#Warrior of Truth - Anita

[antihibikase-archive]

Completed their teams for this post, though some of them don’t really have a true “complete” team, since they give away each other’s Pokemon to one another!

Some notes;

Ludwig and Felix purposely have teams that mirror each other. The Darmanitans are royal Pokemon from their mother and father respectively, while Volcarona and Jellicent are meant to evoke a “true ruler / false ruler” vibe. 

The twins’ Gligar and Sneasel don’t evolve due to not having the needed items. 

Ludwig’s Absol senses disaster, while Felix’s Espeon sees the future. Felix’s Espeon is the same Eevee from The Heart’s party.

Finally, their respective Karrablast and Shelmet don’t evolve until after they trade with one another, a gesture that only happens after the end of their journey; they do so knowing they won’t see each other again.

Anita’s Larvesta is the child of Ludwig’s Volcarona, which she only receives as a present before Ludwig leaves the kingdom. While she takes care of it.. a part of her resents him for leaving the responsibility of the kingdom to her, so it doesn’t reach its full potential.

Anita’s Claydol is the same one in Priest Harmonia’s party. He gave her to him as a gift, in the event of his passing and she needed guidance.

Anita’s Pansear was raised by Babel’s Simisage. Babel gave the Pansear to her because of their similar personalities, though Anita thinks Pansear’s fondness for sounds and listening is similar to Babel’s traits.

Grey’s Mamoswine is the same Piloswine from The Heart’s party. The Heart gave Piloswine to him to show his support for The Hero of Ideals’ goals.

Grey’s Frillish is the child of Felix’s Jellicent. Though it doesn’t evolve, it’s pampered and spoiled throughout its lifetime with Grey.

Babel’s Meloetta stays by her side until she dies of old age. When she does, it accompanies Rosalita, knowing Babel wants Rosalita to carry on what she could not continue.

Babel’s Simisage was one of the Pokemon in Priest Harmonia’s temple, though it always seemed to like her. When Anita became queen, it started accompanying her more and more, as she grew to the role of royal advisor.

Rosalita’s Marill is the same Azurill from The Heart’s party.  The Heart gave Azurill to her to show his support for The Hero of Ideals’ goals.

Rosalita’s Mantine was caught near the shores of the sea temple where The Heart was laid to rest. She uses this Mantine to deliver gifts to the temple when it sinks, as well as furthering her knowledge on the temple to aid Babel in preserving its history and existence.

The Heart technically only has one Pokemon; his Tirtouga. His Lampent is one of the Litwick that Priest Harmonia cares for, and the three Pokemon he has under his care were given to The Hero of Ideals and his party as a show of support. 

The Golurk in The Heart’s party is the guardian of the temple where he is laid to rest, though it is said his spirit is the sole companion of the Golurk for centuries. 

Priest Harmonia’s Sigilyph lives on until modern times, becoming a guardian to the sinking Relic Castle and the companion of the restless spirits of the Hero of Truth, whose grief bound the rest of their companions to the castle.

The Litwick in Priest Harmonia’s party is one of the many Litwicks he has in his temple. Curiously, they always seem to glow brighter around The Heart.

[camelottree638]

Elena/Mateo - Chimalma/Tonauac - We've Been Here Before (Maru crossover)

I am aware that in the canon of Maya and the Three Maya and Rico are explicitely soul-siblings, not lovers and that the Maruvians vanished completely when the Shadows attacked. This is my interpretation of a mix of Maruvian and Tecca lore to use characters from Maya and the Three as Maruvian OCs. The project was also heavily inspired by @cartoonfangirl1218 ‘s Soul Mate AU with my own spin on the characters. (https://www.tumblr.com/cartoonfangirl1218/181332057972/eoa-doppelg%C3%A4nger-idea ;https://www.tumblr.com/cartoonfangirl1218/708260886287122432/soul-mates)

PLOT:

Just as Elena and Mateo, the Maruvian Queen Chimalma („shield bearer“)  was also married to her Royal Wizard Tonauac (meaning „one who possesses light“ because oft he light of his magic and ironic for his history with the Scepter of Night). Tonauac manipulated Chimalma (who was a warrior and insecure in her role as political leader) into freeing the Shades of Darkness.

Afraid that he could unintentionally give Elena bad advice as well when his ambitions for magical knowledge get too great, Mateo tries to find out all he can about his predecessor to avoid his mistakes. During his research Mateo discovers the truth: Tonauac did indeed betray his wife but he was corrupted by the Scepter of Night. Only the love for each other and their twins was enough to break the magic bonds oft he Maruvian Queen and Wizard.

Elena meanwhile, worries about being a good ruler and while her insecurities and fiery temper are not as big as Chimalma’s, she starts to worry about being able to rule on her own.

Just as both Mateo and Elena doubt themselves, the Shades reappear to finish the destruction of Maru they started centuries ago. With much effort  they can hold the darkness at bay together. And as it has been in their previous lives, love ist he answer. Their kiss is interrupted by sudden flashbacks and the true story comes to light.

Chimalma’s magical sword was also known as the Jewel of Maru. To at least save her husband and children, the Queen sacrificed herself, sending the Shades back tot he Spirit World. She was able to save her children and husband, but most oft he population died in the blast and the kingdom of Maru would never recover it’s full power.

The twins Guatemoc and Tecuani stay close to each other and are the founders of different families: Guatemoc’s descendents form the Castillo line while Tecuani’s family line leads to Mateo’s birth 900 years later.

Both the reincarnation of their love in a previous life and the twin connection of their respective ancestors contribute to Elena and Mateo’s strong bond but Elena refuses to just be a part of predetermined destiny. They may have met before but the experiences of this life are their own.

The circle finally comes to a close as their children Anita and Carlos end up Avalor ruling together, fulfilling the rule over a kingdom the twins had been denied. Thus, they break the circle of destiny and rebirth and everyone is free to have their own life once and for all.

[fettesans]

Top, photograph by angeldollphotography, Always a fight for face time when you have 52 doll heads and only 30 doll bodies, July 2, 2021. Via. Bottom, screen capture from Lilith Stangenberg in A&E Drawing Session, Santa Anita, directed by Paul McCarthy, 2020. Via. Watch.

I was a godfather character, a bastard. There was something real about the situation. There were moments when Lilith would just take it somewhere, and I would have to try to determine then who I was. It wasn’t like I was leading the pack or leading Lilith. We were Max and Lucia, yet we were also Paul and Lilith. And it was about the situation of the male and the female. It’s called ‘Night Vater’ because I’m older. And maybe I’m the father. And we would play, a masochistic father-daughter fantasy of ‘who’s in control?’ In ‘A&E,’ Adolf is the tyrant and the buffoon. Power shifts from Adolf to Eva. They’re both capable of evil, even though it’s obvious that the male baboon is horrific in his repression, his pent-up tic. For the drawing sessions, there is no script, no real planning. Each drawing simply begins. Lilith told me that she didn’t know how to talk about the drawing sessions, and I feel the same way. I think something happens in those sessions. Why does it work? Maybe because we let go of the need to override it and to control it. It’s also important to me that Lilith trusts the process. Then I don’t have to check myself. If you just define, describe what we are doing as ‘we’re in character, drawing in character,’ that’s only part of it. It’s more of an entanglement of the act of drawing and of the two of us, who are in and out of a persona, in an attempt to make art—to enter that zone. It’s often a chaotic, subconscious detachment and distraction. And it takes place on this platform. And the platform, for me, is reminiscent of a stage and a sculptural pedestal. Maybe it has something to do with what sits inside of us. I think it’s also about commitment and the desire to do it. The black liquid, the abject.

Paul McCarthy in conversation with Randy Kennedy, April 2021. Via.

--

The anxiouses got mixed messages from their caregivers, who sometimes responded positively and sometimes pushed them away, leaving the young anxiouses distraught that any fulfilling relationship will evaporate. They tend to fixate on a relationship, convinced that any brief lull in connection heralds catastrophe; they are the wounded Tinder warriors and tortured triple-texters of the dating universe. Such is the doomed cast of characters in the bedroom farce of attachment theory, with guest appearances by the “anxious-avoidants” (they can’t make up their mind!) and minor cameos from the “disorganizeds” (who have actual trauma as opposed to the normal kind.) If this sounds grim, the prognosis is worse: the anxiouses and avoidants are destined to attract each other, each reinforcing the others’ worst instincts about human relations.  The anxiouses are forever pissing off the avoidants with their demands for attention, and the avoidants are perpetually seducing the anxiouses with an unavailability that only confirms the anxiouses’ core belief that anyone worth loving would find them vaguely annoying. (...)

While less soothing, the truth about contemporary dating is very simple: It’s the libidinal economy, stupid. After all, everyone is anxious about a relationship where they like the other person more than the other person likes them back, and avoidant about relationships where they like them less. Add to the mix the fact that straight women in the attachment-pilled age range are entering a weakened position as their sexual value begins to drop throughout their 30s, and it’s clear why the girls have got to strategize more than the men.

Danielle Carr, from Don't Be So Attached to Attachment Theory, for Gawker, January 25, 2022.

[finishinglinepress]

FLP POETRY BOOK OF THE DAY: My Body Is Not an Apology by Megha Sood

TO ORDER GO TO: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/my-body-is-not-an-apology-by-megha-sood/

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RESERVE YOUR COPY TODAY

Megha Sood is a Pushcart-nominated Poet, Editor, and Blogger based in New Jersey, USA. She is a Poetry Editor at MookyChick(UK), Life and Legends (USA), and Literary Partner in the project “Life in Quarantine” with Stanford University, USA. Works widely featured in journals, Poetry Society of New York, Kissing Dynamite, and many more. Author of Chapbook ( “My Body is Not an Apology”, FinishingLine press, 2021) and Full Length (“My Body Lives Like a Threat”, FlowerSongPress,2021).Recipient of Poet Fellowship 2021, Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing, National Level Winner Spring Mahogany Lit Prize 2020, and Three-Time State-level winner of NJ Poetry Contest.Blogs at https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com/.Tweets at @meghasood16

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR My Body Is Not an Apology by Megha Sood

My Body is Not An Apology is a testimony of female rebellion and a journey of self-discovery in a most wanted and unwanted way. The poems roar to voice the pain of silent torture, cruelty, and agony of a woman’s heart to reclaim her dignity not only as a female but also as an individual. This book is a fierce approach to life in poetry, and the poet dissects the ironies of women’s existence with razor-sharp language, intellect, and courage like Simone de Beauvoir. In the poet’s own words, it is a triumphant proclamation and an unfettered declaration.

–Kalpna Singh-Chitnis (Poet, Writer, and Filmmaker)

Sometimes with acerbic irony, sometimes with wise comeuppance, but never with hopeless resignation no matter how bleak the refracted rays of reality, Megha’s stanzas find their way through the blind alleys of patriarchy and misogyny looking it unblinking in the eye. The vulnerability of her perception is also her strength, as each stanza duals with difficult truths using the female body and the form of poetry as weapons of grit and gumption. This little book is a fist of fury and unveiling.

–Rochelle Potkar, Author of Paper Asylum & Bombay Hangovers

These poems recognize the body as the ‘eye of the storm’ in the turbulent churning of our age. The guttural cry of the feminine forges these poems with a primal rawness cast in images as varied as radishes, pickles, broken book spines, and armchairs. Megha Sood joins her unapologetic voice with urgency to erase any error of ambiguity, ‘You don’t own shit’. These poems will ‘sit like a welt’ on the tongue of the world.

–Usha Akella, Poet & Founder, Matwaala, South Asian Diaspora Poetry Festival

A unique feminist exploration through the written word, investigating the body and the world society overlays atop women, Megha Sood does justice uncovering, discovering, and discarding herself to find an inexorably beautiful woman within. Sood’s My Body Is Not an Apology chisels away at the construct our society imposes on women, revealing an exemplar poet of the highest caliber.

–Joshua Corwin, author of Becoming Vulnerable

Megha Sood’s “My Body is Not an Apology” is a powerful debut with poetry that contains multitudes. These poems are fierce and unapologetic as they explore the toxic culture around gender-based discrimination and reproductive rights. Sood crafts with cutting precision as we read about personal experience and the influence of these issues in the wider world. Far from a desperate cry of the disenfranchised, these poems raise a fist and demand to be heard from a position of strength. Woven in and around every poem is the question that asks: what would life be like if we could change this? This book is a clarion call to eradicating gender-based injustice. It is also a book full of hope and empowerment.

–Juliette van der Molen, Poet, Writer,Feminist

My Body is Not an Apology by Megha Sood is a woman’s journey through gender-based discrimination. It is a cry and a plea as Sood questions, “How can you live a life like a broken spine of a book?” In her poems, we see a parallel to Sylvia Plath, and her words bring alive the voices of the Bronte Sisters, Emily Dickinson, and Phyllis Wheatley. At the same time, we see similarities to Sarojini Naidu’s rage and certitude when Sood says, “But I never give up …as I learned from the footsteps of warriors.” Sood’s My Body is Not An Apology is a whimper, a roar, an awakening in the feminist world.

–Meenakshi Mohan, Ed.D., Professor, writer, painter, critic

Megha Sood’s poems show a vulnerability that is welded to resilience in remarkably ingenious ways because poetry occupies the interstice between the felt and the unspoken.

Don’t let the aroma leave the pickle jar

Keep the lid tight

my granny used to say–

Some things are better left unspoken. (Even My Grief Should Be Productive)

Here’s the wisdom of an entire civilization. Sometimes it comes pickled in a jar. Call it Indian or South Asian, or what you will. It teaches you how to hold one’s own, anywhere.

–Lakshmi Kannan, Poet, Novelist, Short story writer, and Translator.

Megha Sood’s chapbook, My Body Is Not An Apology is exactly what the title says. The human body is not an apology for anyone. It’s not meant to make us feel ashamed simply for being born as we are, for existing, for belonging to any race, religion, gender, age, or any diversity markers that exist in our world. Our body is also not space where anyone can reside with abuse, disdain, or evil. Our body is a temple where our soul lives protected and safe. Megha through her deeply sensitive and poignant poems urges readers to ponder, deliberate, and act upon ensuring that our body is not an apology. Megha’s poems are fierce and tender at the same time. They are like raging storms or quiet whispers; both compel us to listen, look and consider. Megha delves into a plethora of issues that plague the human mind and in consequence the body. She questions and pulls the reader back again and again to her poems leaving behind a memory of heightened awareness. Very few writers can do as such. This collection of twenty-five poems will surely leave a mark upon your heart. Among the contemporary diaspora writers, Megha Sood is one to definitely read!

–Anita Nahal, poet, professor, flash fictionist & children’s writer. Find her works at: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal

“I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”—Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

The gripping, riveting poems of Megha Sood’s chapbook ‘My Body Is Not An Apology’ carries the inherent legacy of the truths that our exemplary literary predecessors Virginia Woolf, Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath, Nikki Giovani, Alice Walker, Kamala Das, and others, embodying unabashed feminism, upheld in their poetic creations.

When the poet utters her angst and her rhetoric reflects a discourse, built around the quintessential strength of a woman, these lines are born from her pen: “My body is not an apology/ it’s a roar: a declaration/ an unapologetic/ unabashed/ straight truth in your face/ a war cry:/ a deafening scream from the silence.” These lines hit the nail at just the right place, confronting the age-old power dynamics of a patriarchal social structure. As a strong woman of color, as a sensitive poet, her verses in the collection are like smoking cinders of the thinking feminine voice, empowering and liberating the feminine psyche. In the growth of her poetic voice, she has successfully absorbed the little nuances of her Indian roots and her grandmother’s legacy of truth (reflected in the poem ‘Even My Grief Should Be Productive), at the same time, having the deep insight of a woman acknowledging that her ‘body goes from a shade darker than yesterday’, as she gives birth to her ‘own revolution’. In the collection, the body and being of the poet as a woman reaches its zenith of celebration as she categorically unfolds the themes of the feminine identity, body politics, repression of womanhood, and also, the rampant rhetorics of violence ingrained in our postmodern society. Her voice is both subtle and empowering, essential and redeeming, hence the chapbook will indeed be an asset in the ever-evolving arena of feminist writing and art.

–Lopa Banerjee, Critically acclaimed author, poet, translator, editor from Texas, USA

#flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry

[rockislandadultreads]

Fantasy Fiction: books to read

The Order of the Pure Moon Reflected in Water by Zen Cho

Zen Cho returns with a found family wuxia fantasy that combines the vibrancy of old school martial arts movies with characters drawn from the margins of history. A bandit walks into a coffeehouse, and it all goes downhill from there. Guet Imm, a young votary of the Order of the Pure Moon, joins up with an eclectic group of thieves (whether they like it or not) in order to protect a sacred object, and finds herself in a far more complicated situation than she could have ever imagined.

Things in Jars by Jess Kidd

Bridie Devine, female detective extraordinaire, is confronted with the most baffling puzzle yet: the kidnapping of Christabel Berwick, secret daughter of Sir Edmund Athelstan Berwick, and a peculiar child whose reputed supernatural powers have captured the unwanted attention of collectors trading curiosities in this age of discovery. Winding her way through the labyrinthine, sooty streets of Victorian London, Bridie won’t rest until she finds the young girl, even if it means unearthing a past that she’d rather keep buried. Luckily, her search is aided by an enchanting cast of characters, including a seven-foot tall housemaid; a melancholic, tattoo-covered ghost; and an avuncular apothecary. But secrets abound in this foggy underworld where spectacle is king and nothing is quite what it seems. Blending darkness and light, history and folklore, Things in Jars is a spellbinding Gothic mystery that collapses the boundary between fact and fairy tale to stunning effect and explores what it means to be human in inhumane times.

An Easy Death by Charlaine Harris

Set in a fractured United States, in the southwestern country now known as Texoma. A world where magic is acknowledged but mistrusted, especially by a young gunslinger named Lizbeth Rose. Battered by a run across the border to Mexico Lizbeth Rose takes a job offer from a pair of Russian wizards to be their local guide and gunnie. For the wizards, Gunnie Rose has already acquired a fearsome reputation and they’re at a desperate crossroad, even if they won’t admit it. They’re searching through the small border towns near Mexico, trying to locate a low-level magic practitioner, Oleg Karkarov. The wizards believe Oleg is a direct descendant of Grigori Rasputin, and that Oleg’s blood can save the young tsar’s life. As the trio journey through an altered America, shattered into several countries by the assassination of Franklin Roosevelt and the Great Depression, they’re set on by enemies. It’s clear that a powerful force does not want them to succeed in their mission. Lizbeth Rose is a gunnie who has never failed a client, but her oath will test all of her skills and resolve to get them all out alive.

Dark Song by Christine Feehan

Stolen from her home at a young age and tormented for centuries, Elisabeta Trigovise is scared to show herself to anyone. Even though she has been rescued and is now safe within the Carpathian compound, she has lived in fear for so long she has no idea how to survive without it. She wants to answer the siren call of her lifemate—but the very thought terrifies her. Before he found Elisabeta, Ferro Arany was an ancient warrior without emotion. Now that his senses have come alive, he knows it will take more than kind words and soft touches to convince the fractured woman that they are partners, not master and prisoner. For now, he will give her his strength until she finds hers, allowing the steady rhythm of his heart to soothe Elisabeta's fragile soul. But even as she learns to stand on her own, the vampire who kept her captive is desperate to claim her again, threatening the song Elisabeta and Ferro are writing together.

Sucker Punch by Laurell K. Hamilton

A brutal murder, a suspect in jail, and an execution planned, but what if the wrong person is about to be killed?⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ When a fellow U.S. Marshal asks Anita Blake to fly to a tiny community in Michigan's Upper Peninsula on an emergency consult, she knows time is running short. When she arrives, there is plenty of proof that a young wereleopard killed his uncle in the most gruesome and bloody way possible. As the mounting evidence points to him, a warrant of execution is already under way.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ But something seems off about the murder, and Anita has been asked for her expert opinion on the crime scene. Despite the escalating pressure from local cops and the family’s cries for justice for their dead patriarch, Anita quickly realizes that the evidence doesn't quite add up.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Time is against Anita, as the tight-knit community is up in arms and fear against supernaturals is growing. She races to uncover the truth and determine whether the Marshals have caught the killer or are about to execute an innocent man—all in the name of justice.

American Demon by Kim Harrison

Rachel Morgan is back--and The Hollows will never be the same. What happens after you've saved the world? Well, if you're Rachel Mariana Morgan, witch-born demon, you quickly discover that something might have gone just a little bit wrong. That the very same acts you and your friends took to forge new powers may have released something bound by the old. With a rash of zombies, some strange new murders, and an exceedingly mysterious new demon in town, it will take everything Rachel has to counter this new threat to the world--and it may demand the sacrifice of what she holds most dear

[cranehusbands]

Apex Legends dnd au!

I’ve seen a lot of people talk about apex and dnd, so I decided that I should finally talk about mine a little bit!

For context: I based this au on the idea that it’s a game the legends would play in the off season, with Pathfinder DM’ing (his interest in human culture would lead him into the TTRPG phenomenon, and in this sense he’d get really excited to play and make characters for all his friends!). The main, initial party is Wattson (it’s something her and her papa took interest in before he passed), Wraith (because of her lack of memories about her past, she’s willing to try anything), Crypto (he and Mila enjoyed watching d&d/ttrpg streams, think like TAZ and Critical Role), Caustic (it’s an interest of his) and Bloodhound (never played, but likes the idea of high fantasy). Pathfinder eventually ropes everyone else in too. (Sorry for the length, I’m on mobile)

Bangalore - Anita Graycastle, Human Fighter (Champion subclass). Probably multiclasses later on to fighter/paladin under Makoa’s training. A royal soldier who has become disillusioned with the crown and eventually decides to defect and join the party of Legends. She’s the youngest of three brothers, all knights as well.

Bloodhound - Simply known as Bloth, a (Wildhunt variant) Shifter (Hunter Conclave) Ranger. Possibly later multiclasses into druid. Kicked out of their clan in the forest, at first Bloth’s encounter with the Legends is only to benefit the both of them, but a close bond with Natalié makes them stay, and learn the wonders of life outside the forest. They are y’all, quiet and intimidating, but their affinity for animal handling makes them a sweetheart among the party.

Caustic - Alexander Salvador Amblecrown, Human Artificer (Alchemist). Royal scientist, he knows all the of the dark secrets that the kingdom hides, but keeps it close to his chest. Eventually warming up to the legends (especially fellow royal scientist Natalié), he defects from his mission to the crown and instead chooses to play medic to this band of misfits he calls his new family.

Crypto - Tae, Human Rogue (Arcane Trickster). Possibly multiclasses later to rogue/warlock or rogue/wizard. He considers his name like a currency to be exchanged, and is incredibly closed off and secretive, seemingly only sticking around the Legends for his own profit, which is information on the whereabouts of his adoptive sister, a tiefling named Mila, who was taken prisoner by the crown and supposedly hasn’t been seen since. However, he is not immune to found family.

Gibraltar - Makoa, Brass-scale Dragonborn Barbarian (Path of the Totem Warrior). Later a Barbarian/Paladin. A town guard for one of the smaller towns in the county, he’s married to the baker in town and they’re very much in love, raising their daughter Cecelia together. When the Legends are investigating a lycanthropy-related problem nearby, he joins for a bit to help investigate and protect his town, later joining full time.

Lifeline - Ajay ‘Ashes’ Chebara, Fire Genasi Cleric (War Domain). Later a cleric/warlock. Sister to Octavio, they’re a double act of petty thieves, though she’s more the smooth talker to get the two out of trouble. She cares a lot for the people around her, and only cons to survive.

Mirage - Elliot ‘Mirage’ Nightflower, Eladrin half-elf Bard (College of Lore). A travelling entertainer specialising in storytelling, despite his nervous disposition. He struggles to find a balance between his persona and his true self, and puts his neck on the line for anyone nice enough to pay the real Elliot any mind. Due to his eladrin blood, the tips of his hair change colour with the seasons, and in spring flowers bloom!

Octane - Octavio ‘Earfquake’ Silver, Earth Genasi Warlock (Archfey). A reckless young man with bone legs (think like... prosthetics but it’s like dinosaur fossils), and brother to Ajay. He’s the real criminal of the two - stealing from almost everyone, including his noble family, who he doesn’t care much for (and they don’t care about him in turn.) His patron, a mischievous fey, does no favours for his impulse control.

Pathfinder - Marvin the Wayseeker, Warforged (Envoy) Paladin (Oath of Devotion). A noble robot in search of the man who made him, he’s the designated leader of the Legends, and often the peacemaker that keeps them together. While his optimism can be unnerving, he’s the light that shines the group onward to wherever they may find answers.

Revenant - Revenant, Warforged (Skirmisher) Rogue (Assassin). Later becomes a rogue/blood hunter. A human man formerly known as Benjamin Hammond, bounty hunter for hire, he was the product of arcane experimentation into ventures of the human soul and spirit, taking it from one creature and binding it to another (think FMA style). He does not care for kindness, nor hospitality... but this party suits him just fine.

Wattson - Natalié Stormbringer, High Elf Sorcerer (Storm Sorcery). Another royal scientist, having gained natural arcane ability on one terrible stormy night as a young girl, she joins the Legends to better understand her powers and also find out the secret behind the death of her father Luc, who she has come to suspect didn’t die of natural causes. She, like Marvin, is the peacekeeper, and her smile and comments (and sometimes her naivë nature) are enough to terminate any tension.

Wraith - Reneé Brightwood, Fallen Aasimar Monk (Way of Shadow). Later monk/rogue. An amnesiac who woke up in the middle of the forest, Reneé (calling herself things along the lines of ‘ghost’ or ‘phantom’ for the longest time - until she is recognised by a former colleague...) seeks to learn who she is, and the truth behind her missing memories, planning to take them back - by force, if she has to. She, like Bloth, is tall and quiet, but is not immune to silly moments

[tokutenshi]

Whoops! It’s almost 10pm for me, so still technically Friday!

Though the Darkness Comes Upon Me part 1 I Shall Embrace the Light, ch 18: “Demands of the Qun”

After spying the first plume of smoke rise up from the docks across the harbor, it didn't take long for the Knight-Commander to figure out the horned warriors had finally acted out. She worked with Cullen to formulate a strategy as the lieutenants rushed to organize troops into units. With luck, the patrols already within the city were holding their own and could meet up with the new forces as they arrived. Orsino insisted on helping defend Kirkwall and the Qunari threat was too strong to turn down the team of enchanters he gathered.

The templars were divided into two groups, each taking a different path towards Hightown with securing the viscount being priority. Meredith would lead the troops up the shipping passage and assigned Kerras to manage the others, leaving Cullen behind with the remaining forces to hold the Gallows.

“We know what these Qunari do to their mages,” Meredith hissed. “I would not see our own be subjected to such things.” In truth, she wasn't even certain the heathens would suffer any Circle mage to live and she was determined to not find out.

As soon as Meredith's units were on their way across the harbor, Cullen ordered each portcullis dropped and braced. The gates were the original iron weave from the prison days and did well enough keeping slaves and mages in, but the Knight-Captain had his doubts that they could hold up long against invading soldiers. Breaking in to the Gallows had never been a large concern before and the ancient gates were as likely to break as the stone grooves that housed them. Cullen was not so foolish as to rest all his hopes on the integrity of Tevinter masonry and set archers on the wall as well as stationing the meager troops he was left with around the entry yard.

On the off chance that the Qunari found another way into the Gallows, Cullen had the mages gather in the dining hall and appointed several templars to guard them. Of those mages, a few trusted enchanters were selected to bolster the defenses in the entry yard and some others assigned to set up and work a small infirmary. Anita protested the appointment of Trevelyan to the healer group, as she'd barely been mentored, but the Knight-Captain appeared to be deaf to her concerns.

“I suppose you'll be useful enough with the smaller tasks,” Anita muttered as they arranged supplies on the formari shop tables. “Keep in mind that bones must be set before they are mended, or they'll heal wrong and need to be broken all over again. If you find an injury that is beyond you, do not let pride blind you – call for a more experienced hand.”

Ebrisa nodded emphatically. “I'll do my best to not be a hindrance to you all.”

A tense quiet settled over the entry yard, the silence broken occasionally by the louder sounds of battle across the water. The templars and experienced mages left behind felt little more than useless for being benched in the defense of the city, yearning to join their fellows against the heathen forces. Cullen was – of course – among them, but knew that orders were orders.

[thatlittlered]

Vows | Chapter Three

Summary: A faithful dog or a broken man… Whatever the case, Sandor has taken vows he does not intend on breaking.

Series Masterlist.

The cloak remains on your shoulders, a heavy reminder of your new title.

You hear the door open and close but keep your eyes on the view from the small window, the sun setting and melting into a beautiful accord of pinks and yellows. It almost calms your nerves, just almost.

His steps are loud, they’ve always been but in the confined space of these quarters, they seem deafening. You can’t help but flinch, which he notices, gathers you’re afraid of him.

Wrong. It’s not him that you fear, but your new circumstances.

He pours himself a glass of wine, the good kind you would only find in the king’s court. A gift from Tyrion Lannister, along with a request that he does not harm the older Stark girl. As if he would ever.

“Stare at it all ye want, the sky’s not goin’ to change its fucking colors.”

“It will, by nighttime.” Sandor snorts at that and realizes you truly are a Stark, clever answers always at the edge of your tongue.

“That’s a long time to stare a’ nothing.”

You turn to him, shift your body enough so that you’re facing the man they call ‘Hound’, the fearsome warrior and now, your husband.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, how ‘bout ye have a drink and stop shaking like a fish?”

“I cannot help it, my lord.”

The man scoffs and it’s loud and graceless just like everything else about him.

“I’m no fucking lord, girl. And there’s no need to be so scared, I won’t lay a hand on ye.”

He watches your eyes widen, beautiful features of the north lifting in shock.

“But you’re my lord husband-“

“I’m just a dog following orders, nothin’ more. Because ye see, little bird, one day a pretty little lord of some house will come your way and try to wed and bed ye and certainly won’t appreciate finding out you were spoiled by some brat king’s dog.”

Lovely eyebrows almost meet in a frown, relief washing over you before a newfound curiosity sneaks its way inside your brain.

“You seem awfully convinced that our marriage shall be forgotten as fast as it was ordered. You must not have a lot of faith in your king’s reign then.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, an almost smile, but it’s one you’ve never before witnessed on this man.

“Let’s call it a hunch, girl. So drink some wine, lock the door and take the bed for the night.”

He makes to stand and immediately, you feel impossibly small compared to his size.

When your mouth makes out words, it’s a whisper, “And where will you lay?”

“Nowhere near your noble virtues, rest assured.”

He stands to leave, one large hand grabbing the bottle and another the door.

“Get some rest, little bird. Noone’s gonna touch ye in here.”

And you do.

  ◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇  

Eleven nights and eleven mornings come and go. Noone dares set foot in your chambers except for the doting handmaidens and sweet Sansa, ever prepared to weep for your misfortune. She begs for the truth, that you share your burdens with her and confess the monstrosities of your husband.

There is no such thing to share.

Sandor remains but a shadow in your life. Nothing but fleeting glances of him when you do leave the quarters you’re supposed to share. Your handmaiden swears she will speak nothing of his absence and calls this union your best chance at safety in this city.

The Hound’s lady wife now more than ever seems unapproachable. The king himself seems to neglect your presence in the court, rather focused on the impending threat that is Stannis Baratheon. He is content to let you suffer in the hands of his dog, for now, longs for the sight of bruises and misery on you next time your paths cross.

So for now, there is quietness. The days are idled away, resting on armchairs near the window and taking walks in the most secluded parts of the gardens, admiring all you had hated upon your arrival.

The quietness makes everything beautiful and you find yourself entranced by blends of pink and yellow flowers. It dawns on you then, just how far away from home you are, far from the northern winds and Godswood.

For the rest of the morn, there is an odd sadness following you. When before your mind was plagued by thoughts of your family, now images of your home flood it. Beds with furs and the never-ending lessons with Septa Mordane who once slapped you for ruining Sansa’s needlework after you took the blame for Arya’s antics.

What you wouldn’t give to go back in the days when a septa’s rage was the worst thing to fear.

The last rays of sunlight for the day kiss the water of Blackwater Bay and light escapes your chambers. For the longest time, your hands are weaving through curls, braiding and unbraiding with no purpose.

A bowl of grapes lies untouched on the small table that’s stained with wine, the only other piece of furniture in here save for the bed and armchair.

Sandor Clegane is either a modest man, or entirely indifferent.

Your eyes fall on the expensive fabric tossed beside the bed, all butterscotch yellow and black thread embroideries with your husband’s sigil. It’s the same cloak he lay on your shoulders just days ago, large and warm like the man himself.

The man whose eyes never leave you once they find you but spends his every night in another’s bed.

The man who always barks at you to mind your own business and yet respects you enough to never touch you.

That mystery of a man whom you fear and respect all the same… your lord husband.

 ◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇  

Tags: @love-and-marij @blackwires @captainbuckyboobear @shxrrybomb @well-aint-that-strange @sunflowersandstringlights @bckybrnesrp @thatcutewerewolf @fallatyourfeet @immortalmurphy @iicelland @dorned @modblink @awolfhasnoname @maxinikins @raindancemaggi3 @rainyforrest @evelynfreakinaddams @cleganegirl @wildmaelstrom @ciccithedreamer @simplybrandielaine @captainmarvelfuckedmeup @the-anchored-sailor-girl @tessimagines @valhalla-ally @cha0tic-neutral @slytherh0e @sister-beehive @doitliketennant @anita-e-taylor @emithefangirl @fandomsfanman @iceinhermind @67impalagirl13 @imalittlebean @podthesquiz @scarstrashywritings @missespiruette @homesoutofhuman @ixybirdflower @0midnightheart @jordancollier133

[minorthaliamusings]

The Paladin of Courage

In this land there are seven gods, and each of the seven gods have seven paladins.

They have warriors who fight in their name, and priests who preach their message, and followers beyond count - but to be one of a god’s Seven is to be bestowed with a mission, personally, by that god, that it is your life’s purpose to fulfil. To some, it was a dream. To some, a curse. It depended on the whim of the god as to which they were looking out for in a candidate.

One of these gods is Ardea, God of Courage. They have several infamous aspects, and the songs of their paladins resound through lowly taverns and glorious feasts alike.

There is Argentia, Paladin of the Charge, who will lead warriors from the front into battle regardless of danger; and there is Tannis, Paladin of the Challenge, who will seek out the mightiest foes and monsters to face in single combat. Sometimes these two even end up on opposite sides, and then both seek guidance from Elya, Paladin of the Truth. 

Suneri, Paladin of the Unknown, hasn't been seen for five years, but no one's worried yet ; last time she was gone for seven years and eight months, and finally returned missing an arm but with tales of the undrawn lands to the west, confirming that, indeed, There Be Dragons. She barely had time to finish her pint and hand over her journals to the nearest bard before she set out again, this time to the North.

Yes, these paladins are all easy to sing about, and their deeds are full of words that rhyme conveniently. 

It was these tales which Rosemary was trying to remember, those convenient memorable rhymes, tripping them along her tongue like prayers as her fingers fumbled on the coarse laces of her leather armour. On one side of her, Anita was sharpening her sword with swift short strokes with her head bowed, and on the other, Jay just sat and stared straight ahead, very pale and saying nothing. The army bustled in preparation around them, and no one had had a moment nor a word to spare for three green recruits. 

“Can I help?”

She was not tall, not beautiful, and her face was as forgettable as any in a crowd. But she stepped up to Rosemary and took over lacing her armour with steady fingers. Rosemary let her, embarrassed. She could feel her looking at her and avoided her meeting her gaze. 

“First battle?” she asked. 

Rosemary huffed, and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. 

“I'm sure you've heard the odds. They outnumber us, but we have the better position. Besides we have both Argentea AND Tannis on our side, so we don't have to worry about getting caught in the middle of them.”

Anita laughed a little at that, but Jay remained silent. Maybe she was worried she'd throw up if she opened her mouth. Rosemary didn't blame her. 

The woman tightened a strap and looked again into her face. “Be afraid,” she advised. 

Rosemary blinked. “Ma’am?”

“Well, you're going to be anyway. I might as well make it an order and have you feel less bad about it.”

Rosemary felt even more sick than she had. “I - Ardea teaches that to hesitate is destruction, to hold back is death -”

“Oh, she does,” the woman agreed, “And I'm not here instructing you to hesitate or hold back. But that doesn't mean you can't be afraid. I'M afraid.”

“You are?”

“Oh yes. Battles are terrifying. They can turn on things you can't predict or even see. Injuries can kill you sudden or slow, but they can cause you a lifetime of agony either way - just varies how long that lifetime is. Terror, exhaustion, pain, death - fuck me, battles are awful things.”

“But we must -”

“Yes, we must, and that just makes them worse, somehow. When they're necessary.” The woman finished her armour and stepped back. “I hate battles, but I'll fight what needs fighting, and be scared shitless the whole time. That's all you need to do. You don't need to be fearless. Just do what you must. The Fates and the Gods will take care of the rest.”

Rosemary nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

She smiled, and placed a hand on Rosemary’s forehead. Her palm was cool, and, she noticed, just a little bit clammy with fear. “Walk in the light of Ardea, young one. May she strengthen your blood with her fire when you need it most.”

Rosemary gaped. “But then - you're -”

“One of the Seven.” She smiled, a little sadly. “Delila, Paladin of the Fearful. The ones who need Ardea most.”

****

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/minorthalia

[chiseler]

Angels Afflicted with the American Dream

Somewhere in the middle of David Lynch's Twin Peaks: The Return there is a moment that, on its incandescent surface, could have been lifted from the great post-war dream of materialist deliverance: The top on the convertible is down, the radio on; The Paris Sisters are singing I Love How You Love Me as a reincarnated Laura Palmer lifts her face to a cloudless sky. Within the tapestry of this early Phil Spector production — his trademark reverb associated eternally with Romance and Death (two conditions that Spector knows all too well) — the voice of Priscilla Paris is a voice from the American Beyond. We could be hearing a dream goddess lullaby from the whispering gallery, or sweet nothings from the crypt. We don't know. We'll never know. Just as Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood keeps us guessing with the elusive murmur that “Sharon Tate will never die,” which grants her a gaudy, if still wondrous L.A. to cavort in— 1969 forever — Tarantino’s version of paradise (complete with occasional flame throwers to the face). In this oneiric echo chamber, momentarily shared by Lynch and Tarantino, Surrealism smiles down upon a vision of American blondness; muscle cars soaked in sunlight; the terrible ecstasy of unending motion; a confection of both eye and ear candy.

To this day, David Lynch’s favorite film remains Otto e Mezzo, directed by Western Europe's sorcerer of confectionary delights, Federico Fellini; the man who put the “dolce” in La Dolce Vita. And here, we get a fleeting taste of ideologies swirled together and spun like ribbon candy — four-wheeled luxury from the New World in a blur, zooming past regional splendor into that fraternity of man: the socio-economic nirvana imagined by Karl Marx. Careening from one via to another at harrowing, white-knuckle speeds, Fellini lamented: “Some of the neo-realists seem to think that they cannot make a film unless they have a man in old clothes in front of the camera.” George Bluestone, recording these words in 1957 for the pages of Film Culture, sat in the literal passenger seat of the ideal metaphor; a vision of post-war ebullience in action: that famous Black Chevy skirting the Italian Scylla (the Vatican) and its equally dogmatic Charybdis (the Party); expert, 20th century precision guiding them through Roman streets with graffiti-scrawled churches proudly bearing the hammer and sickle. At those velocities, anything could make sense. “What for you is the greatest human quality?” Fellini responds, “Love of one’s fellows,” a period-appropriate oath that rings true to his brand of ecumenical solidarity.

“The greatest fault?”

“Egoism.”

Try to imagine our locally sourced egoists nodding along with Fellini in soulful agreement. No. David Lynch and Quentin Tarantino both spawn from a mutual compatriot, Edgar Allan Poe, or rather his abiding pronunciamento that: “The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetic topic in the world.” Twin Peaks: The Return modifies Poe's axiomatic truth with some help from Amanda Seyfried and a pair of visionary eyes melting Phil Spector's sugar edifice AKA "wall of sound" in deathless close-up — iridescent search lights, ever more urgently scanning the sky above for a sun to swallow Seyfried’s “Becky” whole. We internalize this shimmering ingenue trading places with Old Sol, as if the drugs she's gobbling enter our system, not hers.

Once Upon a Time's Margot Robbie is Sharon Tate when she watches herself on the movie screen, enjoying the thrill so guilelessly that a narcissism charge shrinks to nullity before it can escape our collective throat. And, reflexive handwringing from the progressive peanut gallery notwithstanding, Mr. Tarantino has achieved something (oh, yes) transcendental. Even his grotesqueries — scraggly, slack-jawed, gap-toothed Manson Family members conflated with contemporary Social Justice Warriors fighting “Lookism” — are mythic.

Filmmakers like Fellini, Lynch and to some extent Jodorowsky have a way of celebrating bodily extremes that should be beyond the pale but somehow winds up being quasi-acceptable. There's an innocent glee or wonderment in the wide variety of shapes the human body can take — and this innocence also seemingly cancels out any awareness about how representation in the age of political correctness is supposed to function. Thus Lynch can show the disabled as childlike, mysterious or magical beings, without worrying about giving them agency (the elephant man is a passive whipping boy for the whole of Victorian London) or adult sophistication (the latest Twin Peaks includes a pint-sized hitman who whines like a puppy when his icepick is broken). Fellini's dwarfs and grotesques emerge from the mind of a cartoonist, embodiments of an image formed in his head.

Fellini's big women, of course, are fetish figures — he seems to have formed his idea of a sexual ideal in infancy, and that ideal was a big Italian mama, seen from below. As Fellini turned into a large adult, his ideal needed to be scaled up accordingly, so his films abound with gargantuan beauties. Anita Ekberg is an icy mountain.

In David Lynch’s hands, American television has become a brightly lit seance for Poe’s ethereal dead. Immortal creatures afflicted with the dream of physical existence. While Quentin  Tarantino presents Margo Robbie: a visage both generically perfect and possessed by angels, every one of them a blond California resident, sincere and unknowable as desert light.

by The Lumière Sisters

[nikkitajiri]

“The great mother whom we call Innana is a fierce warrior and Death’s bridesmaid. The great mother whom we call Innana is the center of pleasure, the one who makes women and men turn to one another in the night. The great mother whom we call Innana is the queen of the ocean and the patron of rain. [...]

The great mother whom we call Innana gave a gift to woman that is not know among men, and this is the secret of blood. The flow at the dark of the moon, the healing blood of the moon’s birth - to men, this is flux and distemper, bother and pain. They imagine we suffer and consider themselves lucky. We do not disabuse them.

In the red tent, the truth is known. In the red tent, where days pass like a gentle stream, as the gift of Innana courses through us, cleansing the body of last month’s death, preparing the body to receive the new month’s life, women give thanks - for repose and restoration, for the knowledge that life comes from between our legs, and that life costs blood.”

- Anita Diamant, The Red Tent

Art by Meganne Forbes, Visionary Artist, Found on Facebook

[antihibikase-archive]

For my own reference because I forget <3 The ace Pokemon (plural) of the Blight / Blur guys (except all gym leaders minus Cheren since they have canon ones) in each arc;

Hilbert - Emboar (BW), Reshiram (BW2), Mega Absol (RC)

Cheren - Samurott (BW), Cinccino (BW2), Mega Lopunny (RC)

Bianca - Serperior (BW), Musharna (BW2), Mega Audino (RC)

Hilda - Mandibuzz (BW), Simisear (BW2), Mega Medicham (RC)

Nate - Jellicent (BW2), Zekrom (BW2)

Hugh - Flygon (BW2), Keldeo (BW2)

Rosa - Swanna (BW2), Landorus (BW2)

N - Zoroark (BW), Darmanitan (BW2), Sawsbuck (RC)

Colress - Beheeyem (BW/RC), Mega Metagross (BW2)

Ghetsis - Hydreigon (BW/RC), Kyurem (BW2)

Marshal - Gurdurr (BW), Machamp (BW2), Mega Blaziken (RC)

Shauntal - Chandelure (BW), Froslass (BW2), Mega Banette (RC)

Grimsley - Bisharp (BW), Honchrow (BW2), Mega Houndoom (RC)

Caitlin - Gothitelle (BW), Gallade (BW2), Mega Alakazam (RC)

Iris - Haxorus (BW/BW2), Mega Altaria (RC)

Benga - Volcarona (BW/BW2), Mega Garchomp (RC)

Calem - Aromatisse and Mega Absol (RC)

Serena - Slurpuff and Mega Lucario (RC)

Also for the past lives;

The Hero of Truth, Ludwig - Volcarona

The Hero of Ideals, Felix - Jellicent

The Warrior of Truth, Anita - Mandibuzz

The Warrior of Ideals, Grey - Unfezant

The Scholar of Truth, Babel - Swoobat

The Scholar of Ideals, Rosalita - Lilligant

The Heart, Gabriel - Golurk

The Priest, Harmonia - Sigilyph

The Doctor, Acro - Beheeyem

[savrenim]

Crucibles: The First Battle of the Rose Gun, As Told By A Letter From Private Avitus Sertor To Their Cousin

From: Private Avitus Sertor 3rd Legion c.Casque  14th Unit, Serae

To: Anita Sertor The Sertor Estate, Veteris

___________________

My dearest cousin,

I am sure that rumors are to be making their way back to Veteris soon, and I suspect they will not reflect the truth of what happened, as here the truth is more incredible than what stories they could tell. I wish to relate to you, and to the family, before my trembling hand forgets, what befell the 19th ereyesterday. 

As you know, I had been stationed with the 19th, one of ten units under Captain Casque on this part of the southern front. We were expecting a battle with a Surrian force of approximately equal strength, and the commanding officers knew about where, about when. It was a battle we expected to win, although not easily. There were whispers in the camp that someone of the Department of the Craftsman would be joining the battle for weapons testing. This struck me as odd, as I would have expected weapons development to take place within the Department of the General, but there were better things to do than question the veracity of the sort of wild rumors that appear before battles. 

This one, most surprisingly, was true.

Two days before the battle, a small delegation from the Department of the Craftsman arrived. A single Priest, although she had a strange title, Controller Strell, with her cargo of what appeared to be an exquisitely crafted cannon inlaid with rose gold, and an altar. The altar could be used to recharge the cannon, although she had brought with her two charges for field testing. They were constructed from rubies and more precious metals, worth perhaps more than the entire Sertor estate. 

After a brief strategy meeting with the officers, the entire 19th unit was assigned to follow her and follow her instructions. She was young, she couldn't have been older than her mid-thirties. I had expected, when it was confirmed that there was indeed an experimental weapon of the Department of the Craftsman being deployed on the field, that it was the civilian handler who would need protecting. She told our sergeant, and it was relayed to us, the opposite: we were there to protect the Rose Gun, as it was so named, and to not concern ourselves with what she was doing. There was something about how she held herself, more than the swords she carried or armor that she wore with the ease of familiarity, that indicated that this strange Priest—Controller Strell—could fight. 

Titus said that the two swords that she carried were proof that she had trained under Maldai Varricon, as none other held a fighting style so distinct. You will be able to verify that more easily than me, although perhaps at this time the rumors will have taken hold and eroded any basis the truth might have. She didn't even fight with them, she fought with…something else. But I am ahead of myself.

The day of the battle dawned to gray skies, and a light rain falling on us by the time we were taking our positions. The terrain was rocky, the ground hard-packed. There would be no danger of mud. We were situated next to the 14th, a slightly more veteran unit, along the left flank. Both armies had gathered, each a few hundred strong. With no more great fanfare, the battle began.

Controller Strell wasted very little time. She took the Rose Gun from the four who were carrying it, and instead of directing them, simply picked it up and repositioned it herself. She carefully inserted one of the two charges she had been carrying into the firing mechanism, aimed it, and began to operate it. 

It started with a low, thrumming hum, and a glow of red in the seams of the gold that lined it. The red got deeper and deeper until the intensity was too much to bear a gaze. A beam of the same light shot out, still too intense to look at. And then there was nothing to look at. Everything in its path was just…gone. Of course, soldiers towards the outer edges of the blast were thrown; some of them getting up, some of them not getting up. But the central beam had disintegrated everything it had touched. A dozen men or more, simply not there anymore, no blood or bones or armor or water in the air; and a deep gouge—not a crater, but a line, a rip in the ground, where not even the tight-packed earth had been able to withstand the blast. 

Presumably pleased with the results of her field test, without even drawing her swords, Controller Strell plunged through the hole in the Surrian lines to fight in their midst.  

I think she must have had some true blades on her, although not of any sort I had seen before, because with twists of her wrist I swore that there were flashes of steel on her arms, and three Surrians down in a matter of seconds. She dodged past another, catching them in the shoulder, and I swear to you, cousin, as far-fetched as the claim might seem, she reached out to the spray of blood as if to catch it, and she did. The blood consolidated into a sword in her hands. She had instantly whipped it around, slashing the throat of another soldier, and drawing another sword from their lifeblood: a darker, sharper reflection of the sheathed pair of swords still on her waist. I did not see much after that, as we had gathered around the Rose Gun to do our duty, protect it with our lives; but given the gaping hole in the Surrian ranks, I suspect she was doing more damage than the entire unit would have done if we had been given the instructions of a normal battle. I could also see why she had told us not to follow her. She had rapidly disappeared within their ranks giving no concern about whether or not she might be surrounded. What would have been a fatal tactical error for a unit seemed to her to simply be more targets in her reach.

This continued for some time, until our banners arose to signal our retreat. Controller Strell emerged from the bloodbath appearing completely unscathed, and returned to the Rose Gun as we moved it back towards the 14th along the left flank. I was situated near enough to see her face, and she looked completely calm, almost bored. Perhaps mildly disappointed. There was no sign whatsoever in her visage or stance that the battle so far would even be considered an exertion for her. The swords of blood she dropped; the twin swords at her waist were still undrawn. 

Captain Casque was with the 14th, and we watched as she made her way towards him, unconcerned with the battle around. Caepio claims that he was standing there, that he heard it all. She asked why there was a retreat. Captain Casque informed her that a scout had just reported there was a full unit of Schwetknecht dwarves over the hill. 

It should have been over there, a battle lost; as the unlucky ones positioned along the left flank, the 14th and 19th would be sacrificed to slow them down that the rest might retreat. That we were winning against the Surrians, would turn to a complete rout, a slaughter, if the dwarven mercenaries got behind us, and no Caedic unit was prepared to hold against them. Retreat was the only option; the only question was had it been sounded quickly enough. 

Caepio says she didn't visibly react. That she said, "Oh, that's all? The Rose Gun and I will take care of it." Caepio says the Captain didn't even hesitate; didn't question her at all. He simply turned and ordered the 14th and the 19th to hold the line behind her, and then signaled to stop the retreat. The rest of the army returned to engaging with the Surrians, and we turned to face what should have been our doom.

We had barely the time to get in position, when the Schwetknecht unit charged down the hill. It was one of the larger mercenary units, eighty, perhaps a hundred strong. Controller Strell neither flinched nor hesitated, but instead positioned her Rose Gun that it would cut through the center of the charge, and fired it. The blast was just as deep and bright, the gouge in the hill just as striking, and at least a dozen of the enemy must have been full caught in the blast; yet while it slowed the charge, it did not stop it. I saw myself a dwarf towards the edge of its range lose an arm and not slow down.

Still, the blast was enough to disrupt the momentum of the first charge, and the Caedic line held. We scrambled to draw the Rose Gun back behind our lines into a defensible position. She charged forwards again out of our line and straight towards their wall of tower shields. It seemed for a moment that she might be tripped on the thin metal whips that the second line of Schwetknecht fighters from behind the shields used, but at most they slowed her a handful of seconds. There was a—I don't want to call it a device, but there was something built into her armor, tubes that seemed to snake around and under the fastenings and into her skin. I'd gotten a few good looks at it when I had been standing closer to her, before. They looked like they might contain liquid, I didn't want to think harder about what. Even from my position behind her, I could see it: the lines began to glow and pulse with a strange gray light. She simply charged past and through the impenetrable wall of shields. 

We did not see her anymore from where we were holding. I was positioned in the second row of soldiers, closer to the Rose Gun, defending it still. The Caedic line had held out against the first charge surprisingly well. We had not yet broken to their coordinated attack now from behind the shields, but we had no hope of winning, of driving them back. I was so sure she was dead, so glad that we had been ordered to stay with the Gun instead of following her behind enemy lines. Of the 14th and the 19th here in this fight, being next to the Rose Gun seemed to be shaping up as the safest position. 

Then there was a string of horn-notes blown, and for a second, I thought the Schwetknecht were for some reason retreating: a number of the frontline warriors with tower shields withdrew. But they did not retreat, they instead formed a circle well within the dwarven ranks. With a chill, I realized what was happening. They were surrounding her. They had called back shieldbearers from the front lines to try to trap her. 

Whatever their tactics, it lessened the pressure on us. The Caedic line held. I could not spare the time to glance across the rest of the battlefield, it was all we could do to hold, but we held. 

Seconds passed, maybe minutes. Multiple times that horn sounded, sometimes signaling more warriors to withdraw or just re-shuffle within their ranks, all concentrated on that circle of tower shields. The Caedic line most likely would have fallen if they had pushed an advance, but they could not advance; instead, they were forced to face the death in their midst. We held. 

There stopped being a first and second line of Caedic soldiers, just one desperate stretch of us, still standing against the Schwetknecht fighters. Dainus to my right was struck down. We were backed up almost directly to the Rose Gun itself, but I remembered what we had been told by that Priest—by Controller Strell—that we were to protect the Rose Gun with more than our lives. In that moment, I feared her more than I feared the dwarves. We stood and fought.

In the end, they didn't reach the Rose Gun. Another sequence of horn-notes sounded out, and they began a retreat, a proper one this time. As they parted, she stood there, blood all around her and swords still singing viciously. A single warrior—they commander—remained to hold her off so the rest of them could retreat. Controller Strell tore forward, dodging, it looked like purposefully taking a blow to the side, her swords shattering into a rain of liquid and reforming beyond the dwarf's weapons as she brought the dwarf to their knees, struck the killing blow. This time, at least, she looked as if she had fought: her armor, her skin covered in blood and dirt, and her hair had come free partially from where she had tied it back. Her chest was heaving, the only motion left, the sole standing silhouette on that hill. And then she straightened her back and turned towards us and the rest of the field to survey the end of the battle.

Caepio says that from within her wounds, her blood glowed a brighter red, and then they healed themselves. I am not sure I believe him, but certainly no one saw her in the medical tents afterwards. 

It was after she began walking back towards us that my eyes were drawn to what she had been standing on: there were a pile of bodies around her, a streak of destruction just as evident as the scar in the hill itself that her Rose Gun had left. There were well more than a dozen dead in her trail. Shield-bearers, front line fighters, warriors, their commander—all dead around her, and she walked towards us, easily and on her own two feet. For a moment I thought she had turned to me directly, and then I realized that she was simply ascertaining that the Rose Gun was safe. I had never felt more relieved that we had followed orders, that we had protected that weapon with everything we had and more, than to have seen any form of displeasure on that face in that moment. She continued past us, looking out to the rest of the battle, and I realized that the fighting was over for us, we could turn around. Below, the Caedic army had pushed the Surrians into a rout. We had won.

We had won. Cousin, this should have been a major defeat, more severe than we had seen on this line in years, with the Schwetknecht charge unforseen that would have cut off even a retreat; but instead, we had won. The 14th and the 19th and her had stood against a company of one hundred Schwetknecht dwarves and we'd held.

She did not stay very long after that. She had performed the tests she'd needed, I suppose. There are many rumors going around the camp about her. The name that is tossed around the most is Iria Strell. One soldier swears that a Lieutenant Strell took down a Surrian fortress with Arcadia Dominus, a few years back. Another said that Consecrated Priest Strell is well known for innovations within the Department of the Craftsman as one of their youngest Priests, and that she was responsible for Legionary Captain Metrin Galseii's return to the front with a mechanical leg. But there is another consensus spreading around the camp, whispers from the officers who were privy to the dispatch orders. They say  the reason she was here alone with that important of a weapon, the reason why Captain Casque didn't even hesitate to follow her suggestion on the battlefield— it was that the Bishop Trebonius's Retainer in the flesh was the one who had been deployed.

Titus thinks she had to come herself instead of a handler being sent because she'd built the Rose Gun from scratch and was the only one who could fire it. She certainly seemed to know what she was doing adjusting it, and I certainly don't think it would have been easy to operate such a complex piece of machinery. But Caepio thinks that wasn't all. Caepio thinks that she was the weapon that was being tested. All I can see in my mind's eye were those strange thin tubes running under her armor, and the gray light. The Rose Gun took out perhaps twenty, thirty enemy soldiers in that battle. She took out more. We saw what she did to the Surrians, but none of us saw what she did inside that circle of dwarves. Only the carnage afterwards. I will never underestimate, or scoff at, the Department of the Craftsman again. Sixty Caedic soldiers, two units, held against a full Schwetknecht detachment, and I am not deluded enough to think that it was because of us.

The 19th was dissolved, and folded into the 14th; there were only one unit's worth left of us in the end. The rumors about us are apparently spreading. Relay to the rest of the family that I was one of the survivors. That I fought behind Controller Strell—Retainer Strell—and helped deliver victory to our Empire on that day.

Yours, Avitus

[chronicallyvegan]

It was an honour to fight beside you. Posted @withregram • @torontopigsave We are devastated to announce the tragic death of Regan Russell, a compassionate animal advocate who was killed today outside of the Fearmans Pork Inc. slaughterhouse in Burlington, Ontario in Canada. ⠀ ⠀ Regan died after being run over by a transport truck full of pigs. ⠀ ⠀ Regan was a fearless fighter and a peacemaker. She bore witness today to offer water to the pigs on a scorching hot day, offering them a final moment of peace - as she had done many times before in legal protest⠀ ⠀ “Regan was a kind, elegant, strong, and courageous person,” said Anita Krajnc, founder of the Animal Save Movement. “She was a mentor to others, and she always did activism with kindness in her heart.”⠀ ⠀ Regan had been an animal advocate since 1979, attended vigils weekly for years, and cared deeply about justice for animals, racial justice, and protecting the vulnerable.⠀ ⠀ Ten thousand pigs are slaughtered at the Fearmans Pork slaughterhouse every day. Toronto Pig Save activists have been holding regular vigils outside Fearmans since 2014 when Quality Meat Packers closed in downtown Toronto. ⠀ ⠀ The tragic death comes two days after the controversial agricultural gag (“ag gag”) law, Bill 156, was passed in Ontario. Bill 156 is designed to cover up animal cruelty on farms and during transport. ⠀ ⠀ We ask that Michael Latifi, CEO of Fearmans, agrees to release the pigs who were on the transport truck that killed the activist, to a sanctuary as a sign of compassion and respect.⠀ ⠀ Toronto Pig Save will be holding a candlelight vigil outside Fearmans slaughterhouse to honour her life. Just like we speak up against Fearmans for murdering innocent beings, we will not stand back as that industry of death shamelessly steals the life of a warrior. She died fighting against an industry that hides the truth, as shown by the passing of “Ag gag” legislation, Bill 156, just days ago.⠀ ⠀ Regan was a wife, a daughter, a best friend, and we will not let the candles go out. ⠀ ⠀ #SavePigs4Regan https://www.instagram.com/p/CBqp7SyJyK9/?igshid=1er1zpil4aa2p

[flamingbluepanda]

@notsureyetuniverse oh boy okay-

Lito is obviously a cat. Like, he is the epitome of a cat. A ragdoll. Fluffy and gorgeous and absolutely crazy about Hernando’s daemon, a gorgeous blue parrot who’s bursting with colors. Daniela’s lizard daemon shouldn’t fit in with them, but she does. They’re all perfect together, really. All three of their daemon’s are girls who curl up on the couch after long days.

Nomi’s daemon would be some sort of fish, floating after her in a bubble of water. Sleek and powerful and gorgeous, undoubtedly. Large, noticeable- Nomi hates that but loves her daemon anyway. She (always she, always always she) fits perfectly with Amanita’s daemon- a tarantula the size of a dinner plate. They hold hands and walk down the street, proud of their daemons and eachother.

Sun’s daemon is a tiger and I don’t care if it’s cliche, it’s the truth. Proud and fierce and the mark of a true warrior- but everyone still manages to underestimate her and her daemon. It earns her some cred in prison that her daemon is a male and a tiger.

As a child, Capheus daydreamed about his Daemon being a zebra, and was saddened and even slightly offended when he settled into a hyena. But his daemon laughs it off and is kind and gentle, the opposite of what people expect of a hyena daemon.

Riley’s daemon is a cat, like lito’s- only a small white shorthair, who’s timid and has been hurt far too many times. She stays curled up in Riley’s pocket most of the time, only coming out to strut along the DJ booth at a gig. That’s the case right up until they meet Will.

Will’s daemon is a Wolf. Most police force have some kind of dog, but wolves are a bit uncommon. Diego thinks it’s just will being over the top, but he lives up to it. Will’s daemon is fierce and overprotective of anyone and everyone.

Kala’s daemon is a leamur, quiet and well behaved and the exact opposite of Wolfgang’s daemon, who’s a literal monkey. Wolfgang’s daemon is loud and almost obnoxious but still a loveavle little shit. He’s really really overprotective.

The daemons see eachother before the humans do. Will’s daemon and Riley’s daemon rub off on eachother. Lito’s daemon is confused and skittish and grows braver under the tutelage of the others.

Because yeah, there’s Lito, Nomi, Wolfgang, Kala, Riley, Will, Capheus and Sun

But there’s also Elena (with her Maria and her Anita by her side), Veronica (who’s never far from Zachary), Klaus (who’s best friends with Felix’s Pitbull Rocky), Tanweer (who really should just love Raj’s snake Vir and get on with it), Anya, Tommy (who spends far too much time letting Diego’s little bird Sara ride on his head (don’t test Sara man she’ll poke your eyes out)), Jacobi (who, of course, can’t stand to be apart from Jela’s gazelle Mokai), and Tzun respectively, and they bond quicker than their foolish humans do.

Oh my god, imagine sense8 in a daemon au

[readincolour]

#BookReview: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF PERSIMMON WILSON by Nancy Peacock

Summary: Sitting in a jail cell on the eve of his hanging, April 1, 1875, freedman Persimmon “Persy” Wilson wants nothing more than to leave some record of the truth—his truth. He may be guilty, but not of what he stands accused: the kidnapping and rape of his former master’s wife. In 1860, Persy had been sold to Sweetmore, a Louisiana sugar plantation, alongside a striking, light-skinned house slave named Chloe. Their deep and instant connection fueled a love affair and inspired plans to escape their owner, Master Wilson, who claimed Chloe as his concubine. But on the eve of the Union Army’s attack on New Orleans, Wilson shot Persy, leaving him for dead, and fled with Chloe and his other slaves to Texas. So began Persy’s journey across the frontier, determined to reunite with his lost love. Along the way, he would be captured by the Comanche, his only chance of survival to prove himself fierce and unbreakable enough to become a warrior. His odyssey of warfare, heartbreak, unlikely friendships, and newfound family would change the very core of his identity and teach him the meaning and the price of freedom. Review: When you read a lot, it's not unusual to come across books with similar themes. While The Life and Times of Persimmon Wilson was an interesting read, it didn't grab me like other books along this vein have. I try to be as non-biased as possible with books, but knowing that the author was white gave me a bit of discomfort when it came to usage of the n-word. It was sprinkled liberally from the mouths of the enslaved, even more so than their overseers and, at times, it felt forced and inauthentic. Perhaps it's in knowing that of her two novels, both are rooted in slavery themes. What is her fascination with the topic? She does the research but she never quite captures the true essence of her characters. Though the plot line of The Life and Times is interesting, I'd suggest readers pick up two other books: Anita Bunkley's One Thousand Steps does a much better job of exploring the relationship between enslaved African-Americans and Native Americans; and Leonard Pitts' Freedom, does an amazing job of telling the story of a man that walks the country looking for his lost love following the end of slavery.

336 p. Published: January 2017 Disclaimer: Copy of book received from publisher, opinions are my own. Purchase: Amazon | B & N | Book Depository | IndieBound February 01, 2017 at 11:00AM from ReadInColour.com http://ift.tt/2jW2iPk