters can seal the other away, for example, and both likely would in character. Basically all Demons are abstract to a degree in SMThor's world, so he'd be going for incapacitating options out the bat just assuming Marvel Thor's the same, while Marvel Thor with the Odinforce acts less like the restrained warrior he usually is and more like a decisive king ready to do whatever it takes to protect his people, so trying to just erase or seal each other away is believable for both. Both even share win conditions, such as being able to seal the other away or transmute them into a fly.

Just when you think this bus is heading straight for stalemate country though, there is something that makes this Marvel Thor's game.

SMT Thor is a lot more restrained by being a comcept and a God. This is best demonstrated by the time that both spent among humanity. Thorman never developed any human connections. He never developed any human relationships or did anything outside of what the Thorman guise needed him to in order to serve his master. Because that's what the concept of Thor is in the minds of humanity, which therefore makes it is nature, unchanging until human perception changes. Meanwhile, Thor's time as Doctor Donald Blake shows that he's entirely capable of being human. Marvel Thor may be a God, but he has the full emotional complexity of a human being, with no inherent nature to be yanked around by.

SMThor has been manipulated into joining his enemy on several occasions by appealing to his Law bound nature, to the point of even being turned against his Master or joining people who are completely antithetical to his Lawful nature (such as Joker in Persona 5, who is very much not Law aligned). He's enslaved to humanity's perception of him, even when it works against him. And what's the common perception of Thor?

A mighty warrior proudly meeting his foe head on in battle. Even in SMT this is true. For what little personality this Thor has, he's shown to be a warrior first, preferring to batter his enemies into submission, crush them before he defeats them properly. There's a fine difference between knowing you can only win with a certain method and immediately opening with it.

SMT Thor will approach this battle as another foe to crush in the name of his master. Another heathen against Law to proudly break, as well as a worthy foe to test his own metal against. Marvel Thor will approach this battle as another villain threatening his home. Another threat to the human race he holds so dear that he must eliminate as efficiently as possible. It his duty as King to protect Asgard and Earth from this menace, by any means necessary.

It's worth noting on top of that that SMThor has a sense of Fairplay that his opponent lacks. Such as when he gave the Demi-Fiend a moment to prepare himself for battle out of respect for his skills. Were this Base Marvel Thor, this would surely be reciprocated and the two would meet in direct honorable combat with no fancy tricks. But, with the Odinforce, Thor behaves very differently. Marvel Thor in that situation would thank his opponent for the respect before turning him into a fly for daring to threaten his home. In that sense, SMThor is a dark reflection of Marvel Thor prior to his own character development.

Both these warriors may be Gods, but above that, Marvel Thor is an Avenger first and foremost.

This Throwdown's Winner is...

Thor!

[dailyfatefigures]

Best Jeanne figures or Arthur ?

ooooo that one's hard. jeanne has. a lot. of really cool figures (mainly of her in action poses while dressed in armor which is basically all i could ever ask for) but my favorite Might just be the t's system gk which is, lacking in the action pose department but i personally always find it charming when you can look at a figure and clock the sculptor's personal style immediately but that's just a me thing. honorable mentions go to this gk of her on a horse, this one by gsc, this one that also has a 1/10 scale, this chara-forme, this cute gk, her nendoroid doll, this one of her summer alt, both of her shared racing figs (her solo one is kinda mid. sorry) with mordred and astolfo, and ofc, her maid outfit by grizzry panda, bc god knows i fall in love at first sight with every single sculpt by them.

arthur has. significantly fewer figures. but even if he didn't his formal dress ver. by orange rouge would definitely sweep anyway, i don't like to collect figures of characters i'm not really into and i've. never actually gotten around to anything with arthur in it but i've been on and off considering picking him up for a WHILE. honorable mentions go to his nendoroid doll which has. also tempted me., he has an altair figure so ofc that places pretty highly as well, this ichiban kugi of him has to be one of my favorite ichiban kugis out there, this aniplex scale is gorgeous, and i would say more but i realized that i was planning on listing off all his figs that aren't gks (he has 3 but they're. ugly. love and light) so we'll cap it off at that, what can i say, he has pretty figures and i'm a sucker for knight imagery.

[desiree-machine]

Part I (The 10 Gods of Désirée)

Welcome to the desire-garden of Rhizopus. This garden is inhabited by ten trees and a lustrous collection of fantastical creatures and beings, each living in a biblical state of harmony. Each of the ten trees represents one of ten virtues: The Olive Tree exemplifies peace, while the Fig Tree is a symbol of fertility. The Pomegranate is the plant of rebirth and the Almond Tree alludes to hope. The Grapevines' figurative form is life-affirming, while the Cypress is in a state of mourning. The Bitter Orange Trees' perfectly formed fruits exude luxury and opulence, while the humble Aloe Vera is said to be healing. The Carob Tree is protective of those around it, while finally the small and unassuming Myrtle is loving. This garden is no ordinary garden, the secret of its ten trees lies not in each one’s individual form but in their shared nature, for the roots of the trees are bound together, forming a dense network of moral disposition below the earth. The bud disappears when the blossom breaks through, and we might say that the former is refuted by the latter. (Hegel) The boundaries of its grasses are walled not by brick and stone, but by the limits of their collective expression – for their beings form not just leaves and fruit, but mark a symbolic language of moral nature.

Those who enter the garden wish to be proclaimed virtuous, but all must beware that the language the trees speak is foreign to those not enmeshed in its roots. A young squirrel named Désirée arrives in the garden. She wishes to be blessed by the trees and asks the simple question: “May I have a biscuit?” The trees contemplate but ultimately refuse Désirée’s wish. Recognition is the spirit of spirits and the immediate, unmediated truth. (Hegel). “Biscuits are given only to those whose desires and virtues match our own.” 

Désirée is frustrated by their answer and decides to venture forth from the garden in search of a biscuit from another garden where the rules of moral virtue matched her own. Her first stop was the Labyrinth of Essentialism, a garden brimming with flowers, each petal arranged in perfect relationship to the next. (Helen) Once she entered the garden and greeted the flowers, Désirée asked once again for a biscuit. But the flowers, in their gentle way, responded, "Your desire is valid, but your reason for it might not be. Our symmetry is complete, and your presence creates a dissonance foreign to our arrangement. Tradition makes us all peers, provided we know how to translate energetically from one language to another.” (Serres) Confused, Désirée moved on to the next garden.

Next was the Plaza of Dialectics, a garden where roses red and white balanced each other in colour and stance. Désirée, feeling bold, sought her biscuit again. The roses, however, responded, "Desire and virtue are always in tension. Have you reconciled them within yourself?" (Hegel)

Désirée journeyed onwards, her paths crossing many gardens, each one more fabulous than the last. One sunny afternoon, she found herself amidst the Canopy of Earthly Delights.(Bosch) Here, every leaf and petal painted a vivid tableau of pleasure and vice. Creatures of fantasy roamed, celebrating the vast spectrum of their conflicting desires. Eagerly, Désirée put forth her simple request. The garden, ever playful and unpredictable, responded, "Desires in this realm are ever-changing. Can you dance to the rhythm of our shifting predilections?" (Deleuze)

She travelled through many gardens of different natures, but in every one, the answer was the same: While her request for a biscuit was warranted, her reasoning and being did not justify the gift. Disheartened, Désirée returned to the original garden of Rhizopus. There, she sat down on a mossy stone and buried her head in her paws. "What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence." (Wittgenstein). It was in this moment of despair that she realised that the true quest wasn’t for a biscuit but for understanding her place within the gardens and to travel within herself to realise that she, like the trees, was a part of a whole. Rhizopus, witnessing her transformation, whispered, “You now know that all you trusted was untrue. You are the garden, and the garden is you.” And it was then that Désirée truly saw – the trees, the creatures, and even herself returning from her journey. Rhizopus spoke to her: “The quest for Truth is more precious than its possession. (Farid ud-Din Attar) A line of flight neither comes nor goes: it's always in the middle, between things, a line of variation, immanent to a plateau of continuous intensities” (Deleuze/Guattari). As she spoke to Rhizopus and the trees, she realised that language delineates the boundaries of our gardens and she had learned to speak with it. (Wittgenstein) There are only multiplicities of multiplicities forming a single assemblage, operating in the same assemblage: packs in masses and masses in packs. (Deleuze/Guattari) In this epiphanic moment, the Olive tree dropped a biscuit at Désirée’s feet. And she knew then that it was no longer about the biscuit. It was about becoming the garden.

Main References in Text:

Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. "Phenomenology of Spirit" Deleuze, Gilles, and Guattari, Félix. "A Thousand Plateaus" Serres, Michel. "The Natural Contract" Wittgenstein, Ludwig. "Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus" Farid ud-Din Attar. "The Conference of the Birds" Deleuze, Gilles. "Difference and Repetition" Bosch, Hieronymus. "Garden of Earthly Delights"

Other References: 

Humphrey, Paul. "Epistemic Emergence" Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. "The Social Contract" Laboria Cuboniks, Xenofeminism. "Xenofeminism: A Politics for Alienation"

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

How religious were the Nazis, if they were religious at all, that is? I have heard/read both that they were not religious at all and that they were very into occultism/Christian theology from sources that I have found to be very trustworthy in other research, and I was wondering if I could get your own two cents on this question as well.

I mean, Xianity is inherently, by definition occulty.

occult | əˈkəlt |

noun (the occult) supernatural, mystical, or magical beliefs, practices, or phenomena: a secret society to study alchemy and the occult.

adjective 1 of, involving, or relating to supernatural, mystical, or magical powers or phenomena: a follower of occult practices similar to voodoo. • beyond the range of ordinary knowledge or experience; mysterious: a weird occult sensation of having experienced the identical situation before. • communicated only to the initiated; esoteric: the typically occult language of the time.

Everything from nothing with a spell, Lot's wife, virgin birth, water to wine, cursed fig tree, walking on water, instant healing, resurrection, flying up into the sky, the Devil, heaven, hell, souls, afterlife, transubstantiation in Catholicism, mysterious ways, unique special knowledge held by the faithful...

Xians like to pretend they don't believe in magic and are opposed to the occult, but really that's exactly what their own belief system is.

--

If you want to understand the basis for the Nazi party, religious or otherwise, one need go no further than Mein Kampf (download English translation).

“The Jews have always been a people of a definite racial character and never merely the adherents of a religion.

At a very early date, urged on by the desire to make their way in the world, they began to cast about for a means whereby they might distract such attention as might prove inconvenient for them.

What could be more effective, and at the same time above suspicion, than to borrow and utilise the idea of the religious community?

Here also everything is copied, or rather stolen, for the Jew could not possess any religious institution which had developed out of his own consciousness, seeing that he lacks every kind of idealism, which means that belief in a life beyond this terrestrial existence is foreign to him.

In the Aryan mind no religion can ever be imagined unless it embodies the conviction that life in some form of other will continue after death.

As a matter of fact, the Talmud is not a book that lays down principles according to which the individual should prepare for the life to come. It only furnishes rules for a practical and convenient life in this world.

The religious teaching of the Jews is principally a collection of instructions for maintaining the Jewish blood pure and for regulating intercourse between Jew and Jew and between Jews and the rest of the world, that is to say non-Jews.

The Jewish religious teaching is not concerned with moral problems. It is concerned rather with economic problems, and very petty ones at that.

In regard to the moral value of the religious teaching of the Jews there exist, and always have existed, exhaustive studies (not from the Jewish side, for whatever the Jews have written on this question has naturally always been of a tendentious character), which show up the kind of religion that the Jews have in a light which makes it look very uncanny to the Aryan mind.

The Jew himself is the best example of the kind of product which this religious training evolves. His life is of this world only and his mentality is as foreign to the true spirit of Christianity, as his character was foreign to the great Founder of the new creed two thousand years ago.

The Founder of Christianity made no secret of His estimation of the Jewish people; when He found it necessary, He drove those enemies of the human race out of the Temple of God, because then, as always, they used religion as a means of advancing their commercial interests.

At that time Christ was nailed to the Cross for his attitude towards the Jews, whereas our modern Christians enter into party politics, and when elections are being held they debase themselves to beg for Jewish votes.

They even enter into political intrigues with the atheistic Jewish parties against the interests of their own Christian nation.”

==

Some earlier posts I've made on the subject:

https://religion-is-a-mental-illness.tumblr.com/post/663427444512063488 :

In a speech delivered in front of a Nazi audience in April 1922, Hitler made a more explicit reference to Christianity, referring to Jesus as “the true God.” He made it plain that he regarded Christ’s struggle as direct inspiration for his own. For Hitler, Jesus was not just one archetype among others, but “our greatest Aryan leader. ” While emphasizing Jesus’ human qualities, Hitler in these instances also alluded to his divinity. At a Christmas celebration given by the Munich branch of the NSDAP in December 1926, Hitler maintained that the movement’s goal was to “translate the ideals of Christ into deeds.” The movement would complete “the work which Christ had begun but could not finish.” On another occasion, this time behind closed doors and to fellow Nazis only, Hitler again proclaimed the centrality of Christ’s teachings for his movement: “We are the first to exhume these teachings! Through us alone, and not until now, do these teachings celebrate their resurrection! Mary and Magdalene stood at the empty tomb. For they were seeking the dead man. But we intend to raise the treasures of the living Christ!” In a nearly evangelical tone, Hitler declares that the “true message” of Christianity is to be found only with Nazism. He claims that, where the churches failed in their mission to instill a Christian ethic in secular society, his movement would take up the task. Hitler not only reads the New Testament, but professes - in private - to be inspired by it.

– “The Holy Reich: Nazi Conceptions of Christianity, 1919-1945″ by Richard Steigmann-Gall, pp 27-28.

-

https://religion-is-a-mental-illness.tumblr.com/post/634508167323303936

https://religion-is-a-mental-illness.tumblr.com/post/640088403701055488

https://religion-is-a-mental-illness.tumblr.com/tagged/Adolf%20Hitler

==

While it's hard to pinpoint a particular denomination, he was certainly Xian. motivated by what he believed Xianity should have been and was supposed to do.

He bemoans the Catholic Church and Protestantism not promoting German interests as fervently as he wishes, with the Catholic Church's authority being located outside Germany, and dismissive or even hostile to German interests and demands, and the Protestants promoting German morality, but being too dogmatically tolerant of the Jews. He then envisions remedying this with the "German Catholic."

“The only way to remedy the evil of which I have been speaking is to train the Germans from youth upwards to an absolute recognition of the rights of their own people, instead of poisoning their minds, while they are still children, with the virus of this cursed ‘objectivity,’ even in matters concerning the very preservation of our own existence.

The result of this would be that the Catholic in Germany, just as in Ireland, Poland or France, will be a German first and foremost, but this presupposes the establishment of a radical national government.”

My impression overall is that he would have been what we might call Nationalistic Catholicism, where he wanted Catholicism, but with its authority based in Germany, not the Vatican, and working 100% to promote and advance German interests.

==

Despite this, any post on the subject by a Xian will inevitably cite books by Xian authors, quoting acquaintances of Hitler's, who claim, anecdotally, that he was not a believer, and it was all just some big act to gain favor from the Church. (Even if that was true, and we have no reason to think it is, it’s kind of irrelevant, since this “act” included penning a multiple-hundred page manifesto - the EPUB edition is over 1800 pages - that successfully formulated the “movement” on the basis of that purported “act’.)

That is, they prefer unverified second-hand rumors of people with an agenda, published years later over a direct, firsthand account.

Just like their bible.

[poptod]

Pull the Stars Out of the Sky (And Gift Them To Me), (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: The new Pharaoh has a bit of an obsession problem.

Notes: i suppose this would technically be yandere but i really dont want to admit that i wrote yandere fanfiction about a childrens movie WC: 4.6k

+

He called himself a savior. His people called him a God. Thus he acted as a sort of savior God, decked in gold, more powerful than the kings of a hundred foreign lands. He kept his friends close as he had no enemies, those in power too afraid to stand up to his might. 

It was not as though he was undeserving of this title––quite the opposite. He dug his country out of a dangerous recession that followed an invasion by the Hittites. He defended his status as Pharaoh against his tyrannical elder brother, who had attempted to claim his rightful place on the throne. He brought great prosperity to his people and maintained his image of regality, the untouchable air around him, as though the Gods truly did walk the earth in the form of him. 

Here he was, the most powerful man to walk the earth, coddling you as his fingers ran through your hair.

The decisions that brought you to this moment were poorly thought out at best and downright shameful at worst. Your home in the southeast of Africa now lay what felt like eons behind you, hazy memories of chains and scuffing, bloodied feet whirling in your head. Even in your village you knew of him––not by name, of course––and had already grown to fear him. By the time you got out of your home village and began going market to market, you knew to stay clear of him at all costs. But his dirty soldiers were everywhere, and constant vigilance brought you back-breaking stress that had your steps faltering. 

Your stumbling was what brought you here. Stumbling into prison, stumbling into a palace, stumbling into a King's chambers.

"Aren't you just gorgeous," he cooed softly, petting your head. 

The rough, uneven pull of your breath was the only disturbance in the peaceful room, bathed in warm light and Egyptian paintings. Every nerve in your body screamed to get away, to worm yourself out of his touch, but with every attempt he just held you tighter. 

"What's your name? You look hungry," he said, eyes scanning your panicked face. "Would you like something to eat?"

Punch him. Talking to you like a dog.

You shook the thought out of your head, but the Pharaoh took it as a nod of confirmation. 

"We'll get you some food," he decided with a smile, separating from you long enough to stand and pull you up with him. 

He did not part his hand from yours, instead leading you through the long, tall hallways and their arches that painted scenes from stories you didn't know. Your past excursions to Egypt had hailed no such royalty, nor did any of your other travels. Most of the time you stayed in hostels and taverns. The grandeur and sanctity of churches and temples were as close as you got to this, standing on the cusp of a garden that stretched further than you could see, the white alabaster pillars lining your vision. 

"Come," he said, and you thought it best to try not to disobey him. "This is a food garden. You can eat anything you like."

It had been a while since you'd gotten a good meal. The last thing you ate was hardtack from a tavern about a six-hour walk down the river from here. 

The Pharaoh followed closely behind as you moved forward, constantly looking over your shoulder as you scanned the different vines and bushes. It was the color that caught your eye––most of the plants along the Nile sported an olive-type green, dull and yellow-ish. Many of the leaves in this garden were a bright green, more so than moss and grass, lively and soft beneath your fingers.

Only after scanning the whole of the garden did you decide on what to eat. From blossoming flowers in the water that lined the walkway to the figs hung high on the trees, you chose plums sprouted fruitfully from a short tree.

You sat right where you stood as you began gnawing at the flesh, tangy juice dripping from your bite marks. After a moment of watching you the Pharaoh lowered himself to your height, earning a chary side glance from you. 

"What is your name, lovely?" He asked again, much softer, as he once more began to pet your hair. Most other times you would've shaken the hand off, but most other times it wasn't Pharaohs touching you. 

"Amoke," you said through a rough throat and full mouth. Your voice had remained unused since you stepped foot in jail, and it was only now that you were reintegrating its' use.

"Amoke," he repeated, nodding. "A western name. Is that where you're from?"

You nodded.

"Do you like it there?" He asked quietly.

You shrugged.

"I should like to keep you here, then," he murmured, gaze flickering to every feature on your face. You watched his interest closely.

What came to mind was that you didn't want to stay here––that you wanted to keep on the road, stay away from the permanent and escape the inevitable routine. You couldn't say that, though. Not to his face. With nothing on your mind but leaving him and his touch, you remained silent in the wake of his request. 

The sun soon set behind the garden's walls, casting long shadows that consumed the both of you without fail. When the residual light of the sky began to fade, he took your hand, paying the stickiness no mind as he led you back into the palace.

"I shall keep you in my room," he said with a firm confidence in his tone that stewed in your empty chest. "If ever you need something, just tell me. I can give you anything you desire. During the day you should stay in my room as well––it's safer that way. I'll be able to keep you safe."

From what?

Fifteen years travelling the world on your own and now you're forced into a single room for your 'protection.'

"My name is Ahkmenrah, though most call me by my title. 'My King,' and such. You may call me what you wish. I don't mind," he said, a smile crossing his features as he opened the door set in front of you. His eye only tore from you for a second before his attention was back, scanning the way you stepped nearer to him and into the room. 

The once-bright light of sunset had vanished in his bedroom, replaced by the eerie purple of a late dusk. Outside the balcony arches, the sky bore an ombre of plum and blush, reaching up into the dome where stars had already come to see the world.

"I know your name already," you murmured, staring out to the city. His eyes remained ever on you, burning the back of your neck. "I know you freed many of your slaves but kept worker camps in Kush. I know you intimidated every nation so severely you can do anything you want now. It's not like anyone will stop you."

"You're knowledgable," he said, taking a seat on the floor.

"Is that what's happening here?" You asked, but he didn't quite understand. At his confusion you sighed but continued. "Am I supposed to be intimidated enough by you that I will stay here of my own free will?"

He furrowed his brow, tilting his head ever so lightly to the left.

"You... don't want to stay here?"

"No. I have a life that I'd like to get back to." Much of it being avoiding you.

"I don't understand," he said after a beat of silence. "You want to leave? But – there is nothing in the world I cannot give you here. Any riches you want, yours. Any delicacies are yours."

Ahkmenrah collected things. Already it was clear enough to see––collect and retain an image that prevents any fight against him, collect the riches of the world to give to his people and himself, collect the respect of those around him, and collect you. He will share with you everything he has gained if only you join this ever-growing, ceaseless collection of belongings. There is nothing stranger than being offered to become a toy.

"I prefer to keep moving. Meet new people," you said.

"You'll be safe here," he said, reaching for your hand. You instinctively pulled your hand away, but a sudden poisonous glare overtook his eye, and your heart froze in its' place long enough for him to gracefully lead you to your knees.

With you now raised on your knees, he met your height, nuzzling your cheek with his nose. 

"I don't need to be –"

"You will stay here," he said, his intensity thrumming in your nerves. Once again there was no thought more comforting than leaving this place.

He must've noticed the panicked look on your face, as his expression softened.

"Do you understand? Oh, lovely," he said in a hum, fawning over you as his touch overcrowded your senses. His nose rubbing up beneath your jaw as he nuzzled into you, his hand holding your hip tight as the other tangled in your hair. He took in your scent with deep appreciation. "Sweet darling.. pretty one."

His mumbles grew less coherent the longer he held you, dusk fading into midnight as the silence of crickets resounded in the distant flora. The tension in your chest never fell, leaving you exhausted with your stiff breaths, bags beneath your eyes begging you to fall asleep, even if it was in the possession of another.

From waking up in an underground prison to mistakenly entering a King's chambers, the day weighed heavy on your mind with little solace at the end. Still, the body has its' cravings that will never relent, and you fell asleep to the rhythm of his praising murmurs and stroking hands. 

Even hours later you awoke to arms still twisted around you, keeping you pressed tight to the warmth of the Pharaoh's chest. Hunger bit at your stomach, acid burning around the empty walls in a sweet reminder of your recent diet. Two-ingredient crackers and two plums in the last two days. You supposed that you wouldn't have to worry much about that in the future, so long as you stayed in his graces. While you doubted he would withhold food from you as punishment, you wouldn't put it past him, as it was a common jail tactic in many cities.

Wandering had been your sin for many years before this moment, and it would continue to be so whether or not you gave into the urge. Being stuck in any place––even one so comfortable as this––itched at your skin, tugged at your motionless legs and pulled at your scattered fingers. Despite your original insistence that you should stay still, your foot began to gently bounce as your fingers fidgeted restlessly. Your eyes darted every which way.

"I see you're awake," he mumbled, voice barely there in the first dregs of morning. "Stay a little longer."

Not that you really had a choice. His legs were all tangled in yours and you could barely move.

For what seemed to be another hour and a half you lay there, wondering when he would wake again and finally release you. He couldn't keep you here forever––not sleeping with him, not in this palace. It was clear he would not willingly let you go, so in the meantime ideas stirred in your head, plotting out ways to escape without his knowledge.

A knock came from the door when rays of sunlight began to touch the bedroom floor, flooding in through the arches. You wriggled when you heard the sound, disturbing Ahkmenrah from his sleepiness, which at last led to the loosening of his grip. The moment he went lax you tore yourself away.

Breath finally returned to you, the long hours of night fading away as your chest heaved an even up and down. The blankets around you fell as the Pharaoh stood, making his way to the large doors, where he removed the lock to let in a lean servant.

"Good morning, my King," he said, his gaze naturally coming to you. He stared at you but addressed Ahk, his words concise and posture straight. "You have a meeting with the embalmers of Thebes this morning, on the false accusations. After that you have –"

"– to overlook the temple building in the markets, yes, I know. My memory isn't that bad," Ahkmenrah grumbled, sighing deeply as he rubbed his face with his hand.

"Apologies, I just..." the servant's eyes flickered to yours, "didn't know if you.. drank last night."

"Just a glass, Naguib," he said with a slight smile, one that fell once Naguib began to root through his wardrobe.

You watched from your spot on the floor; the glint of gold in the closet, the mirror perfectly reflecting the King's standing position. His reflection yawned, dreary eyes meeting yours with a gentle delight. Instantly your vision darted away. 

"Amoke, this is Naguib," he said, and in that moment you forced yourself to turn back to him. He was smiling expectantly, the servant behind him waving a polite hello. You returned the wave and he appeared to be satisfied.

Naguib picked the King's clothes and donned them on him, from the lapis beaded collar to gold cuffs on every wrist and ankle. The cape that streamed from his shoulders was a light all its' own, as though Ahkmenrah wore the sun upon his back, the silk drifting in gentle waves towards the marble floor. Only the crown was more regal than that, but above all was the man himself. The sweet coos and fawning words of the previous evening had faded into a stone face, pride on his puffed chest, and cunning on his parted lips. 

"I'm afraid I'll have to leave you here for the day," he said as he stared at his reflection, smoothing out the wrinkles in his sleeves and the unevenness of his necklace.

"But –"

"No," he interrupted you before you could truly start, voice dipping low as half-lidded eyes turned to you. 

There was something about his stare––something about the way he looked at you, as though he knew every thought in your head. This must've been the look that, in part, earned him his reputation. 

"Stay here, pet," he said in a softer voice, bending down to kiss your forehead.

His lips were warm and enviously soft on your skin, but you had little time to process it before his cape whipped behind him, leaving you alone in the room. Naguib had left with him and locked the door. Now the only sound to calm the incessant ringing in your ears was the incredibly distant murmurs of an early-morning market, filled with birdsong and calling voices attempting to sell their work. 

Fumbling to stand, you padded with bare feet towards the open arches. From here you could see the Nile and the many temples sprouted up throughout the city, their towers marking themselves distinct from the houses cluttering the twisting streets. It wasn't all unlike the other cities you'd seen––a different architecture style, of course, but similar nonetheless.

The arches had no railings of any sort, so as you peered over the edge, you kept both hands on the pillar beside you. Right beneath the Pharaoh's room was a garden, smaller than the one you had visited the night before. 

It wasn't too far down, either.

You darted back into the room, pulling the thin blankets off the bed and off the floor, tying the ends together with frantic hands. Even your breath hastened to match your heartbeat, speeding dangerously in your chest as apprehension filled you. There was no time to waste––you needed to escape now, before he came back, before you had to memorize his routine; before this became more than a two-day problem.

Guards in their uniforms passed by outside, circling the palace with spears in their hands. You glanced out at them as you worked, trying to find the rhythm in their marching, and having little luck before you realized there were multiple groups passing by the arches at different times. A soft groan left you as you bit your lip in irritation. More things to calculate.

Although the ground didn't seem all too far away, it took a decent amount of time before the makeshift rope could reach the ground. Several hours of rearranging the types of knots and their placements finally wrought good results––the lowest blanket could now touch one of the trees near the garden's entrance, which you could use as a way down.

The sun had to be around midday, going by the shadows, and you assumed the Pharaoh would not be back to his bedroom until later in the evening. Before you could stay to see that time, you tied one end of your blanket rope to the arch's pillar and casted the length of it below you.

Hesitation caught you as you attempted to climb down, the sheer height of the building catching you off guard. What once seemed a short way was suddenly a means of death––not that it wasn't ever that before––and you could barely breathe with how tight your throat became. Your shaking hands gripped the cloth tight, sweating with the tension building in your muscles. Gentle breezes only accentuated your sweat, but it was not of import to you. All that remained on your mind in the overcrowding of fear was the need to escape, and thus you returned to your task, carefully scaling down the palace wall.

Nothing but silence dared make a sound in your thoughts as you climbed, breath evening further with every step you took downwards. The anxiousness only faded once you could see the individual leaves of the tree below you, and the design of the blanket stretched out on its limbs, crimson red and gold in the sunlight.

The moment you could reach you did so, clambering onto the thin branches in hopes of swinging towards the thicker ones. As you reached for the next branch, another hit your wrist, pain instantly shocking your left hand out of its' grip. Fortunately you caught yourself; just barely, and a second later you dropped to the ground with a huff.

You ran.

Without thought you ran, as fast as your feet could take you, as far as your lungs would allow. Air began to sting in your lungs, wind biting at the back of your open throat as you bounded through the halls, praying you wouldn't meet anyone on your way out.

The Pharaoh and his power was intimidating, no one could deny that, but your fears remained centralized in the idea of being known. You scarcely gave your name and hated living on in memory. Your own world was perfectly fine and you found no need to exist in anybody else's, no matter how much Ahkmenrah wanted you to.

But of course your stumbling would get you. As your thoughts were occupied, you paid little attention to the road in front of you, toppling over a railing you hadn't noticed yourself barreling towards. You tried to catch yourself with bulging eyes, but the ceiling was fading with mortifying speed. Bile filled your mouth as a sickness invaded your stomach.

Cool water splashed around you, soaking your clothes and skin alike as you sunk into the pool. Vines entangled you, the legs of lily pads separating in your wake, their flowers naught but silhouettes above you. A shadow appeared above you, but before you could make any decision it grabbed your upper arm and forced you out of the water.

"Ohh, dearest," sung a voice, accompanied by the close cradling of your body despite it being soaked. The sick feeling in your belly grew into a poison as recognition came to you. Your muscles tensed again in his grip, every nerve fighting against a fleeing instinct.

"My King, isn –"

"Quiet, Gyasi. My poor, sweet love... what are you doing here?" He asked, his hand coming up to stroke the hair away from your face. "I told you not to leave the room."

You shivered, leftover adrenaline sending shakes throughout your body. It left a tense silence where you would originally reply.

"You feel cold," he said, though you didn't feel at all cold. "Let's get you cleaned up, hm? I ought to do it anyway, since your clothes are a little torn."

He brought you to your feet, keeping an arm around you as he patiently led you away from the pond and those gathered there. Most everyone stared at you as you left, but you could barely notice, your vision blurred and hazy.

Steam filled your senses in the room he led you to, warm and scented with honey and lavender. Your eyes opened there, head raised to see the servant women working, stoking the fires and heating the water. Beside you, Ahk motioned to one of them, mumbling something in her ear that sent her out the door. Though curiosity did come to you, you kept silent in the unease of the Pharaoh's presence.

He had yet to accuse you of trying to escape, but it was only a matter of time. The rope in his room was still hung off the balcony. That fact kept you wary as much as it kept you jumpy, something Ahkmenrah unfortunately noticed.

By the hands on your shoulders he led you to a bath dug into the raised floor, the water inside steaming pleasantly with the scent of honey. Reluctantly you began to peel your clothes away, all too aware of his eye on you, memorizing how you stripped yourself down. As you dipped into the water, you attempted at removing the sick irritation you connected with him staring at you. It would happen quite a lot more (whether or not you wanted it to) before you could leave this place.

"Do you have any injuries?" He asked as he moved to sit beside you, his golden robes dirtying on the floor.

"I don't know," you said hoarsely.

"I'll have one of our physicians look over you. That was a long fall," he said, leaning forward to kiss your forehead again, before standing and leaving you to the care of the servants.

As promised, a physician visited you shortly, scanning over you while one of the women scrubbed at the dirt beneath your fingernails. The heat of the water calmed your muscles, untensing your anxious grips even as you were bombarded with questions.

By the time the servant women had dried and dressed you in new clothes, the Pharaoh had yet to return from whatever excursion he had left on. It didn't bother you, considering you didn't especially like being around him, but it did leave you wondering as you lazily watched the servants. Even if you wanted to leave you couldn't; you had no idea where in the palace you were, and there was a fair amount of guards wandering around outside the room. You bit at the inside of your cheek.

A good while later––far past the midday when you'd first fallen––he returned with singed clothes, ash covering his face. Your eyes widened at his appearance, and he was quick to notice your mild alarm.

"Incident at the, um, Bastet temple. One of the new priests really likes working with fire," he mumbled in a dazed voice, shaking his head as though he was trying to shake himself back into his body. "Are you alright?"

You nodded.

"Good. I've got most of the rest of the evening free, so let's get you back to my room, yes?"

It took quite a lot of self-control not to spit in his face, and much more willpower to slowly nod. He would accept no other answer and the suggestion of such would land you in unknown terrain.

He led you back down the hall, and each step you took burnt your regret into the ground beneath you. If one could identify the scent of fear, it'd be coming off you in floods, obvious in your panicked eyes and hastened breath. He would find the rope, and he would no doubt be angry. None of this would have happened if you had just watched where you were going.

Panic saturated your heart, functionally marinated it, as Ahkmenrah reached forward to open the door in the middle of the hallway. Every click of the latch had you flinching, till the door swung open and the light of late-afternoon hit your eyes.

The rope tied to the arch was inconspicuous, but the absence of nearly all the blankets in the room was not. Slowly the cogs in his brain sped up, and in each passing second you could see further recognition in him, till his eyes turned to the rope knotted around the pillar.

He said nothing––simply moved forward, glanced out and down the balcony, and turned back to you.

"You were trying to escape?" He asked you, nothing behind the tone of his voice, which might as well have been as bad as any anger he could've unleashed.

"I told you I could keep you safe here," he continued, and you, in your head, connected dots that suddenly appeared. He would never let you outside his room now––now that his point has been proven. "See what happens when you disobey?"

You blinked and he was standing in front of you, close enough that every inhale of his chest brushed against your shirt. At first you tried to step away, but he moved to cup your face, keeping you frozen in your spot. Your terrified eyes stared into his.

"The next time you try to leave here without me, I shall have to intervene myself, if you do not hurt yourself on your own as you so often do. Do you understand me?"

You nodded. There was nothing else you could do, not with your throat so tight you could barely swallow.

"I obviously cannot trust you," he said, his gaze flickering between your eyes.

He left you standing in the middle of the room as he went to one of his chests, pulling and unlocking the latch before the creak of hinges sounded in the room. You turned to watch in both interest and worry, patiently waiting for his reveal, before he turned back to you with rope in his hands.

As per usual, your first instinct was to bolt out the door. Your feet practically itched with the tension stored up in them, but you stayed perfectly still, terrified into submission as he pulled you forward. You almost stumbled, but before you could fully do so he pushed you onto his bed. Quickly you moved from your stomach to your back, creeping backwards on the bed as he drew nearer, the rope drawn taut between his hands. Kneeling on the bed with his head held high above yours, he was an opposite from the lovesick King you had first met.

He tied your wrists to the bedpost and you let him. He pulled the knots so tight and intricate there was no hope you could get out without breaking the rope, and you let him.

"I can keep you safe here," he murmured, lodged between your legs with his lips against your temple. Your heart stormed hell in your chest. "You will stay here. Any attempt on your behalf to leave and I will have to punish you. Understand?"

"Then I am a prisoner," you said, your voice hoarse and broken.

"You are what you make yourself," he said in a much more stern tone, looking down at you with knowing, wary eyes. "If it is a prisoner, then so be it. But you will be, throughout all actions and situations, mine."

"I..."

"You belong to me."

[moonxgardens]

CECIL CROSS has arrived in Albion. While they may seem FAMILIAR, they are connected to the WESTERLY FOOTHILLS CROSSES. Their passport was stamped at Falls Inn and shows that they are THIRTY, SIX FOOT THREE INCHES, with DUSTY CHESTNUT HAIR and GRAY GREEN EYES. Mrs. Kuiper at the Inn said that they seemed FORGIVING and METHODICAL, though they were seen SMOKING A STRANGE SMELLING HERB FROM A THICKLY PACKED CIGAR as they departed St. Catharine’s Depot. Be wary, and report any sightings to Madame Lange’s Tea Room.

Full Name; Cecil Cross. Just Cecil, just Cross, no middle-names, no nicknames. 

Birthdate; January 11th, 1893 at 3:18am - A Capricorn. 

The Cross Family; They supplied Flory’s Bakery with grains from the wheat fields, Leo Grocer’s with the beans & rice & rich fruits from the low-hanging branches of orchard tree… but Cecil supplied Madame Lange with unique teas, exotic dates & figs, and the tavern with bright, almost glowing flowers in the window. Or, at least… he did.

Siblings; None.

Parents; Both deceased.

Time Spent Away From Albion; Ten Years.

He was hopeful, once, gazing up at the stars under a full moon with a twinkle in his eye and dirt staining long, unkempt fingernails. No longer is there a certain type of whimsy held in his pale gaze, reflecting the shimmer of moonlight, though he does still often let his eyes wander skywards. Cecil likes what has an order to it, what follows a specific pattern, and what he can understand. No surprises, no games; he is tender, under the shades of grays and dark greens he pulls close around his faint frame. He likes to know the world he lives in intimately, to see the ladybugs crawl beneath a stone for coverage from the sun, and to know what time the morning paper will appear on his stoop. 

He is kind, but he is quiet - words fail him, more often than not, spending too much time to deliver them as he searches his mind for the best things to say. Cecil was told through his formative years, as he grew and developed from child to man, that he was to choose his words carefully and not spend time fumbling with his thoughts. A strong mind produces strong speech - but strong was never a descriptor for Cecil, not in the traditional way. He avoids conflict, bows his head for evening prayer, and would give the shirt off his back to someone in need if it were asked of him. 

A gentle man, but a reserved one, a careful one. One who proceeds with every bit of caution as a dove approaching a storm. Magic, Cecil believes, exists everywhere, despite if you’d like it to or not. For this reason, he chooses his intention before doing anything, and it is all calculated and measured by the way of fates. For each tomato he harvests, he mutters gratitude to the soil, knowing far too well how quick the Earth can strip away the blessings it had bestowed upon you. Raised a Catholic man, he is that of the cloth & the moon, promised to no God or belief, but instead living simply & quietly in a path of his own. 

Regret is worn into his wrinkles, far too many etched into his still-young face, and gray hairs frame a long jawbone from years of hunching over soil & trellis. He speaks little of the past or future, and instead, chooses to exist solely in the now.

Traits; Humble, compassionate, aloof, easily uncomfortable, meticulous, punctual, private, enigmatic, secretive, passive, regretful, stoic, vindictive. 

Interests; Gardening, scrapbooking, cooking, incense (both the creation & burning of), cats, candles, windchimes (he collects them), pumpkin pie, stargazing, mythology & folklore, finding fossils.

Dislikes; Needlepoint & sewing, baking, journaling, socializing, long train rides, consecutive days of rain, hiking, bird-watching (he always falls asleep, despite his best efforts), fishing, violence. 

BIOGRAPHY. WANTED CONNECTIONS & PLOTS. PINTEREST.

[austerulous]

muse aesthetics

fill out with 3-5 items/aesthetics that fit your muse for each category. repost, do not reblog.

—  ciaran

emotions / feelings

1. confident The Lord’s Blade is nothing if not assured.  Ciaran knows her self-worth, is wholly aware of her capabilities – and her limitations – satisfied with the work she undertakes, the connections she has made and her position under Lord Gwyn.  For the most part, she is centred and composed.

2. daring To be a Knight of Gwyn, and a leader of a guild of assassins, requires boldness and intrepidity.  Contained though she is, Ciaran is bold when it is required of her, and will face foes many times her size and strength without hesitation.

3. prideful Although not inclined to bragging, she is proud of her achievements – of the rank she has attained and reputation she has garnered, of becoming the only female Knight of Gwyn, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the most skilled and noble warriors alive.

4. vindictive Don’t think for a minute Ciaran is above bearing a grudge or acting spitefully.  There is a malice that is inherent to the assassin, and she unsheathes it when it suits her, when her paths cross with one she believes deserving of her ill will.  

5. withdrawn Although a Knight of Gwyn, Ciaran is somewhat removed from the fold – such is the secretive and underhand nature of her work, and the fact that she also holds the tenure as the Lord’s Blade.  Her duty is not only to Lord Gwyn, but to the assassins who train and work beneath her.  It is in her nature to remain guarded, to value her personal space, to trust only a few.

colours

1. amber The assassin’s eyes are a rich saffron shade, all golden and honeyed tones.

2. crimson For the blood she spills, that so often stipples the smooth expanse of her porcelain mask.

3. gold Elegant streaks paint the air, following the lethal lines of her gold tracer.  A colour significant to her home, a city of sunlight.

4. lavender-violet Reminiscent of Lord Artorias’ soul.  Unbeknownst to Ciaran, hers is of a similar shade, a muted purple-grey flare with a spark of pale gold flickering at its core.

5. smalt blue The deep, smoky blue of her garb, a colour that helps her meld with the shadows, leaving the pale face of her mask luminescent.

scents 

1. blood Death is her trade, and she is proficient in her butchery.  Metallic and unmistakable, beneath all the notes and layers of Ciaran’s scent there is blood and something akin to decay.

2. clove Springing from the mineral oil that she uses to sharpen the edges of her innumerable blades, her collection of daggers and knives meticulously and lovingly cared for.

3. perfume An exquisite, expensive scent that is spicy, woody and faintly floral all at once, blending orange blossom, honey, winter berries, cinnamon, tuberose, pepper, plum, anise, ylang-ylang, labdanum and opoponax.

4. smoke Reverent and subservient to the gods, the musky aroma of religious incense clings to the assassin, along with the primal scent of woodfire smoke.

5. wine Her preference is for red, full-bodied and dark, with notes of blackberry, dark cherry, fig and tobacco.

objects

1. bed Towering, wide and sumptuous, it was built with taller demigods in mind and dominates her chambers.  At the end of each mission, Ciaran savours sinking her aching, naked body into its softness, losing herself in a sea of sheets and blankets.

2. porcelain mask Blank and unreadable, pale and distant as the moon, cold as bone, a porcelain tundra in place of a face.

3. signet ring Emblazoned with a hornet, it is the symbol of her position as a Knight of Gwyn, a recognition of all her efforts stretching back to the War of Fire and earlier.

4. twin tracers The gold and dark silver tracers are the most beloved weapons in Ciaran’s extensive arsenal, and they are her first choice when it comes to dispensing death in the name of Lord Gwyn.  The assassin has formed an emotional attachment with them, and those close to her might know that she refers to them as her errant daughters.

5. vials Ornate bottles and jars rattle in drawers and pepper the polished surfaces of Ciaran’s chambers.  Some are innocuous elixirs, their petite vessels filled with oil, perfume or healing draughts.  Other substances have been blended with harm in mind, and house draughts that are highly flammable, corrosive, or poisonous.

body language

1. at ease Those deemed close and trustworthy enough to see her stripped of her Lord’s Blade garb, who are permitted to map the constellations of freckles on her bare face, may be witness to a considerably less formal and guarded facet of Ciaran’s being.  When free from her duties, she unwinds her braided hair, golden tresses falling free in a wavy tumble, often pulled forward over one shoulder.

2. eyes For a woman whose facial features are often obscured, it’s all in those discerning eyes framed by her mask.  Ciaran is perceptive, attentive to her surroundings.  She isn’t afraid to make unwavering eye contact, nor to scrape her gaze over another person’s form, to drink deep of their expressions and read their body language even as she obfuscates her own.

3. poise For all her neutrality of expression, Ciaran typically stands square and tall – as tall as her short stature permits, at least – her body coiled and primed for action, carrying herself with unmistakable authority and confidence.

4. reverence Ciaran is deferent to those she serves, respectful of the divines whose noble company she keeps.  No stranger to prayer, she bows her head in holy spaces.

5. stealth It is second nature that she keep her own body language largely inscrutable.  A diminutive demigod, she is unrevealing and stealthy, and possesses an uncanny ability to conduct herself in near silence, to fade away into the background.

aesthetics

1. blades Knives and daggers, forged from all manners of material, coming in a myriad of shapes and sizes.  Beautiful and functional, the assassin boasts a fine and expansive collection, their razor silhouettes glinting like teeth.

2. hornets This unbeloved insect is the one that Ciaran feels most kinship, a frightful stinging creature, at home within a humming nest populated primarily by females.  The assassin is also drawn to moths – the walls of her chambers have some particularly impressive species pinned and framed – and is not immune to the beauty of fireflies collected in glass jars, nor to the spiders who so expertly weave webs.

3. shadows The Lord’s Blades cloak themselves in shadow, unseen and omnipresent.  They are deeps wells brimming with secrets, they are the final moments before death, the light dying in a target’s eyes.

4. stinging / burning sensations Both physical and emotional.  It might be from the kiss of her tracer, or the prick of an uncensored remark.  Ciaran is made up of many sharp edges and she is not in the habit of tempering them for anyone.

5. wildflowers There is almost always a vase of these in her room and, just as she harbours tenderness for the most unloved of creatures, her favoured flowers are those that go overlooked for their toxic properties.  Foxglove, monkshood, poison hemlock, lords-and-ladies and deadly nightshade frequently keep the assassin company, perfuming the still air of her chambers.

tagged by: @umbrclflame​ and @yellowfingcr, a million years ago – thank you! ♡ tagging: @frostchild, @notahunter, @a-bottomless-curse, @umtplex (for leonhard!), @bcwblade, @deifiler, @sunpraised​, @worstheir​.

[scarletarosa]

Athena

Greek goddess of logic, truth, intelligence, knowledge, wit, wisdom, war, battle strategy, heroism, protection, law, justice, order, good counsel, skill, victory, and handicrafts

Athena (Roman: Minerva) is the magnificent goddess of Truth, she is a tremendous being of light who ensouls the cosmic consciousness of Truth and grants it to the world. She is the guardian over all knowledge and despises ignorance, facing it and destroying it like light ripping through darkness. She was one of the most important goddesses of Ancient Greece and is said to have led the Greeks to their homeland and supported their development by teaching them many things. She was also their greatest protectress and would valiantly defend them while defending their cities, even mentoring them in particular battle techniques. As a very complex goddess, Athena would watch over many areas of life, including all forms of education, crafts/inventions, and philosophical thinking. She also is one of the three Virgin goddesses (along with Artemis and Hestia) who are never swayed by romance or lust, since Athena values being solely devoted to the realm of the mind. 

Mythology: Many ages ago when Zeus was less moral than he is nowadays, he was very jealous of anyone who threatened his position of power. When he learnt that his wife, Metis, the goddess of wisdom, may birth his successor, he became desperate to end their lives. Zeus devoured Metis while she was pregnant, thinking this would secure him. But when the time came, Zeus began feeling tremendous headaches. As even he couldn’t bear them, Hephaestus struck Zeus with his axe and Athena leapt out of Zeus’ head, fully armed and with a furious cry. This frightened some of the deities, but Zeus, however, was delighted and full of pride. In this story of Athena’s birth, we see her as enraged wisdom that fights as a defender and upholder of justice.

A popular myth of Athena is the story of Arachne, a mortal craftswoman who boasted that she was more skillful than Athena herself. Athena offered her a chance to repent, but after Arachne refused, she challenged her to a weaving duel. The goddess fashioned a beautiful tapestry which illustrated the gruesome fate of the mortals who had the hubris of challenging the gods. Arachne, on the other hand, chose to depict stories of the mortals unjustly victimized by the gods. But she didn’t even have a chance to finish it for the enraged Athena tore Arachne’s fabric to pieces and turned her into a spider. As such, Arachne is doomed to weave ever since. This was a myth written by the Greeks as a warning against hubris, and does not portray an actual event, especially since Arachne is actually a goddess of spiders and wasn’t a cursed human.

Roles: Despite Athena’s connection to war, she moreso represents the strategy behind it and the ability to protect and bring about order (whereas Ares represents battle-lust, Athena fights out of necessity). She was also known to bestow victory in war, as she is at times seen accompanied by Nike, the goddess of victory. Through these connections, Athena is the patroness of heroes and is known to wisely advise them in their quests and grant divine weapons in times of need.

Other than the art of battle, Athena is known as a skillful inventor and even holds the title of ‘protectress of agriculture’. She is represented as the inventor of the plough and rake: she created the olive tree (the greatest blessing of Attica), taught the people to yoke oxen to the plough, took care of the breeding of horses, invented the bridle, instructed people how to tame horses, and much more. At the beginning of spring, offerings were given to Athena in advance for the protection she was to afford to crops and fields. Besides the tools of agriculture, Athena was said to be the inventor of numbers, science, hand-made crafts, chariots, and other such helpful things. 

Athena is a magnificently powerful goddess who can easily strike fear into her enemies. In times of battle, she is known to have lightning flashing from her eyes, and can even overpower Ares himself with her strategic mind during combat. She is peace gained through battle, courage gained through struggle, and clarity gained through wisdom. She has explained to me that the Aegis (the head of Medusa) on her breastplate represents her victory over her own shadow, the part of one’s psyche that creates negative emotions such as fear or cruelty. This is a true mark of wisdom and shows even further just how glorious Athena is. She can always be relied upon for sage advice in any matter, and knows how to directly tell someone what needs to be done or how they should change to become better. Athena says that she is also the goddess who inspires women to be more than their domestic roles that are pressured on them. She inspires rebellion in their hearts and teaches them how to fight and overcome oppression. Thus, Athena is the glorious warrior goddess of illuminating truth and courage; there is nothing that can break her down. 

Appearance: a tall woman in her 30′s with long brown hair, gray eyes, and wears either a white dress or silver armour

Personality: Overall, Athena is wise, intelligent, serious, diligent, straightforward, courageous, determined, perfectionistic, and a steadfast protector of peace. She has a very strong sense of morality and is able to keep calm and collected under a great deal of pressure. She loves to spread knowledge to others, but does not guide us through everything since she seeks to make her devotees independent. She greatly values strength of character, open-mindedness, and the desire to make oneself better no matter what. Athena can be a bit motherly at times with those she likes, but not too much in a “soft” way but more like a quiet and dedicated mother who wants the best for you. Although she does not have much patience for most people, especially if they are unwilling to take responsibility or overcome their ignorance. She also has no patience for people who disrespect her or disregard her nature as a virgin goddess. When Athena is angered, she becomes terrifying and cold. Lightening begins flashing out from her eyes and is relentless in bringing her fury upon whoever offended her. 

Athena is very empowering and knows exactly what to say when her devotees feel down or lost, for she can see past clouded emotions and into the clarity of truth. She also hates injustices of any kind and seeks to destroy all ignorance. She is a very protective warrior and an Illuminator, following the path that Lucifer teaches about wisdom through adversity. She is also a very close friend of the goddess Lilith, so they work well together for gaining Illumination. One of the most sacred animals of Athena is the serpent, which sheds its skin to be reborn, making it a symbol of wisdom and knowledge. This is one of the lesson that she often teaches to her followers, that their current self must die to be reborn in wisdom. In some of her statues, a giant snake can be seen beside her.

| Symbolism of Athena |

Owls

Eagles

Doves

Snakes

Helmets

Shields

Weapons

Olive Tree

Books

| Some of her epithets |

Alkis (The Strong)

Areia (The Warlike)

Ærgáni (Instructor of the Arts)

Axiopoinos (The Avenger)

Día (Heavenly)

Drákaina (She-Dragon)

Chalinitis (Tamer of Horses)

Erganê (The Worker)

Mêchaneus (Skillful Inventor)

Mítir Tǽkhni (Mother of the Arts)

Paiônia (The Healer)

Kóri (The Maiden)

Parthenos (The Virgin)

Pallas (The One who Brandishes Her Weapon)

Lýteira kakóhn (Deliverer from Evil)

Omvrimóthymos (Strong of Spirit)

Oplophóros (The Warrior)

Ormásteira (She Who Urges You Forward)

Polias (Protector of the City)

Polæmitókos (Bringer of Necessary War)

Polývoulos (Exceedingly Wise)

Nikephoros (Bringer of Victory)

Sóhteira (Saviour) 

Devotional Actions: Above all, Athena values offerings of action. She expects those devoted to her to constantly seek to improve themselves by gaining spiritual advancement, overcoming their Egos, and gaining as much knowledge as they can. Wisdom is embraced through battling hardships, analyzing yourself, and learning from trial and error. Dedication to what she teaches pleases her far more than physical offerings.

Offerings: Fine quality white wine (esp. if flower-scented), olives, olive oil, milk, bread, goat cheese, pomegranates, citrus, apples, cherries, figs, white lilies, myrrh incense, sandalwood, almonds, honey, cakes, cooked lamb or goat, beeswax candles, non-fiction books, fancy pens, quills, pottery, paintings, swords, daggers, silver armour, snakeskin, owl feathers, votive owls, clear crystals, silver jewelry, chess games, wool, knitting tools, pretty antiques, white marble, artworks, poetry, snake statuettes, and imagery of her sacred animals.

[web1995]

Look upon my Works, ye Mighty: The Colossus of Garfield

Fig. 1

Surely our readers will need no introduction to The Colossus of Garfield, tenth wonder of the world. A much-favored subject of Art, Poetry, and History, the Colossus continues to preoccupy our collective imagination, as it captivated the artists who hewed his hulking body from the mighty pliant rock. Babel-like, he looms as testament, monument, and warning— for the Colossus is the folly of a long-since fallen empire, attempting to immortalize their king— and yet, how his image immortally endures! 

Historians place the construction of the Colossus variably, but without a doubt before our millennium. The earliest historical references to the Colossus are roughly contemporary with ancient California. For centuries upon centuries, he has been a site of pilgrimage and tourism, similar to the (likely fictitious) ruins of the Colosseum (Fig. 2) as described by authors in the ancient world, which drew thousands of visitors curious to witness an immense historical object. The Colossus is one of the largest and most magnificent ruins standing today, and unlike the Colosseum, there is no doubt about whether it really existed. 

Fig. 2 [ Artist’s reconstruction of the apocryphal Colosseum ] 

Today, there are many historical depictions of the Colossus of Garfield, all worthy of examination, and it is our hope that whether you come to our little book as a scholar of the Colossus or as a reader who knows him only as the tenth wonder that you will find something of note or amusement here. 

Let us return to Fig. 1: 

In this oil on canvas painting of the Colossus, by an unknown artist in the 17th—18th century WX, little room is left for the sky. The Colossus and the vast plain of the rocky beach upon which he sits are the overwhelming focus, massive waves breaking upon his placid visage, walls of foam several feet in height building up around his immovable bulk. Bleached by sun, sea, and storm, the Colossus basks unperturbed. In the background, indistinct buildings larger than one might easily comprehend rise upon the sea cliffs, works of the mighty empire following the collapse of that which crafted the Colossus. 

The painting evokes a distorted sense of time and a distorted sense of scale, juxtaposing old and new, centering the Colossus despite its weatheredness, and even taking particular care to render that weatheredness with something like love. New climate data has determined that the seas were already receding significantly in the 17th century WX, suggesting that the artist, having visited the Colossus, wanted to reach back into time to when the sea had broken daily upon its monumental little paws. It was a time long ago— a time when the Colossus was already ancient. 

Fig. 3

In Fig. 3, we see another stunning oil painting of the Colossus by another unknown artist, probably dating from the First Modern Desert Age, though the possibility of the artist depicting an earlier time, like the painter of Fig. 1, cannot be discounted. Likely painted during the 2nd century RYE, here the Colossus sits among endless dunes. The desert takes on a naturalistic, bluish hue in contrast to the garish orange of the Colossus, somehow scarcely diminished by hundreds of years. The Colossus appears to offer some shade, but the unseen overhead sun fills the canvas with a palpable heat. 

Art historians throughout the centuries have disagreed as to whether the Colossus was originally built to stand at the sea’s edge, in the water, or on dry land, and who can blame them? The effect of the Colossus remains transformative regardless of where it sits. Perhaps its builders even knew that the Colossus would endure longer than the sea or sand upon which it originally was hewn into the shape it continues to hold today. 

Fig. 4

Fig. 4 is an oil and acrylic painting which likely drew upon the Desert Colossus (Fig. 3) for its composition. Probably dating from the 9th century RYE, the artist portrays a partially submerged Colossus in much the same style as the Desert Colossus, with influence also taken from the Sea Colossus (Fig. 1). Here the focus is on the shallow seas surrounding the Colossus nearly as much as on the Colossus itself, following the lead of the Desert Colossus. A sense of barrenness pervades the Submerged Colossus, no living things visible within the frame. The Desert Colossus by contrast is suggestive of perhaps some vegetation, perhaps some fungus, while the Submerged Colossus emphasizes a true sense of loneliness: the observer is alone with him. 

Fig. 5

In this engraving, from the Second Modern Desert Age, by the anonymous historian and physician known as The Anonymous Historian and Physician of the Second Modern Desert Age, we see documentation of how the eyes of the Colossus were mined for old materials for use in weaponry in the Fourth War. When the seas around the Colossus receded yet again, this time leaving behind a rocky bed, it became a simple matter to access the Colossus. Clearly, the urgency of the Fourth War took priority over preserving what was left of the Colossus’ original state. Decorative parts of the Colossus which can be seen in previous depictions are missing here, likely also mined for old materials. 

However, the Colossus certainly survived the Fourth War, and still remains standing after the Seventh War, his expression scarcely altered by the loss of his eyes. Perhaps it would have even brought his creators some pleasure to know that the Colossus played a role in wars so long after their deaths. 

For the Colossus must depict a Soldier Emperor, some have cried— a man in the form of an unknown beast, prepared to pounce. Others have argued that the Colossus is at rest, that nothing about his posture indicates a thirst for battle. Indeed, the Colossus cannot even be said definitively to represent a man, though the rulers he is believed to possibly depict are largely men. 

We have seen the Colossus itself throughout time. But just who or what is the Colossus? The question has vexed scholars for nearly as long as the Colossus has stood. We call him “Garfield” because some ancient texts do, not because we have any idea who this “Garfield” was or what he meant to his people. 

Fig. 6

Another tremendous monument which still stands today is that of the Sphinx, sometimes informally referred to as the Garfield by scholars of the Colossus (though this is an error, as the Sphinx pre-dates the Colossus by at least a century). In Fig. 6, we see a tempera painting of the Sphinx in which its similarity to the Colossus is undeniable. Could the creators of the Colossus have been imitating the Sphinx? The Sphinx is believed to be a representation of a ruler as a mythological being or a God, and perhaps the Colossus is similar.

Fig. 7

But what if the Colossus is meant to represent an animal? The animal is unidentifiable, and likely to be mythological in nature, though it may be a stylized depiction of a living animal. Scholars have debated endlessly which animal the Colossus might depict, with recent arguments being made for the Colossus perhaps depicting a member of the same or a related species to the unidentified animal seen in Fig. 7, a “photograph” from the 20th or 21st century AD, when the art of photography flourished briefly before being lost and the famed photographer Leonardo da Vinci captured this image. 

Fig. 8

And if we turn to other ancient art? Believed to also be a portrait of “Garfield” (which is to say, the person or animal portrayed by the Colossus), dating from a similar timeframe as the Colossus, Fig. 8 is likely a funerary inscription. Here, the figure depicted is a sort of guardian, perhaps looking over the deceased. 

Fig. 9

Another piece of ancient art, Fig. 9 was created by an artist known only as “MarkVomit” and has been the subject of much debate. Is it meant to reaffirm Garfield’s power, to remind the viewer that they are not immune to his propaganda? Or is it meant to protest Garfield, to subvert and challenge the propaganda that this ruler must have utilized to maintain his rule? The answers are lost to history. 

Fig. 10

Fig. 11

Fig. 12

Other sculptures appearing to depict the same figure exist, though none on such a monumental scale as the Colossus. A frequent theme seems to be his ability to control time, as seen in Figures 10–12. Was this what inspired the creators of the Colossus to build him so enduringly? 

Fig. 14

One of the more outlandish theories regarding his nature is that the Colossus is meant to resemble a cat (see Fig. 14 for a hyperrealistic painting of a cat for reference) but this has largely been discredited by modern scholarship. If the Colossus is a feline, certainly his species is different— simply observe the difference in ear shape, eye shape, and gait. However, certain cats do carry a gravitas reminiscent of the Colossus, which brings the question again to mind— could the Colossus have been an ordinary domestic shorthair all along? 

The identity of Garfield, if there is a historical “Garfield,” remains a tantalizing mystery. Here we have such a tangible piece of history, and we are so unable to comprehend him! In another sense, though, perhaps the Colossus has taken on its own significance, and may represent something far beyond the man he once symbolized, the God he was built to honor, or the animal he commemorated. For who in our modern world has not gone to see the Colossus and found themselves moved? His place as the tenth wonder is well deserved. 

Perhaps new understandings will come to light regarding the nature of the Colossus, and perhaps not. Either way, he will remain until he is entirely unmade, his old materials bit by bit chipped away by the hands of humans and humidity fluctuations, the silent and sole guardian of his secret knowledge. 

In closing, let us visit two pieces of poetry composed about the Colossus of Garfield (the first of which only survives in this single fragment). 

[utilitycaster]

yeah one plan I really wanna work on is an archive of tumblr metas for crit role campaign 3, to keep all the debunked theories remembered!

My only fear is whether it can be publicly accessible :(

Not sure about public screenshots of other peoples content (with links to the original post) without their consent, but an archive of just links is so much drier to click through.

How would you do it?

Hi anon,

You seem like a nice person, from this ask, who does not deserve the tirade I am about to unleash below so my answers in short are:

1. I think a fandom theory on a social media is a thing that most people will recognize might get cross posted so I would just summarize and link, were I to take on this project, which I will not be doing.

2. No idea how I'd make it publicly accessible; I'd probably either make a website, or a Google doc under an anonymous email address, neither of which are ideal, but no better options come to mind.

Anyway welcome to the consequences of entering my inbox. While writing this I enjoyed myself a lot but I was also like 'tbh this is probably why I don't get as many anons any more; it is because I am Gotdamn Annoying.'

So this was like, maybe 75% a shitpost, not in that I don’t genuinely believe it would be useful, but in that a comprehensive list is nearly impossible to do. Even if you limited yourself to Tumblr (ie, no Twitter or Reddit or god knows what else), you would necessarily be limiting yourself also to things that were tagged and/or got a decent amount of traction within the fandom as a whole.

I think there are a number of problems though. The first one is that while some theories can be debunked immediately upon their arrival into the primordial soup that is fandom, some may always remain technically possible, just vanishingly improbable, including some of my least favorites (cough secret dragons cough) because you cannot logically prove a negative unless you just outright ask the creators. And still others may be debunked - or proven - only after a very long time (eg: The Traveler is Artagan) and personally I want to only use this for debunked theories, so you'd necessarily need to keep a separate list of theories that are neither proven nor debunked, otherwise you just become a rehash of the, well, hash, that is the Wild Mass Guessing page on TVTropes rather than what I was specifically envisioning, namely, "this is a list of theories that were proven to be wrong, and here is why."

The second problem, which you may have guessed from my previous line, is that I come to bury these theories, not praise them*. I think some theories are good but ultimately incorrect and it's worth having them on display! I also think a lot of theories are bad, and that a good deal of theories aren't even really theories. You used the word meta, which I actually think of more as analysis than theories although the line between those two things is blurrier than most. But also, a lot of things people call theories or meta are, well, Wild Mass Guessing, headcanons/personal opinions, wishful thinking that has a tenuous relation to canon at best, and/or pure unadulterated nonsense. And I would include some of that, but not all, even though I often use the word 'theory' in a similarly loose way to kind of refer to anything that people are saying might be true in the story even if I think it's the ravings of a madman, even though my 'proper' definition of a theory would be an explanation that both answers an existing question and is supported by the existing text.

My point here is that I think some theories are best forgotten and my motivation is more accentuating the positive, pointing and laughing really hard at the negative, and ignoring a lot of the neutral headcanon-type stuff on the grounds that a neutral headcanon is your own private business and I respect that.

The third problem is curation. I have run into a similar issue with kind of shitpost projects that I did sort of take on and now languish and glare at me from the back of my mind when I am doing nothing on a weekend (specifically my attempt to make a personally useable Exandria timeline). Wiki-style editing has its benefits, but also significant drawbacks, because the same people who make pure unadulterated nonsense theories have the same editing power as people who are excellent at literary analysis, if not more. In an ideal world I would recommend putting something like this on the wiki, and there might even be a page now intended to serve a purpose akin to the WMG page on TVTropes (I did not bother to check), but in practice the CR wiki is currently under the thumb of someone who I will sum up briefly in Figure 1:

Fig 1: A Venn diagram.

Anyway, the fact is, the TVTropes WMG page has had things like "when the Mighty Nein fight Trent, Veth will get the HDYWTDT" even though that's not a theory and in fact by the nature of D&D is impossible to predict by any means. That's just a thing that would be kind of cool to happen. I worry that any true wiki format would fall to a similar fate. It would not actually be a list of debunked theories, telling the story both of interesting and genuinely good ideas from fandom that ultimately just did not turn out to be true, as well as some real clownshoes bullshit, but rather a bathroom wall on which to scrawl vague ideas.

So I think the only way to feasibly do this is to just spend time in the fandom and collect theories, like an anthropologist, and accept that you're going to miss some, and maybe have a Google Form for submission thereof that requires things like a post with a certain threshold of notes such that you can easily collect theories from others but are under no obligation to include every one. Even then this will be subject to personal bias, and while I personally love having executive control of things I also recognize the flaws of such a system. I would definitely include some kind of disclaimer along the lines of "This has opinions in it about theories; while the debunking is objective, whether or not it was a good theory prior to being debunked has some subjectivity involved."

*I know in the context of this line actually the speaker was in fact coming to praise the thing he said he was just going to bury; RIP to Marc Antony but I’m different.

[aphrodites-law]

A Bit of Clarity 🍂 (8/?) The visions had started last autumn, a year ago now. It had caused a bit of chaos for some, a bit of clarity for others. Two days ago, Clarke Griffin had been perfectly fine managing both her Café and her stress. But now she was curious - so deeply curious about the vision of herself entwined with the aloof Lexa Woods that it was leading her to complete distraction. (ao3)

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] 

Lexa walked in ten minutes after opening time the next day. Clarke had just rung up a coffee to go when she saw her, her raincoat unzipped and revealing her sweater and the collar of her shirt beneath it. Beige this time. Clarke liked beige. Then again, she couldn’t think of a shirt Lexa had worn that she hadn’t liked. One couldn't help but wonder how large Lexa’s wardrobe was. It had to be quite the collection.

Waiting for her turn, Lexa kept her eyes on the display case. When she finally stepped up to the counter, Clarke arched a playful brow.

"Good morning," Lexa said.

"Pretty good so far."

Lexa visibly tried to contain a smile. “You changed the display."

Clarke glanced at the display, remembering all too vividly how she’d been pressed up against it. Judging by the way Lexa looked at her, she remembered it too.

“It's honey cake and croissants today - still warm,” Clarke replied, noticing just then that Lexa was fiddling with the strap of her satchel.

It was something Clarke had recently noticed about Lexa. She appeared confident, sometimes even stony-faced, but there were subtle signs showing the contrary. She was a master at hiding her nerves, but Clarke was starting to pick up on how she did it.

"Oh I meant to tell you - Wells loved Gus' honey. He was pretty die hard about his old brand but he's interested in switching."

"He did?" Lexa seemed very proud. "I'll have to let Gus know. And maybe try a slice of the cake then."

“For here?” Clarke asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Yes. Please.”

“No drink?”

Lexa took out her wallet. “Coffee is fine.”

Clarke leaned closer. “Lexa, you don’t need to force yourself. You don’t like it. It’s fine - I don’t take offense.”

“I know. I just feel like a fraud staying here if I don't. Like wearing sneakers on an ice rink."

Clarke chuckled. “Well, speaking of ice, let me make you a chilled one. I'll go easy on the actual coffee part."

“You don’t have to go to the trouble-"

"It’s on the menu. You know that, right?”

Lexa looked up, as if noticing the menu above the coffee machines for the first time. It wasn't a long selection but, sure enough, there was an ice coffee and tea option.

“I hadn’t..." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fuck.”

Clarke fully laughed then, her voice still a bit raspy from the early morning. "God, just go grab a seat. I’ll be right up with your order.”

Lexa left a crisp bill in the tip jar as she always did. She sat at her usual seat and took out her laptop and notepad. After she'd skimmed through some of her recent notes, Clarke came over with her slice of cake and iced coffee.

"Thank you."

To Lexa's evident surprise, Clarke took the seat opposite hers and propped her chin on her hand.

"I need to be sure you like it. No more grimacing in my café."

Lexa sighed bashfully. She picked up the cup and took her first sip of the chilled drink. After licking her lips and pausing for effect, she hummed.

"Hats off to the barista. This is really good, Clarke."

"Well of course it's good!" Clarke beamed, pleased with herself. "Now your funny faces can stop giving us a bad rep."

"Hardly doubt the press picked up on my expressions."

"You never know who's paying attention."

Lexa looked at her and smiled. "You?"

Clarke's cheeks felt warm. She glanced down. "That's one person."

Whatever that meant for them, Clarke didn't know. It was a strange place to be in. To know the woman sitting in front of her was responsible for the best kiss she'd had in recent memory, if not her entire life. She was aching to talk about it, but her worry Lexa would bolt was stronger.

Lexa cleared her throat and looked around. There was only a couple and an older man seated for now, but then again the sun wasn't even out.

"Not too busy yet?" She asked.

Clarke shook her head. "I give it thirty minutes. College classes and rush hour starting."

"Have you had more customers recently?"

"Definitely. I'm still not sure if it's all due to Finn's fall from grace, but I'm not complaining."

"You know what made me wonder?" Lexa asked. "He knew Echo and I were from the Gazette. He knew she and I went to his shops to write about him, but somehow he couldn't fathom it would be for anything other than praise. He wronged everyone on his staff and lied his way into smaller businesses believing it was justified. Now he's looking into suing for defamation. Can you imagine the ego?"

"Sounds like Finn Collins."

Lexa noticed a change in Clarke's expression. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, not at all. Just bad history. Finn had me believing a lot of things too. It might be the one thing he's actually good at."

"I see."

Clarke bit her lip, unsure where to go from there. It seemed like Lexa was thinking the same.

"Are we still…" Lexa lowered her voice. "Is this weekend still happening?"

Clarke's heart leapt. "If you want it to."

"I do."

Clarke forgot all about Finn Collins, her bitterness replaced by sudden excitement. "Give me your phone."

Lexa took it out and watched as Clarke typed her number in. She then grabbed her own phone and sent Lexa a message:

Coffeemaker ☕ Nice flannel today, I'd guessed blue

"I don't have a lot of blue," Lexa chuckled, then frowned. "Bit of a reductive name. I'd definitely give you something better."

Clarke shrugged. "That's between you and your phone. Anyway, I'll send you the details. I checked the weather and there's just a small chance of rain, so we should be good. We can do the River to Nowhere hike."

"Never heard of it."

"I figured. It's kind of a local secret. The view on Costial and the mountains is amazing though."

At Lexa's silence, Clarke felt a pang of worry. "This is still good, right?"

Lexa looked up. "Yes. Of course. I'm looking forward to it."

Clarke nodded, still not entirely convinced. But at least Lexa had come back. She was here, sitting where she belonged. Clarke stood up at the ding of the bell, knowing she didn't have much time before the morning rush.

"I hope you enjoy the cake."

"Thank you, Clarke."

* * *

Lexa came into the café every day. She apologized that she couldn’t stay too long before going to work, but she still came every day. Mostly in the morning, but once in the afternoon. Clarke saw the slight, quick pout on her face when she noticed her seat was occupied that day, and practically heard her sigh when she eventually found a tight spot on the other side of the counter.

"I thought we said no funny faces," Clarke told her in passing, too busy to stop but still yearning for interaction.

Lexa looked up, realizing then how close to Clarke this new seat was, though also much noisier and not conducive to writing. "My apologies," she said, just loud enough for Clarke to hear.

Clarke smiled to herself. That was mostly how they communicated that week, pleasantries here and there, asking how work was going, how Lexa's articles were progressing, if Clarke and Wells were going to start interviews soon. It was as casual as could be, but beneath the simple nature of their brief conversations was something neither of them could deny.

Desire. The kind that had Clarke panting into her pillow at night while she touched herself. The kind that turned every look and every touch into the most excruciatingly good form of foreplay Clarke had experienced.

It was in the way their fingers brushed together when Clarke gave Lexa her drink and pastry. The way Clarke caught Lexa looking her way, or perhaps Lexa caught Clarke. In those moments, Clarke felt the same thrill she'd felt when Lexa had entered the café after closing time.

But they had yet to actually talk about it, which made Clarke both impatient and anxious for the weekend.

Lexa could run or she could stay. It was something Clarke was keenly aware of, which was why she'd promised herself to be as honest as could be. The way they'd approached things before hadn't worked. Things had been left unsaid on various occasions, piling up until they became a tangled mess. That couldn't happen again. Clarke knew it and she had no reason to doubt Lexa knew it too.

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her apron. Clarke finished making an order for a pick-up before reading it:

Lexa I'm off to work (yes I do have a real office despite appearances), but thank you for saving a croissant for me

Clarke glanced toward the fig tree, where she saw the empty table.

Clarke Ha, I was starting to think you'd quit. You're welcome

Lexa I'll see you tomorrow?

Clarke Yep, pick you up at 11am. Wear good walking shoes

Lexa Stilettos it is. Have a good rest of the day :)

Clarke chuckled, liking this lighter side of Lexa. Hopefully - and Clarke's hope had blossomed these days - it was a facet of Lexa she'd get to see more of.

* * *

Lexa didn't wear the stilettos, though Clarke wouldn't have been too upset if she did. She had a hunch Lexa had quite the fashion sense beyond her professional attire. Not that the shirts, blazers and tight pants didn't work for Clarke. Today it was her dark green knitted hat that had Clarke melting a little.

She drove through sleepy Costial with Lexa in the passenger seat, something she would have never imagined happening just a week ago. Clarke talked about some of the resumes she'd read with Wells over the week. One in particular made Lexa laugh out loud.

"Eating is a commendable skill, Clarke."

"It was the only word in the skills section. Just eating. What do I even do with that?"

"Well, hopefully they figure out they're better off being your customer than your employee."

"I just feel bad for Wells, he takes on so much already."

"No one stood out?"

"One woman did, but she'd be out of our budget. Honestly Wells doesn't even care about fancy certificates, just passion and impeccable hygiene."

"Hm."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

Clarke spotted the sign on the road that pointed them to the small parking area. It was a ten minute walk from the actual mountain trail, which itself was hard to find for anyone unfamiliar with it. Clarke hadn't been here in months, but it was perfect timing. The weather was kind and there wasn't a grey cloud in sight.

She parked the car and popped the trunk open.

"Are you ready?"

Lexa nodded. "Let's go."

They stored their water and food in one backpack that Lexa insisted on carrying, as the other one felt lighter than air. The trail was hidden behind a particularly spruce, but once they were on it, there was a clear grassy path snaking through the sprawling forest. In a few weeks, everything would be covered in snow. For now, it was a lovely clash of browns and greens, with shrubs and moss at the foot of pine and hardwood trees. 

"You know, I tried looking up this trail in the Gazette's search engine," Lexa said. "Not even one link. When you said it's a local secret, I didn't think you meant top secret."

Clarke smiled cheekily. "One thing you have to know about Costialites: we love tourists in our theaters and shops, not our nature."

"Any other hidden spots I might discover?"

Clarke stepped over a fallen tree, dead and yet full of life, with lichen and mushrooms covering the sides while insects skittered inside.

"Nu-uh. The inquisitive journalist's cap comes off. You can pick it up on the way back."

She heard Lexa's small laugh behind her. "If you say so."

They walked without speaking for a while, slowly going up as they appreciated the fresh air, bird chirps, and the novelty of doing something together for the first time. Clarke had been on this path with friends before; had even shown her mother - but she'd never come here with a potentially romantic partner. It was fun with friends, but there was a more intimate quality to it with Lexa. After days of only seeing each other surrounded by other people, it was a welcome change.

But Clarke remembered her earlier promise to herself.

"Lexa… I need to get something off my chest."

Lexa glanced at her, understanding this wouldn't be shoptalk.

"The push and pull between us…" Clarke started, fighting her nerves. "It really confused me."

"I know."

"It's just that, from my point of view, you sat in the café every week for six months but you were still a mystery. Then suddenly we were talking and… the mixed signals threw me off." Clarke paused, unsure how to word the next part delicately. "You run when things get too close, but then you come back and I think - this is it, she's taking a step forward. But it's not." Clarke stopped to look at her. "What I'm trying to say is I can't do that again. I don't need a label for whatever this is, but I do need to know we're on the same page. I'm sorry if this is brusque-"

"No, that's fair," Lexa interrupted. "Thank you for telling me. I want to be on the same page too."

Clarke waited for more, but Lexa turned her head toward the source of a trickling sound. "Is that the river?"

Clarke swallowed back her disappointment. "Yeah. Come on, we can follow it upstream."

* * *

If what Clarke had said had affected Lexa, she certainly didn't show it. Instead, Lexa started asking questions like she had at the café, interested in knowing about Clarke's life without divulging too much about hers in response. Clarke had to call her out on it:

"I thought you'd agreed to leave the journalist cap behind."

Lexa seemed surprised. "I can't ask about your job?"

"Can I ask about yours?"

Lexa kept her eyes on the rocky stream bed at their right, where the water flowed slowly down the slope.

"Sure."

"Did you always want to be a journalist?"

"No."

Clarke waited, then sighed. "A little more?"

Lexa slid her hand beneath the straps of the backpack. She was quiet for a while, then cleared her throat. "My grandmother raised me, but after she passed away when I was seventeen I had to grow up very quickly. I started working in a motel to save for college. Met a lot of people left behind by laws, so I had a fantasy of going into politics. Be a part of change."

Clarke startled a bit at the amount of information Lexa had unloaded in the space of a few seconds.

"I didn't know you were… I hadn't realized-" she stuttered. 

"Don't worry, I'm not a traumatized orphan, Clarke," Lexa said with a self-deprecating smile. "Anyway, it all worked out. Even got a scholarship."

"Still. That must've been hard."

Lexa nodded in acknowledgment. "When I got into college, it was like an all you can eat buffet. Politics didn't feel exciting anymore. But my counselor told me change could come from anywhere."

"So you took up writing?"

Lexa's expression suddenly changed, like she was in pain. "No, not right away."

Clarke left it at that, not wanting to push. A few minutes later, she stopped on the path and took Lexa's arm.

"Come on."

She guided her behind a pine and past a couple shrubs, where finally they reached the flat rock that overlooked Costial and its surrounding mountains. Lexa took off her backpack, stopping just a few feet from the edge.

"Jesus, Clarke."

"I know."

They took in the view for a few minutes, until Clarke laid out the quilt she'd put in her own bag. She sat down and looked up at Lexa, noticing just then there were tears in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" She worriedly asked.

"Just give me… I need a minute."

Clarke waited patiently, knowing they had both reached a point of change. She would stay here the entire night if Lexa needed it.

Lexa sat down next to her. "I never wanted to confuse you," she finally said, her voice full of regret. "It's just that I didn't expect you."

Clarke caught her eyes, hoping Lexa wouldn't look away. She didn't.

"But you took the first step."

"I was… hoping I was ready." Lexa swallowed hard. "I keep to myself and I don't get close, because… because the only three people I chose to love passed away."

Clarke froze, hardly even blinking as she absorbed Lexa's words.

"First there was Luna, my best friend since I learned how to walk. We did everything together for years. Had our best and our worst ideas together. She drowned during a family vacation." Lexa's fingers dug into a patch of grass by the quilt. "Then there was Ontari, in junior year. She was my first… everything. Most of the time she was angry because her mom was a drunk, but she was kind with me." Lexa's jaw clenched. "She was stabbed by some lunatic for seventeen dollars and her bracelet."

If Lexa had managed to keep her voice from breaking before, her efforts were in vain this time.

"And then Anya," she said tearfully.

Clarke sat closer.

"Hey, you don't have to-"

"No," Lexa abruptly said. "I want to. I need to." She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "Anya was my sister - how I imagined a sister would be anyway. She took me under her wing in undergrad. Pushed me toward journalism when I hesitated and kept me from making bad decisions out of anger. Without her, where I am today would only be a dream." Lexa's voice steadied then as she contemplated the three blades of grass in her hand. "Four years ago Anya lost her fight against breast cancer. Her last words to me were, I fought like hell, didn't I?"

Lexa let go of the grass. "You were right that night at the bar. In a way I do use people for their stories. I eat up their words and I spit them back out because my own stories - they're no good. The good ones are all tainted. I don't talk about my past because my memories only have ghosts in them. And nothing hurts more than realizing the only people who knew you are gone."

Clarke felt stricken, overwhelmed with sadness for the woman baring her soul in front of her. She couldn't imagine losing a best friend, let alone three. She couldn't imagine having so many of her memories tarnished by sudden, senseless death. Losing Wells would be like losing a piece of her heart. He knew her fears just as well as her dreams. He knew how to make her laugh and how to get her to stop crying. If he disappeared from her life, Clarke could see how that would feel like losing a part of herself. Memories shared would be wrecked by grief.

"When the visions happened," Lexa continued, "suddenly it was like hope was on everyone's lips. Lincoln was the first to tell me his. I was on the opposite coast, living life like a robot, when my estranged cousin calls to tell me he's seen us dance together at his wedding." Lexa smiled at the memory. "I thought he was losing his mind - couldn't even remember him honestly. But then more reports came in. And he kept calling, kept talking to me about Costial, this beautiful city he'd always wished my grandma and I visited. Apparently she used to send him postcards every year. For her sake, I agreed. I reconnected with Lincoln and… I fell in love with Costial."

Clarke knew how easy that was. It hadn't taken her long to know she'd build on her dreams here. After college, leaving had never even been in question.

"I wanted to do something to honor it," Lexa said as she stared at the skyline. "I know there are already thousands of pieces on visions out there, and I know there'll be thousands more after mine, but they won't be on this place. They won't be about Indra Keene reconnecting with her brother thanks to her vision of them having dinner. They won't be about Jonathan Murphy working hard to get his GED after seeing himself graduate college. I know I haven’t been here long, but this place is the first that's felt like home. I thought it deserved to be written about."

Lexa looked at Clarke. "And you… I guess I wanted to know what hope looked like for you. You're at the café every day, always smiling at people, even the rude ones. You seem so happy, so eager to put in the work to make your dream a reality. I couldn't help but wonder what else you might dream about. But really I just transcribe what I hear. I'm no more than a typist here."

"You sell yourself short."

Lexa shook her head. "I don't mind being the one listening. I like how I fit in Costial. When I got here - when I was driving with the trunk of my car crammed with my stuff, I passed the welcome sign and I… I just felt so relieved. Like I could finally breathe. Move forward."

"And you did."

Lexa nodded. "When I found out the Gazette was hiring it all clicked into place. But the pain crept back eventually. Change isn't… Well, old habits die hard and all that."

"But you've already brought so much good here. Look at your article on the Mountain Men."

Lexa shrugged. "Hermit solidarity."

Clarke chuckled softly. "You're not a hermit, Lexa. You clearly have a talent with people… It's not just all because you listen. But you also need to be kind to yourself. Does Lincoln know?"

"Lincoln understands more than he lets on I think. He's been the best support I could ask for, but it's different with family. You… you made me want to hope again."

"You can."

"Anya said the same."

Clarke waited a beat. "Lexa… do you think you're cursed or something?"

Lexa lied back on the quilt with her hands on her stomach. "It's not like that. Clearly there are powerful unknowns out there, but I don't believe a witch placed a curse on me, no. What I do believe is that some people attract bad energy. That no matter how hard you try, your place in the world is destructive."

"No," Clarke breathed out, horrified. "I don't believe that one second."

"But wouldn't you wonder - in my position? Wouldn't you try to put your theory to the test?"

"So you're just going to be alone for the rest of your life? That's your big experiment?"

Lexa shrugged. "I have everything I need - a good job, good apartment. It's not like I don't know anyone. Lincoln's practically introduced me to half the town. I know how to be sociable. I know how to work a room. I don't need anything more."

"People talk a whole lot about what they need in this town," Clarke sighed. "But what do you want?"

Lexa swallowed thickly as she looked up at her. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

Lexa reached for her hand, hesitant at first, just fingers brushing. "Your vision... if that's what you wanted from me, I could give you that. I could be that person."

Clarke knew what Lexa was offering - wish fulfillment. Sex without the next morning breakfast. Sex without intimacy. Clarke had gone down that road before. She was good at it.

"No." She said the word before she even thought it. No, she couldn't do it. She couldn't spend a night with this woman and watch her slip out into the night. She couldn't pretend it hadn't happened the next morning; that they could go back to normal. There was no normal with Lexa - there never had been. "I want all of you, Lexa. If you're not ready for that, and I understand it, then we can be friends. But you need to stop looking at me like you do because otherwise I'll..." Clarke shook her head. "I won't even be able to be that. I did the whole casual thing and frankly I'm over it."

Lexa nodded silently, then retracted her hand. Her brow furrowed in thought, but she didn't add anything.

Clarke lied down next to her and sighed. "I think you're stronger than you know and I think your vision proved it. Your future doesn't have to be some kind of condemnation to solitude."

"And what if I hurt you?"

"My father used to say pain is a part of relationships, even the best ones. It doesn't mean we stop fighting for them."

"I don't mean hurt you by forgetting to clean the oven, Clarke."

"That would definitely be a blow." Clarke turned on her side, taking in Lexa's jawline and the fading tear tracks on her cheek. "But I don't believe in curses or bad energy. I believe in people and people acting on their choices. You're not alone. Not anymore."

Lexa turned to face her as well. She brushed a finger down Clarke's temple, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You're very stubborn, Clarke Griffin."

Clarke smiled. "You have no idea."

* * *

They packed up quietly after snacking on some pieces of honey cake, the emotional toll weighing heavily on both of them. Clarke knew Lexa needed the space, but she'd said her piece and it had felt right. The ball was in Lexa's court.

They went down the same path they'd taken, zigzagging with the river. Clarke thought to bring up Lexa's article, but felt a strong drop crash on the top of her head and froze.

"Oh no."

Lexa frowned. "Did you forget something?"

"This is your first autumn here, right?"

"Yes?" Lexa replied hesitantly.

"Hm. Well, there's this thing called the Costial shower. Usually in the winter, but sometimes after a long week of rain it creeps up on you. Doesn't last longer than a few minutes, but yeah."

Lexa looked up. "I don't feel anything."

As soon as she said it, a downpour started. Lexa flinched at the sudden wet cold, the weight of the rain making the tip of her green hat sag.

"Lovely," she deadpanned.

"Run."

"What?"

Clarke bolted like a bat out of hell.

"Clarke!"

Before she even knew it, she started laughing as Lexa called her name behind her. Luckily the trail was more grass than mud, not yet too slippery. Lexa caught up to her.

"I'm pretty sure you can't outrun rain," she yelled before laughing herself.

Clarke hadn't felt like this in a long time; adrenaline pumping through her as she laughed like a kid on the playground. She spotted what she'd been running toward just a few feet away.

"No, but you can reach the canopy in time!"

She slowed to a stop and then pointed up. Lexa realized the rain didn't reach them anymore, though they could still hear its angry fall. They were sheltered by the dense crowns of the trees, high and thick above them.

Clarke bent down with her hands on her knees, her laugh fading. "Ah, fuck. Haven't run like that since college."

Lexa pressed her back against a tree, catching her breath as she arched her brow at Clarke. A few drops still dripped down her face, but their clothes weren’t too wet.

"What?" Clarke asked. "It was finals week and I wanted tacos before closing time."

"I know I left my journalist cap out there, but you could've mentioned this."

"I really didn't think this would happen."

A slow smile spread on Lexa's face. Clarke felt her heart race, this time not from running.

"Lexa."

"Yes?"

"I told you not to look at me like that."

"Only if I wasn't sure."

Clarke held her breath, not knowing what to say for once. Lexa crossed the path and stopped in front of her.

"I've… been running my whole life. Moving from place to place thinking it would be easier each time. Running's never made me happy." Lexa exhaled deeply, nervous but not hesitant. She let out a small laugh. "Until now."

Clarke pulled on the straps of Lexa's backpack and kissed her. She felt Lexa cup the back of her neck and moaned, this kiss nothing like the one at the café and yet just as talented at making her legs weak. This was slow, purposeful, the full meaning of it hitting Clarke like a force. Lexa nipped on her bottom lip.

"I want all of you too," she said in a low voice, as if they weren't already alone in a forest. "I can't promise I won't mess up, but I want to try."

"Okay," Clarke stuttered in response, dangerously affected by Lexa rubbing circles on the back of her neck.

"Is slow okay?" Lexa asked.

"Slow is good. Slow is perfect."

"Thank you, Clarke. For being stubborn."

"My pleasure."

* * *

On the drive back, Clarke found it hard to stop smiling. Their shoes occasionally squeaked, but the discomfort was worth the memory that preceded it. Lexa took off her hat and started braiding her damp hair, humming along with the music Clarke had turned on. Lexa insisted Clarke drive home and didn't need to drop her off, as the view on Costial had made her want to walk in its streets for a bit. Clarke desperately needed a hot shower, so didn't protest too long. 

She understood the reasoning better when Lexa followed her to her apartment door. 

"I see how it is," Clarke grinned.

"A proper first date always ends on the stoop. That's what my grandmother used to say."

Clarke leaned back against the door. "First date, huh?"

Lexa stepped closer. "Slow," she murmured.

"Absolutely."

Lexa pressed a kiss against her neck. When Clarke thought she'd pull away, Lexa instead pressed closer and started sucking slowly. Clarke's mouth parted open and she closed her eyes, dropping her keys when she felt Lexa's hands on her waist. Her arm went around Lexa's neck, breathing harder when Lexa's tongue licked over her pulse, soft and tender and yet more sensual than Clarke had felt in a long time.

Lexa pulled back with a satisfied smile. "I want to take you on another date."

"You better," Clarke rasped.

"Hmm. I'll text you."

"Are you sure you don't want a towel or something?"

"If I stay one minute longer I don't think I'll leave, Clarke."

Clarke's eyes darkened. "Fuck. Okay. Get out of here."

Lexa had the gall to smirk before she turned around, walking down the hall like she was worth a million bucks. Well, Clarke thought, she could do slow too. She could wind up Lexa Woods very, very slowly.

-

[part nine]

[divinaes-bookofsecrets]

Hello! i would like a spirit guide reading, my initials are CF and im a scorpio 14/11, i love your work thank u so much!

👋 hello, CF ♏ 🦂 Scorpio,

Your Spirit Guide is Goddess of the 🌈 Rainbow, Messenger of the Gods: 🌿 IRIS

IRIS BIO:

In Greek mythology, Iris (/ˈaɪrɪs/; Greek: Ἶρις, Ancient Greek: [îːris]) is the personification and goddess of the rainbow and messenger of the gods.

According to Hesiod's Theogony, Iris is the daughter of Thaumas and the Oceanid Electra and the sister of the Harpies: Aello and Ocypete. During the Titanomachy, Iris was the messenger of the Olympian gods while her twin sister Arke betrayed the Olympians and became the messenger of the Titans. She is the goddess of the rainbow. She also serves nectar to the goddesses and gods to drink. Zephyrus, who is the god of the west wind is her consort. Their son is Pothos (Nonnus, Dionysiaca). According to the Dionysiaca of Nonnos, Iris' brother is Hydaspes (book XXVI, lines 355-365).

She is also known as one of the goddesses of the sea and the sky. Iris links the gods to humanity. She travels with the speed of wind from one end of the world to the other[1] and into the depths of the sea and the underworld.

Iris had numerous poetic titles and epithets, including chrysopteros (χρυσόπτερος "golden winged"), podas ōkea (πόδας ὠκέα "swift footed") or podēnemos ōkea (ποδήνεμος ὠκέα "wind-swift footed"), roscida ("dewy", Latin), and Thaumantias (Θαυμαντιάς "Daughter of Thaumas, Wondrous One"), aellopus (ἀελλόπους "storm-footed, storm-swift).[2] She also watered the clouds with her pitcher, obtaining the water from the sea.

🦋🌸🦋The hieroglyph for her name originally used meant (female) of flesh, i.e. mortal, and she may simply have represented deified, real, queens. The most commonly used name for this deity, Isis, is a Greek corruption of the Egyptian name; and its pronunciation as 'eye-sis' is a further corruption by English speakers. The true Egyptian pronunciation is unknown, as Egyptian hieroglyphs only recorded consonants, and left out most of the vowels. The Egyptian hieroglyphics for her name are commonly transliterated as jst; as a convenience, Egyptologists pronounce that as ee-set.

IRIS (Iris), a daughter of Thaumas (whence she is called Thaumantias, Virg. Aen. ix. 5) and Electra, and sister of the Harpies. (Hes. Theog. 266, 780; Apollod. i. 2. § 6; Plat. Theaet. p. 155. d; Plut. de Plac. Philos. iii. 5.) In the Homeric poems she appears as the minister of the Olympian gods, who carries messages from Ida to Olympus, from gods to gods, and from gods to men. (Il. xv. 144, xxiv. 78, 95, ii. 787, xviii. 168, Hymn. in Apoll. Del. 102, &c.) In accordance with these functions of Iris, her name is commonly derived from erô eirô; so that Iris would mean "the speaker or messenger:" but it is not impossible that it may be connected with eirô, "I join," whence eirênê ; so that Iris, the goddess of the rainbow, would be the joiner or conciliator, or the messenger of heaven, who restores peace in nature. In the Homeric poems, it is true, Iris does not appear as the goddess of the rainbow, but the rainbow itself is called iris (Il xi. 27, xvii. 547): and this brilliant phenomenon in tile skies, which vanishes as quickly as it appears, was regarded as the swift minister of the gods. Her genealogy too supports the opinion that Iris was originally the personification of the rainbow. In the earlier poets, and even in Theocritus (xvii. 134) and Virgil (Aen. v. 610) Iris appears as a virgin goddess; but according to later writers, she was married to Zephyrus, and became by him the mother of Eros. (Eustath. ad Hom. pp. 391, 555; Plut. Amat. 20.) With regard to her functions, which we have above briefly described, we may further observe, that the Odyssey never mentions Iris, but only Hermes as the messenger of the gods: in the Iliad, on the other hand, she appears most frequently, and on the most different occasions. She is principally engaged in the service of Zeus, but also in that of Hera, and even serves Achilles in calling the winds to his assistance. (Il. xxiii. 199.) She further performs her services not only when commanded, but she sometimes advises and assists of her own accord (iii. 122, xv. 201. xviii. 197. xxiv. 74, &c.). In later poets she appears on the whole in the same capacity as in the Iliad, but she occurs gradually more and more exclusively in the service of Hera, both in the later Greek and Latin poets. (Callim. Hymn. in Del. 232; Virg. Aen. v. 606; Apollon. Rhod. ii. 288, 432; Ov. Met. xiv. 830, &c.) Some poets describe Iris actually as the rainbow itself, but Servius (ad Aen v. 610) states that the rainbow is only the road on which Iris travels, and which therefore appears whenever the goddess wants it, and vanishes when it is no longer needed: and it would seem that this latter notion was the more prevalent one in antiquity. Respecting the worship of Iris very few traces have come down to us, and we only know that the Delians offered to her on the island of Hecate cakes made of wheat and honey and dried figs. (Athen. xiv. p. 645; comp. Müller, Aegin. p. 170.) No statues of Iris have been preserved, but we find her frequently represented on vases and in bas-reliefs, either standing and dressed in a long and wide tunic, over which hangs a light upper garment, with wings attached to her shoulders, and carrying the herald's staff in her left hand; or she appears flying with wings attached to her shoulders and sandals, with the staff and a pitcher in her hands.

AELLOPUS (Aellopous), a surname of Iris, the messenger of the gods, by which she is described as swift-footed like a storm-wind. Homer uses the form aellopos. (Il. 409.)

Source: Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology.

A goddess named “Iris” personified the rainbow in the mythology of ancient Greece. Most works of art depict her either in the form of a beautiful rainbow, or as a lovely maiden. She wore wings on her shoulders and usually carried a pitcher in one hand. Her name combined the Greek words for “messenger” and “the rainbow” to signify her dual role. Some accounts depict her as one of the goddess Hera’s assistants. (Hera carries associations with the sky.)

The ancient Greeks considered Iris the female counterpart of Hermes. She served as a messenger from Mount Olympus. She would use her pitcher to scoop up water from the ocean and carry it into the clouds. Some legends also hold she used her pitcher to collect water from the River Styx, the shadowy river separating the world of human beings from the underworld. Many Greeks viewed Iris as an important link between mortals and the realm of the gods.

The Family Life of Iris

Most sources describe Iris as the daughter of the Oceanid cloud nymph Elektra and Thaumas, a minor god sometimes associated with the sea. She would have been one of the Titan Oceanus’ granddaughters. Her rainbow frequently appeared in the sky over bodies of water.

Legends differ about her life as an adult. Some stories describe her as unmarried and primarily a messenger for the Olympian gods. In other accounts, she fell in love with Zephyros, the god of the West Wind. They had a son named Pothos, who personified Desire.

Iris as a Messenger

Iris would frequently use her pitcher to serve nectar to the gods and goddesses on Mount Olympus. When these major ancient Greek deities needed to send messages to other gods or to human beings, they would sometimes ask Iris to transmit their words. She could travel very quickly from Mount Olympus to Earth, and could even journey quickly into Hades.

Many ancient Greeks considered Iris one of the most beautiful goddesses. The ancient Greeks described her as “swift footed”, suggesting she could respond rapidly to requests. In legends, she carries symbolic associations with messages and communication.

WHAT DOES SHE LOOK LIKE ?

Iris is depicted in ancient Greek vase painting as a beautiful young woman with golden wings, a herald's rod (kerykeion), and sometimes a water-pitcher (oinochoe) in her hand. She was usually depicted standing beside Zeus or Hera, sometimes serving nectar from her jug. As cup-bearer of the gods Iris is often indistinguishable from Hebe in art.

WHAT DOES IRIS MEAN?

The message that rainbows connect us to the immortal can be seen in many mythologies worldwide, including Japanese and Navajo, though each has a different back story and belief. In our lives, we can see the rainbow as being symbolic of a transition, suggesting a potential change from one phase to another.

Rainbow – Other Symbolic Meanings

In general, rainbows are seen as transcending the earthly realm. Rainbows are the physical symbolism of this ascent. It provides us with inspiration to achieve greater heights and seek wisdom from the worlds beyond. The rainbow is the bridge that closes the gap between these two realms and allows for the possibility for communication. It is symbolic of possibility in many other ways as well. The glowing arch appears high above our horizon and can look close and distant at the same time. We are incapable of finding its end.

The rainbow challenges us to be a better version of ourselves. A more inclusive person, a person who seeks a challenge, a person who desires spiritual growth and a connection to the spiritual realm, a person who endures the darkness in pursuit of the light.

Like the rainbow, these things can seem far away and out of our reach. The important thing, though, is that we keep striving for them. The rainbow symbolism is powerful because it reminds us of the endless possibilities. It shows us vast and magical our world is. Rainbows challenge us to confront and embrace our own potential.

SPIRIT GUIDE MESSAGES

Thank you for meeting your Spirit Guide today .. if you ever want to contact your Spirit Guide, Iris, you'll have to try a guided meditation especially designed for Spirit Guides (YouTube has plenty of sufficient one)

But if you prefer that I get in contact with her and get you some messages just simply go to my PayPal and give a donation .. thanks 😊

---D*ivinae*