#a hundred songs of valor

[atypicalacademic]

Thank you for the tag, @cumbiazevran ily!! Making my DA canon OCs in this picrew! Warden(s), Hawke and Inquisitor.

Rahvi Brosca, Gaadha Mahariel, Milena Hawke and Narein Cadash

Tagging @greyvvardenfell @ollifree and @wild-houseplant if you'd like !

[xuchiya]

need to know [j.yunho]

₊˚.༄ || filth valentines m.list || hongjoong || seonghwa || yunho || yeosang || san || mingi || wooyoung || jongho || ₊˚.༄

₊˚.༄ I heard from a friend of a friend That dick was a ten out of ten ₊˚.༄

  Yunho has been busy lately and you were not liking one bit of it. It has been weeks since you wanted to hang out with him and considering that he had been rejecting your invites; maybe it is time to spend some days without and let yourselves be on your own stories.

You can't blame Yunho for taking responsibility for his father's company so why would be a bad friend to him?

You dress up in less clothing for your stream much less by a short crop hoodie that shows a little of your cleavage then your tiny boxer shorts. A streamer of summer, that was your nickname given by your fans— Summer. You have always been a streamer for playing horror whether be a psychological or thrill chasing games, maybe sometimes by playing valorant.

    You were at first called out for dressing way too– short nonetheless you explain that you tend to be really comfortable with playing in less clothing and people see your excellence in playing. You throw on anti-rad glasses before starting your stream, “What is up my dudes! It’s your streamer– Summer and we’ll continue playing Poppy Playtime!”

 While waiting for the game to load, you read the comments, “Looking good as always …  Thank you … Playing alone today? Yeah since they didn’t want to play this one. San is too scared …  Where’s Yunho? Oh he’s currently busy— he’s been busy nowadays so I had to play this alone. “

  After the chapter ended, you were left with a heart attack and sore throat from getting sudden jump scare but overall you enjoy the whole game, you look towards at the camera, “Well that is it for the chapter 2 since the chapter 3 will be out soon and …” glancing at the time to see that you have been playing for just an hour, “aye it’s still early. Do you guys want me to play or just talk with you guys?”

  Some comments were saying to talk since it has been a while since you went live so you went with their request, “Okay okay I’ll answer some questions then …”

 “Since when did I start playing? I think it was around 3 years ago that I started streaming through the gameplays? I was 14 when I started doing my gameplays …”

“You dance? Of course, Yeosang and Wooyoung are actually my classmates in a studio we enrolled in.” 

“Where’s Yunho? Oh he’s at work, I’m little sad he has not been spending time with me like … Tell me your schedule, I got a lotta new tricks for you .. I’M KIDDING HAHAHA!”

“Do you like Doja Cat? Yes, a hundred percent yes, I’m a huge fan of hers speaking of that …” You opened your phone to show them your last song you listened to, “I swear this is my go to song when I’m feeling myself you know…” You chuckle showing them a hand gesture down to our body.  Some of your fans ask you to play the song, some of them want you to sing or mouth the lyrics, you cackle at the last one.

  “I can’t do that, it looks weird but we can still let this play and talk …”     The music plays—affecting not only your fans, not you who is feeling the actual lyrics but the one who has been watching from their phone ever since you started streaming. 

 “Do you want to know a french word? Je suis excite.. Je suis excite, that means I’m excited right? Excite probably is exciting .. Am I right?” you said your eyes were widened a little bit, looking at the comment section for confirmation and you see some were saying yes, right and correct.

 But little did you know, it meant something different else.

 Their pants had made themselves quite uncomfortable, tight and suffocating as their eyes not only stare at your gameplay but at your display cleavage. As much as they tried to not to look like a pervert but how could he— He has desires that he tried to stir away; afraid to ruin your friendship but with you said those words as if telling him that you are horny. Adding to the fact you just said something along the line of having ‘tricks’.

  “Ohmygosh I should go to sleep or Seonghwa-oppa would smack me in the head … I’ll see you guys soon.” You did your outro and the live ended.

  Yunho tucked back his phone, walking inside your shared apartment. He and you were able to share an apartment under your brother’s permission since they both work for the same company and he did not mind as long as you both had an agreement or house rules settled.

 Those words were a huge trigger to him as he had been evading your presence; as much as dumb it sounds, his dick can not cooperate with him. Whether you were in your hoodie or favourite pajamas, nothing beats when he wants you all for himself. Love you, praise you, worship you, choke you, dick you down—

  “Oh yuyu!” You were startled when you exit your room to see Yunho leaning on the counter with a cold drink in his hand, his eyes landing on your figure and all his last string snap when you just walk in with your zipper open, exposing your tits out.

  You tried to cover them last minute but Yunho was faster, grabbing your wrist, spinning you to pin you on his chest. He leaned down, voice gruff from the pain in his pants and overwhelming horniness spilling out of his body, ��nice way to greet me … tits out? Do you walk around with this …” his other free hand ran up to your chest, playing with your nipple and giving it a squeeze, making you moan a little too loud but to Yunho's liking.

 “I-I thought you won’t be home … fuck! “ Yunho breathy laugh, giving your other boob the same treatment but this time adding a slap on it, your back arching in the pain and pleasure making your ass brush up on his hard dick in his pants. 

  “Feel that? you’re the cause of it … now be a good girl for me and choke yourself on my cock.” 

  

“F-fuck! … Yunho– Oh my God!” your face was red and sweaty from how many hours Yunho had you pinned down on your bed, taking you from behind; had his dick ramming himself back and forth, hitting every inch of your walls then his tip knocking at your cervix several times as if trying to reach a deeper part of you to bury his cum.

  “You don’t know how long i wanted to fuck you so dumb that it makes me want to go faster and harder on you .. do you like that? Do you want me to keep hammering you down on this bed like a bitch on heat?” You never knew Yunho was into this kind of thing, rough and mouthy.

 You were crying out of pleasure as Yunho drilled his cock deeper and deeper until you clench around him that had him smacking his (veiny) hands on your ass, “Yu-Yunho— eugh fuck– I’m gonna cum, gonna cum– !” Yunho continues slamming his hips as your eyes roll back as you reach your orgasm, creaming his dick and milking him dry. Yunho chuckles, wrapping one of his hands around your throat, pulling you closer, bottomless.

  “You like that huh? You like it when I fuck you this hard?” You dive on the sheets, Yunho's pace persistent in making his dick wet and creamy on your puffy pussy. You look over your shoulders, engulfed in overwhelming bliss, you speak with assertive tone, “clap me, choke me, bite me Yunho.” 

 Yunho pulls out, leaving just the tip inside as he adjust his grip from your throat down to your hips, in spite of that he shoves back while you pulling back, “FUCK!” you cried, your fingers circling around his wrist, “Yu-yu — wait you’re going too fast.”

 He shakes his head, his eyebrows arching, tongue poking the inside of his cheek, “I haven’t cum yet and we can fuck all night baby.” He keep thrusting back and forth,leaning forward to grasp both of your nipples in his fingers, twisting, pulling them.

  Your head swirling with so much euphoria that it sent electricity vibrating down your pussy as you were reaching your second orgasm quickly, this time a little different from the last one, long strings of ‘oh’ and ‘fuck’.

  “Tell me baby, i need to know one thing …” He licks his lips, pressing you on his bare chest, continue to pound inside of you, almost nearing his climax, “come on baby, i didn’t fuck you that dumb did i? Now answer me.”

  You were breathing hastily, orgasm around the corner but you know best that if you don’t speak now, Yunho won’t let you cum, “Wh-What is it?”

  “Have you been fantasising about this one? Did someone tell you?” You nodded, your head moving swiftly, you felt his chest vibrate as he breathy laughs, “Yeah? 

“ y-yes…”

“From who?”

  Your throat clogged yet you oblique, moaning when his tip brushes on your cervix once again, your dignity slowly crashing but who could you blame? You were fantasising all of this for the longest time that you slipped out to one of your friends about your huge daydream to Yunho that one of your friends may or may not slip about him.

  “I heard .. I heard from a friend of a friend … that your dick is better than their exes.” His hip halted, pulling out— groaning at the emptiness but you were taken back when Yunho pulled you off the bed and towards your balcony; your eyes widened as he pushes you the makeshift knitted lounge chair.

  “Well one …” yunho’s lips brush on your ears warmly, “I have never met your friends …” He inserted himself back in, slamming back on your pussy, “And second well .. they’re not wrong.”

 Yunho pace didn’t falter as he locked his arms on yours, your arms pulled on your back; your chest full on display, bouncing each time Yunho hammered back. Broken groans left Yunho and you were also reaching your climax, “Fuck yunho!” 

 “Take my cum like a good girl!” Your eyes were clouded in euphoria, feeling full as he spurted all his cum inside you, painting your walls white. Your hole clenches on his dick before gushes of your juice burst, wetting his dick and the lounge chair.

  Yunho let go of your arms and replace his softening dick with his fingers, brushing them left and right as you squirt, your lips puckering

“Oh look at that, such a good girl. Keep squirting baby~” Yunho slaps, wipe your pussy letting you ride on your orgasm before he pulls away. Your knees gave out, thankfully Yunho caught you, wrapping his arms around your shoulder and at the back of your knees. He leads you both to your bathroom, setting you on the cold marble tile of your sink.

   Yunho settles you on the bathtub, warm water with bubbles of rose were floating on the water. You sigh contentedly, “Is this what I get for flashing you my boobs to you?”

  He laughs, shaking his head as he settles at the other end of the tub, “You want a princess treatment?” His eyes watch you carefully, cheek flaring. You played with the foam bubbles, “If you don’t mind me being your girlfriend then yeah, I want a princess treatment.”

Yunho leans towards you, leaving a soft kiss on your lips, "Deal."

 It was something you and Yunho had in common. Straightforwardness. Yet here you both are, in a situation you thought is just all in your head and fantasy.

[romcomeon]

𝟎𝟎𝟏. 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄

✒ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋: life and fate are scary; and it takes immense sacrifice for one to be legendary.

✒ 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓: reader as calypso, solomon as odysseus, barbatos as athena, luke as telemachus, mammon as hermes, + a few special guests!

✒ 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: solomon x gn! reader, epic the musical au, odyssey au, greek myths reimagined, unreciprocated love, signs of manipulation, angst, angst, angst, mentions of grief and death, character death [lightning strike], solomon has a breakdown at the end, "penelope" is gender neutral

✒ 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒: wc: 7k+ | read on AO3 .ᐟ

✒ 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐒: @mammonsrockstargf ﾉ @satangcrush ﾉ @eraofkalki ﾉ @sadpancakeface ﾉ @torchvic

He whose fate was swallowed by the high seas was no less of a love-driven fool.

For years he never returned, yet for centuries, his legacy strives within legends. Epic poems crafted by the most renowned of writers, curated to accurately depict his outstanding feats whilst making them a tad more magical. All these stories were sung in praise by orators as crowds gathered around—eyes, ears, and minds working wonders. 

They themselves create their own interpretation of fantasized play for their greatest hero. The crowd’s silent roars, begging for a glimpse of a life once treasured. 

A valley without its savior. A court without a martyr. An army without a leader. 

Ballads and tragedies dedicate themselves to the fallen. With scholars utilizing this artistic medium as a bloodless graveyard for the ghosts of those who never returned. Their souls rest in peace among the wrathful flames of the underworld, dancing to the chants of the oracles. When the songs are as beautiful as the late Michael’s melodies reeking to the echoes of a meadow suffering drought to the god’s ear, perhaps, the scholars prophesied, Olympus would be merciful.

Of course, that would be if the world were as harmonious as the plays of the great Mephistopheles, with his cult's undying joy of wine and lust. Gaia was born from the depths of Chaos; Chaos had never been one for mercy.

By Satan’s decree and Barbatos’ valor, ruthlessness prevails in war. War was a testament to humanity’s own morals and beliefs. To relieve the growing surge of bloodlust when conflicts arise, bathing Troy in deep, luminous crimson. Screams of the deceased haunt these barren lands, filling the ruins of a grotesque landscape. Resembling the numb trauma soldiers possess murdering women and children, the hubris of the rulers sought to persuade them to do more.

Ruthlessness was mercy upon themselves.

Amidst hamartia, these idols were worshiped by their men. Allowing their flaws to be redeemed, gifting them with celestial grace to guide them away from danger. The scholars call this peripeteia, the reversal of one’s fate. With bad turning good or divine turning corrupt, the choice was given to Chaos’ more prominent writers: the mortals. 

Peripeteia never guaranteed a positive turn, even as most stories seem to suggest. The loud guttural roar bounced off stone walls, spreading across the vast lands. From the skies to beneath the sea, his name repeats itself.

“Praise him, oh great Solomon of Ithaca.” 

Whispers of that name make the masses perk their heads up and gauge the source. The majority shake their heads in a low huff, mourning the disappearance of Greece’s greatest warrior and his crew of men. Tales depict him as one who matches Achilles in glory, Alexander in rule, and the gods in intellect.

Ask a cowardly soul about their view of the king, and they’d bashfully avert their gaze. Sealing their mouths shut lest they’d be able to speak for another day. The braver minority ridiculed the king’s rule, even as to boast about the castle remnants. With no hero, there was no order. Hundreds of suitors flock to the palace, offering sexuality for power. To them, this legend was no less of a dead man.

A kingdom without a king. A queen without a lover. A prince without a father. 

Being the God of Wisdom, Barbatos made sure his greatest warrior survived the most gruesome of trials that rivaled Hercules’ challenges. Molding the king to fit his ideals; triumph basking in newfound glory with every ferocious beast his hands slay. Well trained to become a warrior of the mind; cunning and wit, quick to produce a plan for his own benefit. 

The making of a warrior comes with many pitfalls. Intelligence carries a heavy burden of excessive knowledge, and with owning knowledge comes humanity’s impuissance—kindness. For knowledge is a gift of victors, but why supply ruthless killers with a force opposing their ideals? That was considered torture. A strong, well-respected legend was merciless. Never was it that there’d be justice, that was part of the reason, yes, though being just was clemency.

That marked the beginning of Solomon’s peripeteia. His virtue to spare one of  Leviathan’s cyclops turned the narrative against him.

It’s what turned his own god against him.

Albeit, those were years ago, and the said old god knew that. Barbatos lets out a sigh, trailing his gloved hands along the cold tread of marble stairs. He took off the old rusted helmet, dark and vibrant green locks swaying along to the warm breeze. The headpiece was set aside, carefully gracing the dark turquoise cloth adorned with embroidery of owl feathers and slippery snakes.

He never pictured that in all these years he’d be reminiscing of those fond moments with that lily-livered soul. Each faint ‘tap’ ticks for every second, recalling a memory as if it only happened yesterday. The time before the great fall, watching the familiar tufts of white hair, black robe with an ombre of white and night-sky blue, and stars; stars that marked a better time. 

He stood tall at the forecastle deck of his ship, raising the sword up high in his hand. Gray eyes fall upon the cyclops’ wounded figure, his face ridden with specks of blood. For he was no man nor mythical, his form casting a large shadow looming over the terrain. No man, but the reigning king of Ithaca. Leading with peace, working to save his comrades while the titan feeds. Hundreds of men’s deaths shan’t go in vain.

Remember him for if the beast chooses not to spare another weary soul, so be it. Perish. Solomon raised his chin up, pointing his sword to whoever sees. “I am your darkest moment,” he says.

“I am the infamous Solomon.” 

Stupid. Foolish. Mortals were always foolish. Barbatos shakes his head in disapproval upon the memory. Perhaps, maybe, things would’ve been much different had he himself…

What could he have done? He was a god, a divine force of nature, either a friend or foe to a benevolent protagonist. Yet perhaps if he had done something. Perhaps if he hadn’t simply lashed out at Solomon’s blatant naivety of showing mercy, then he’d be fine. They’d be fine. Barbatos already knew that mortals were susceptible to demons lurking in their minds, waiting to coerce an unintelligent soul’s light to go dark. Maybe, if he had just been a bit wiser, they’d be fine.

"Your friend?”

"Hm?" Barbatos lifts his gaze up, hearing the curious sound of a bright young boy, There he stood balancing on the stone balustrade. The boy, well, man, fixed his balance before walking towards the god. He swept the fabric beneath him before sitting beside the other, slowly inching closer.

"I do not know who your friend is, or the mistakes, and..." he trailed off, averting his golden blue eyes to the side whilst his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his chiton. He cleared his throat, possibly to not be any more awkward. "Well, my time with you has been splendid!"

Barbatos glanced at him, cocking his head. "How come?"

Stars glint within the boy’s eyes. Clenching one of his fists as if to grab an imaginary sword, before eventually exclaiming filled with excitement. "'Cause I got in a fight and I didn't die!"

He catches himself for a moment, blushing bashfully before scratching the back of his neck. "I've never felt strong before,” he admitted. Sure it was surprising, but the young prince wasn’t necessarily like his father. Though it’d made sense, had the young lad last seen the king when he was an infant. 

Barbatos could remember earlier events. Antinous and the other suitors, flocking the palace and picking fights with an unarmed little wolf. Barbatos knew that he can be stronger with the right guidance, so he did what he could; go into the warrior’s mind to quicken his thoughts, and make him effortlessly lunge attacks towards the bullies.

The prince had the motivation, the dream, and the intellect. Much like when Solomon was younger, he too had a good heart.

Then again, Barbatos knew this was different. This was no longer the same man who he grew apart with all those years prior. Rather of a hair as white as the brightest clouds, he was greeted with a soft, gentle blonde. And his eyes, not a harsh, stone cold gray, but a bright blue with golden ombre. That detail made Barbatos perk a smile, as in his thoughts, both of them looked like parts and recombinations of a certain godly messenger.

Those similarities turn to not be as glaring when he sees the fresh sparks of pure adoration on the prince’s face. Barbatos watches as the other composes himself, careful to choose his words but not holding back from ever portraying the swell of giddiness of his demeanor.

What shocked the god was instead was the words that escaped him. He spoke gently, invitingly even, but still nervous. He seems to not be so sure if these were acceptable to say, but he did.  “You're my friend, I couldn't ask for more," he said. “Maybe if life wasn't spent as planned. Though, I think it's time that you lend a hand— and I don't think he'll mind.”

He reaches out, raising his hand. “If not his friend, then mine.”

Barbatos stared at the boy’s palm, confused. For as many long years as he had lived, he had never seen this generous act of… celebration? Nevertheless, understand the traditions and gestures mortals made with other mortals. Although, he understood that the divine weren’t necessarily mingling with these mortals in the first place. 

Nevertheless, it was a new start. And the bridge between gods and mortals have slowly become invisible in the time of war.

So Barbatos also raised his hand, slapping his palm against the boy’s—if that’s how you do it. He thinks he did it correctly, seeing the prince’s smile widen. "You're a good kid, Luke," Barbatos sighs, smiling more in ten minutes than he ever had in ten years.

Luke only nodded his head. "Thanks!" 

A billow of clouds seize themselves over the mortal realm. Hidden within the trenches of the sea of indefinite wonder lies the peak of mount Olympus. At the foot of the temple, a black owl swiftly glides through the air. Once it reaches the foot of the temple, it shapeshifts back into Barbatos’ figure, dusting off any dirt that got on his clothes.

“So… Barbi,” a voice lurks within these halls. It didn’t take long for Barbatos to recognize that diction: zany and all reminds me of tricksters. “Still missing yer mortal?”

“Not now, Mammon.” the god of Wisdom sighed. “I’m busy.”

Mammon, the messenger of the gods, groaned. “This ‘bout the ‘moni guy again?” he complains, crossing his arms as his winged sandals lift him up in the air, allowing him to lie down on almost nothing. “C’mon, it’s been years.”

The god almost circles around Barbatos, with how his gold and silvers clang with his every movement. “Haven’t moved on, hm?” Mammon flipped himself over, resting his face on his palms while kicking his feet in the air. “Say it, Barbatos, you miss the guy as much as the last one.”

Barbatos only walked away. “Keep yourself out of this. This is simply urgent,” he said.

Mammon scowled, standing upright while clearing his throat. “Well I supposed the time he went hookin’ up with Thirteen wasn’t as urgent—”

“Thirteen?”

Barbatos stopped in his tracks, turning back to look at the messenger. “What about Thirteen?”

“Ah,” golden boy realized his mistake. He gave a faint whistle, tugging a few strands of dusty beige behind winged ears, averting his gaze so as to not directly anger the literal god of wisdom and war. Thirteen, daughter of Helios. Protector of nymphs, and known for turning men into swine. 

Mammon cleared his throat. “So ya didn’t know.”

Barbatos’ eyes narrowed, the shadows in the temple deepening around him. Suddenly his spear was pointed at Mammon, inches away from scarring the other’s throat. “What happened?” he pressed, his voice a low growl.

Mammon shrieked, hands in the air. “‘was that for!?”

“Say something,” Barbatos smiled, patience growing thinner.

Mammon groaned, shrugging. He leaned casually against a column, twirling a golden coin between his fingers. “It’s best if ya see it for y’self,” he said, sapphire eyes subtly hinting at mischief. “Sol’ gone be damned to do a billion more fuck ups than fraternalizing the old man.” He turned away, running a hand through his hair as he paced restlessly.

Barbatos raised an eyebrow, retreating back his spear. “I beg your pardon?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge of concern in his tone.

“‘s speakin’ the truth ‘ere.” Mammon stopped, casting a piercing gaze back at Barbatos. It was rare to see the troublesome messenger of the gods be so serious. Though moments like this don’t last long, before a smirk breaks itself on his face. “Don’t thank me,” Mammon waves off, fanning his hand. 

“He might as well may die.”  

The sirens’ songs scream through ocean waves—no longer in an alluring tone that stops seafarers in their way, but an eerie melody whom irks many sailors to change their trajectory. “Spare us, oh spare us please.” 

Wailing cries die out with the thunderous waves reaching alarming heights, a yard longer with every second the sea god’s fury boils. The storms guard Sparta from any unwanted pests, for a simple step was met with a bolstering beam of light as the gods’ roar echoes through the mortal’s ears. Although  what tickled his ears, or the contrary, was how quiet it got. Immensely calm;  the sounds of despair long gone with every wave hitting the shore. In a matter of life and death, it was odd that it suddenly got so peaceful.

Specks of sand reach his eyelids. Solomon begrudgingly opens his eyes, greeted by the harsh golden rays of the sun. Lifting himself up off the shore, he lets out a low groan as his hand dusts off the rest of the sand. Long strands of hair fall on his face, his fingers scratching the bit of fuzz on his chin. The last time he recalled, he only had bits of stubble that he planned to shave off with the remaining beeswax they still had on the great ship.

The ship. Curse godblessed cattle.

He stays sitting there, eyes cautiously observing the surroundings. Unlike in the past years of his voyage where it was filled with dull, brooding shades of life and the underworld, this place almost hurts the eyes. Instead it is filled with light, soft yet vibrant hues of lush trees and serene waters: even the sand, finer than Spartan shores, colored in a beautiful light peach brown. Cupping a handful, the sand only smoothly glides through his fingertips; not a particle on his palm.

The sea greets him with little seafoam meeting the outline of his body, but not once wetting the worn out fabrics of his clothes. And at that moment, he realized, this was no ordinary island. 

“Where am I?” Solomon whispers out, feeling the well of dread picking up from the deepest swells of his stomach. This place looked lively; and by his induction, too lively. No land on Gaia would be this swell when there was that god’s ongoing rampage.

As Solomon was about to go and try to scavenge the shore for more clues on this mystery island, a loud, sing-song voice booms in the air. Your voice, waving your dominant hand while the other holds the woven basket filled with sweet fruits. You had a feeling he’d wake up sometime soon, though you underestimated the speed of time. “Good morning sleepyhead!” you cheered, walking towards him in rhythmic skips and hops on the sand.

You slowed down as you got closer, seeing the other flinch and take a step back, with his arm at his front and his brows furrowing. On the contrary, you softly smiled, humming. You extend your hands toward him, though not touching his skin quite yet. “You’ve been resting for a while,” you said, almost with a small bit of laughter. “I swore you were dead.”

Solomon clicked his tongue. “Who are—”

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” you asked, your hand now resting on his scarred check. Carefully running your finger to the trace of his jaw while you gush about how adorable it was, hearing his gentle murmurs even when most of his words were incoherent. Pristine snow-colored hair, marvelous earthy gray eyes, delicate and commanding diction. 

Though you do wonder of a word that you could understand. Or well, not a word to, but a name. A name you heard through every gasp while his body twitched on the sand. They seem to grow more desperate with each repetition, a poor soul calling for someone in an endless void. Naturally, this had you curious, questioning him while your hand began to trail down his neck. “You keep mentioning their name quite lot. Who’re they?”

You didn’t expect him to grab your wrist, clenching his fists around it. You winced at the pain, though you observe how his actions may be harsh, yet his eyes, expression, looked happier. He wasn’t looking at you, no, far from it; he looked zoned out, catching imaginary glimpses, a loving smirk ghosts his face.

Solomon spoke gently, fondly even. Similar to his restless whispers of the night. “They’re my spouse.”

Suddenly that smile you had faltered, replaced by a confused expression. Your lips formed a small “oh,” your hand retreating back to the basket’s handle.  

You weren’t exactly terrified. Very much on the relative opposite; disappointed. It’s common in the legends for great to be utterly devoted to their lovers. A waste, your eyes falling back and inspecting his figure head to toe. The man looked ragged. Hurt. Malnourished. Dirty. Your thumb wipes itself on your index finger, remembering the rough, but smooth sensation of his imperfect flesh.

“Well they aren’t here now, no?” you tilt your head.

Solomon looked appalled, his eyes widening in offense. Was it something that you said? You weren’t lying— his spouse wasn’t here. You’re far from his homeland; whisked away to the safest, luxurious cove that you kept hidden away. That’s what there was with you, you’re rather secretive. You keep what’s yours hidden from peering eyes, where no mortal won’t get the privilege of seeing.

It took you a second to note your slip of the tongue. Noting that honesty may come off as rude. “Ah, forgive me,” you said. You bashfully averted your gaze, small hues of pink flushed on your cheeks. Being lonely on this land has made you too excited to see someone who even survived getting here. You worried that once his pulse came to a halt, you had to send his corpse away from the creatures to wholeheartedly devour. “It’s been a while since I’ve met someone.”

You were honestly starting to love this change of pace. It’s no fun if he leaves so soon. Perhaps the fates could care less if you allow yourself to adore him—even with his conflicting feelings

So you shake your head, giving him the basket as you take his hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Anyways, come my love!” You chime, small stars sparkling in your irises. ”The island awaits us!”

His face grimaces, pulling back his hand yet your grip was just too strong. Solomon spouted bitterly, raising a brow in offense. “Your love?”

You paid no attention to his words, instead touring him of this wonderful landscape. Open arms, twirling around taking in the bright greens and luscious blues of wild flowers and old trees. So giddy, even come to admire this lonesome place even more. “We have everything we could ever ask for!” you jolly along, taking a brief glance at Solomon.

The other still looked to be so perplexed. His hands gripping the basket’s handles, his feet dragging themselves as if they were leashed to your arms. His eyes seem to wander, but not once purposely in your direction.

Still, he must still be processing being in such a wonderful place, isn’t he? You giggle. You stroll around, slowing down as to not yet lose your now forever lover. A small crab scuttles near your feet, pinching at the air with its tiny claws.

It’s a vivid shade of red, almost glowing in the sunlight. You crouched down, opening your hand as you waited for the little one to climb on it. Sadly, it didn’t seem to reciprocate your friendly actions. Instead it waddled away, strutting as quickly as it could with its little crab feet. You pouted as you watched, inching closer to instead grab it by the shell, before placing it on your shoulder. 

“Much better,” you laugh. Now that it’s there you twirled around, eager to prove to Solomon how wonderful heaven feels. How wonderful it’d be if he sees the joy soon. “Oh, we thank Queen Rose,” you giggled again. Ogygia was just as bountiful as the maiden you used to serve’s magical prowess.

You noticed that Solomon had  placed the basket on top of a moss-covered rock, feeling his hand along the bark in a calculated expression, mumbling something.

You spoke aloud in a melodic symphony. “The place is beautiful,” you coaxed, stepping closer with your hands behind your back. Closer and closer, you watch him stiffen up and he faces you, right hand quick to grab the handle of his sword.

“It is.”

There was no denying that he was supporting your sentiment. For the first time. 

You thought about how to get more from him, with each slow footstep you took forward. It couldn’t be helped that you felt cheeky, seeing the brave, powerful warrior back up against the tree; defensive, but oh so helpless. Tattered robes with rusted pieces of armor, worn out sandals and puffed up bruises. Stunning, you thought.

“Perhaps,” you cheekily say, the back of your hand running along his chest. “Soon into bed we’ll climb and spend our time.” 

Solomon swats your wrist away. “I’m not your man.” 

‘Not yet,’ you thought. Again, you ignore all possible signs of rejection, clinging towards him. 

“I’m what you want. What you need, dear,” you murmur, your fingers tracing the outline of his armor. “It’s just you and me, my love in paradise.” You step closer, your breath warm against his skin.

“Now until the end of time, from here and out, you’re mine.” You smile, leaning in just enough to brush your lips against his. “All mine.”

Solomon pushes you away, causing you you tumble back. As you were about to recompose yourself, you see a dull, rusted blade pointed at your neck

“I could kill you where you stand,” Solomon spouted bitterly, lifting your chin with the tip of his sword. “I’m no pet. I’m a married man.” 

Oh. He’s feisty, and can wield a weapon well. You left out a soft chuckle, holding the blade with two fingers as you moved it aside. “Oh handsome, you may try, ” you tease, even as you trace the sharper end of the sword, “pricking” your finger at its tip.

“But last I check, gods can’t die.” You kiss your own fingertip, one eye open to gauge at his reaction.

Solomon furrowed his brows, lowering his sword. “God…?”

You smile, resting on one of the larger rocks. You spoke not a word, but your cheeky smile and prominent glow at the ends of yours hair settled your case. You weren’t just some creepy owner of a secluded island that doesn't seem to appear in any of the olden maps. No. Of course you had to be a god.

This was bad. Very very bad. Solomon wished not to mingle with the gods. 

Solomon wished that you weren't a god. 

“But fear not, I bring no pain!”  you reassure. “We’re stuck in paradise. Where no one can come and go, as my island stays unknown—”

“This is no paradise.”

You raised a brow. Had you heard it correctly? It was a plethora of beautiful flora and fauna. “What are you talking about?”

Solomon only shook his head, giving a coy, but per say partly polite smile. “I won’t be drawn to ‘love in paradise’. Get me out this instant.”

“Oh! You really are such a fool.” You pout. Your eyes scan over him, lifting your hand to your chin. Humming, you spot a small, beautiful hyacinth blooming beneath the rock. You crouched to pick it, examining the wondrous petals.

“We could fix that starting with this bit of hair,” you said. As Solomon was about to interject, you had placed the flower up at his ear, making sure to lightly touch his skin. “Aww, poor you. I’m here now.” 

“Not ‘till the end of time.” Solomon takes a step back. “There is NO way—”

“But you’re mine,” you take a step closer once more. The man felt trapped, as every step he moved away only got you to inch closer. For gods, he expected a bit of decency. As far as he was concerned, mortals were more like puppets, only keen to serve every whim. Gods weren’t particularly opposed to mortal relationships, so why not?

Had he a choice? 

You give him a sudden, tight hug. “All mine.” 

“They’ve kept you out of your control,” Barbatos muttered, watching Solomon all the way from Olympus. 

The god pinches his temples, processing what he just saw.

Not only was Solomon truly making a barrage of avoidable mistakes, but now he's stranded in an island with a homewrecker and no crew.

"Time can take a heavy toll," the god sighed once more. He's quickly to splash along the waters, hopeful to catch small glimpses of progress. What kind? anything that can safely get him back.

'Seven years...'

It was the break of night, calm bright festive colors all reduced to the dark, lonesome blues and grays. You woke up to the cold gust of wind hitting your skin, feeling the warmth retreat back. You flutter your eyes open, only to be met with emptiness; the only indication that he was there was the subtle dent on the white silk.

You sighed, running your hand along your hair as you set up, blanket on your lap, staring at the cold bedside. You loathe the routine of getting up and fetching your lover, muttering silent prayers that he hadn’t whisked himself away and droned in hellscape. The only sign of warmth was only the moonlight peeking through the window of the wooden hut, and even that sent a chilling sensation down your spine. It was a matter of time before his thoughts would begin to unravel, and for his nightly cries to spiral.

You turned to your side, legs on the ground as you stood up from the kline.

“Solomon?” you yawned out, stretching your arms in the air before grabbing another silken sheet to cover yourself. It was during night where there were the harshest of colds, after all. Deafening silence, only exposed to the loud dining of crickets and other critters that lurk in these darkness. 

At day time, you would catch Solomon often sulking along the shoreline. His head hung low as he sat on the sand, arms crossed over his knees, pulling them closer to his body. In rare instances, he’d trace his fingers along the grains of sand, marking it with countless words, names, and symbols. 

One that stood out to you one time was his repeated scribbling of a certain phrase. You swore to have heard of it before, but watching as the perfect bed of sand and seashells instead was carved with constant repetition, seeing him grip whatever his hand got a hold on tightly as he goes to recall memories of a past he once lost.

Of how it was to be kind. “Greet the world with open arms. Relax, my friend.” 

It felt psychotic. You had to lull him out of his wicked trance before he went to hurt himself physically. Wiping off the dirt that stuck to his face, trimming his long hair to a more manageable length, and having to watch so he doesn't starve to death. He was a lot, going for hours without uttering a word or making eye-contact. Every time you nudge his arms and join you, whether it be in an act of passion or whimsy, the sparks in his eyes only continue to fade. Void of any speck of hope. 

“Solomon?” 

You call out once more. Walking out the safe confines of the hut, you went into the now quieter, eerier, more maniacal-driven call of the night. Every night, you’d wake up to sniffling whispers and faint sobs coming from the other side. You’d attempt a soft hum, hopefully soothing him to a calmer state of mind, caressing his sides and watch him twitch his body away from your touch. On more restless nights, he’d swat your wrist away before you’re able to touch him, huddled in a fecal position and shivering with the hour growing colder. 

It’s at night where you feel helpless. Every attempt proven futile, every act of service ignored or unsupported. Every word working to console him only worsens his cries. Long periods of solitude have rendered Solomon uncomfortable in the company of others. Within your shared hut he laments, and there was nothing you could do.

You find yourself at the foot of a steep cliff, all from following smudged footprints on the grass. You squint your eyes, making out a figure on top of the cliff, only illuminated by the bright moonlight as this figure stares down into the mellow waters. Slowly, as to not hopefully startle the figure, you inch closer, carefully tracing your eyes along his form.

Subtle white glow basking in the moonlight, the freshly woven chiton you made for him reflecting the rays through golden crewels of birds, waves and stars. When you made that, the symbols were supposed to represent hope and longing, a fortunate outcome if he gave you more time. Though when he adorns the garment, signs of hope turn into withering longing. Only engraved memories of the past that forever haunts him.

He stood as still as an oakwood tree, mildly resisting the harsh waft of air. As you inch closer you reach out to him once more. So that please, he’d turn around and see you eye-to-eye.

You desperately called out for him, worrying exuding through syllables when you took a momentary pause to utter his name. It was familiar, but foreign. “Solomon?” you pleaded, fingers clenching your palm when you still see him stand there. Still. A man who can’t be moved or accept the present; always stranded in the labyrinth of the past.

“I hear them,” he uttered. Catching his breath with every word, stifling a sob with every annunciation. “All I hear are screams.” 

Solomon takes a step forward. Tiny pebbles drop themselves towards the water. Ripples that marked tiny specks of heaven sunken beneath the surface. You flinch, rushing towards him yet still shy of a few steps. Small comets that guide the sky fall down and crash as a meteor, falling into seas where ripples turn into tides when they reach the shore.

“‘Moni, get away from the ledge.”

“Quiet,” Solomon snarked. “You don’t know what I’ve gone through. You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed.” 

The scholars would call this anagnorisis. How a tragic hero discovers the cruel reality of his circumstance. How despite any attempt for kindness—for mercy—all is worthless in his peripeteia. Loss was something you couldn’t understand. Being alien for a majority of your life had you numb to the thought of loss just yet.

Yet.

Perhaps you were instead afraid of experiencing that loss.

“Every comrade I long knew,” you hear Solomon say. Drowning in anagnorisis. Panting. He lifts his hand up to grab tuffs of snow locks, tugging on the strands. “ Every friend. I saw them die, and… all I hear are—”

“It will be fine, dear.”

Solomon turns his to the side, as if catching even a small glimpse. You held your ground, staying firm. Comforting him with gentle melodies, singing a small ballad to soothe his nerves once more.

“ Come back inside, dear,” you said. You hesitate, inching closer but make sure to keep your pace quiet. Your voice cracks, feeling the burning drops of tears trailing down your cheek. “Love of my life, please.”

“Come back to paradise.” “Just let me close my eyes.�� 

You hear him resisting the melody, dueting your ballad with hoarse dissonance. Still, you continued, all until you were able to palace your hand on his shoulder. Squeezing it to give a blink of reassurance, pulling yourself closer to coddle him in your embrace. Though you don’t plan to hurt him. Never did, and never shall. You lean near his ears, whispering, “I know your life’s been hard. I’ll stay inside your heart.”

“If you could just see…” “All I hear are screams.” 

“I love our time here,” you pause, gulping. “I love your company, It’s just..” 

“Life would be so much worse if you had died.” “JUST LET ME CLOSE MY EYES!” 

Solomon snaps, pushing your hand away as he strides forwards, turning around and finally facing you. Finally seeing you. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? There you were, gray eyes with bits and the tiniest stars dying out in lonesome nebulae. Tears stream down the corners of his eyes as he takes erratic, shaky breaths. His hand still grabbing tufts of his own hair, running itself along it and pulling at the string begging for an ounce of control.

He noticed you, and you can vividly see the absolute madness swirling in his eyes.

“‘Moni,” you call out, grabbing both his wrists and gently grabbing him off the end of the cliff. He follows you, eyes now trailing downward, brows furrowed. His lips quivering, his lungs gasping, his hands warm from cold sweat; from all the stress of these memories.

“Please stay away from harm,” you lull him further, wrapping his arms around your waist. They’re dead, but you’re here. He wasn’t alone, you had a splendid time together. Flowers, petals, birds and bees—this was all you thought a man could ever want. There he stood, the only time ever acknowledging you since his first arrival was one of terror. One urging you to leave him. You run your thumb gently on his cheek, wiping those streams of regret.

“Stay in my open arms,” you cooed. You carefully caress his hair, your hand gliding through each silken strand. You were here, and you welcomed him to a palace where he’d otherwise may die.

You hear Solomon’s breath hitch, staring at you in shock. Irises turn into pinpricks, flinching as he grows appalled by your words. Suddenly, all in his view twisted off into blurs and blobs of a series of different hues and arrays of various colors. Shades of blue, yellow, browns and pinks littered his vision, and your form melted away into nothing but just a color of shapes.

“Moni?” Solomon could hear a voice. A voice not like yours: it wasn’t melodic, in a sing-song tone that’s as soft as the flutter of butterflies. This was more kind, more earthy, more human. And lastly, more familiar. Your voices swallowed by the whispers of a distant past, silken velvety words in a calming diction. It wasn’t yours. It was no longer you who clouded his mind.

The image of your gentle smile was gone; turned to instead to be more genuine. One of excitement. Suddenly, Solomon saw  the day at night. Sun kissed skin and curly, dark brown hair, with the figure’s bright cerulean eyes becoming clearer with the second. The hand was no longer on his cheek and the base of his neck, but tightly grabbing both his shoulders while lightly shaking him in glee.

“This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms!” the figure cheered, taking a step back and he did just as he said: he opened his arms wide open. As if welcoming Solomon in a tight embrace.

Solomon gasped, reaching his hands out. A small, hopeful smile ghosts his face. “Simeon?”

Simeon chuckled, moving his hands around before slowly, blobs and blues start to resurface along the base of his arms. Colors of light, periwinkle blue contrasted with specks of black and wave strands. 

The king’s smile fades, squinting his eyes to focus more on the mysterious figure that his friend was holding. 

These blobs and sharp shapes of diamonds and triangles instead morphed into the innocent figure of a young baby boy peacefully asleep in his blanket. Solomon’s eyes widened, even shaking his head while closing his eyes. To do a double take as to make sure the child he saw wasn’t who he thought he was.

The child from the wooden crib back at Troy. The child whom the gods had ordered him to… to…

Simeon hummed, rocking the baby in his arms. Solomon’s ears perked up from the soft, childish giggles exuding from the blanket. Simeon chuckled, letting the young prince play with his finger. “He’s wonderful,” the lad crooned, chuckling before slowly going back to a playful tune. “To think a man like Hector was able to have a child. Tell me, Moni, why didn’t we get to keep him?”

He raises a brow as he pouts to confront Solomon. Though it doesn’t last long, a simple sneer quickly puts him back in his playful act. Simeon gave Solomon one final look, nodding his head. He said: “Whatever we face, we'll be fine if we're leading from the heart.”

After that, Simeon’s figure soon faded away, carrying the down sleeping child. ‘Right,’ Solomon thought. He’s dead. He’s forever damned in the underworld; taking care of that Trojan. Although the man couldn’t help it. The image of a boy who once resembled his son before he left for war was too much for the king to bear.

And Simeon was too kind to be a father that he couldn’t be, unlike someone who would match Solomon’s lack of mercy.

“Captain?” 

There it was another voice. From Simeon’s warmth it shifted to coldness. Bitter. Solomon took a brief glance—not that you were able to perceive any coherent shape—and was only met with blurred circles and squares of gray and muted browns. And unlike Simeon, he didn’t need clarity to focus on who it was, nor was he really willing to face the obscured face. Hair and body perfectly matching a memory, yet face scribbled away as to not recall his mate’s dismay.

Solomon held his stance, tilting his head up whilst staring back at the figure. “Raphael,” he said.

Akin to the lack of facial features, Raphael never focused on his captain. Instead, as a mouth starts to clearly come into view, he seems to be talking to someone far in the distance. He’s quick to grab the handle of his sword, his grip tightening. And Raphael repeats it once more, “Captain?” 

“I have to see them.”

Solomon turned around again, as he heard a more uncanny resemblance. Instead of the ghost of the past haunting him, it was instead a clear image of himself. The only difference would be how ragged and scarred he used to look before being under Ogygia’s care. This wasn’t a blurry spectacle spawning itself to hurt it, this was just torture.

Not bearing to look at himself, he goes back to staring at Raphael. His mate’s eyes came into a clear view, and he wasn't mad. No. Instead he looked to be that he respects Solomon’s decision, but that wasn’t enough to ignore the stifling of his nose watching. “But we’ll die,” Raphael tried to reason out.

Raphael tried even as he knew that what Solomon said was final. Even with the regret lingering on right after, he was a man of his word. Even with his back facing his double, he could imagine himself hesitantly raising his hand, pointing towards his crew. Hearing the phrase he told the thunder bringer. 

“I know.” “I can’t.” 

Solomon watches Raphael’s shoulders relax. He sighs, clicking his tongue before bowing his head, only giving a cold, bitter gaze in dark, lapis irises. “How much longer till your luck runs out?” Raphael shots his gaze to the real Solomon. The flashing lights of lightning reflect at the of his shoulders and hair, illuminating a bright white light from behind. 

The roaring sounds of thunder fill the air, as the flashing grew more erratic. “Wait, no! Raphael!” Solomon exclaimed. He tries to take a step forward, but knees betray him, instead falling down to the ground. “You can’t do this to me!”

The lightning’s flickering worsens, and with ragged deep breaths, he looks up. Raphael looks down at him, shaking his head in disappointment. “How much longer till we all fall down?” he asked one last time, before closing his eyes and taking a long, deep breath.

“RAPHAEL!” 

The sky rips open. A jagged bolt of lightning arcs down, striking Raphael with a blinding flash. Time seems to stretch as Solomon watches. Horrified. The air crackles with energy, and the sound is deafening, a roar that drowns out everything else. The light envelops his mate’s body, and for a heartbeat, he was only a mere silhouette against the storm. All suspended in the surging flames of chaos. 

And all Solomon can see is the silhouette of Raphael collapsing. “No…” Solomon cries, scrambling to his feet, adrenaline surging through him as he races toward the fallen figure. “No. No. No. No..”

Each step feels heavy, every step conspires to hold him back. “Raphael!” he shouts again, desperation clawing at his throat. Once he reached where the lightning struck, it was over. Raphael’s body was no more. 

Solomon falls to his knees, grasping at coarse sand. His other hand reaches out to scramble along finely combed locks, ruffling it up in a tangled mess. “Please don’t make me do this,” Solomon wept. “Don’t make me do this.”

The voices of sirens fill the air, trapping him in an endless echo of screams, terror and revenge. Melodies of “waiting..” bounces through imaginary walls, each note striking his ears to bleed. He covers them lowers, lowering his head down to deafen the silence.

“Waiting…” Make it stop. 

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Make it stop. 

“And it’s no longer you.” Make it all stop. 

The loudest of the voices resemble yours. A loud, brash symphony that’s louder than any of his other demons. Your figure walks towards him, pulling his hands away from his and placing them on your cheek, whispering to him to open his eyes.

Your figure meshed with the colors of someone else from a distant past. As if your forms blended into one, where one can no longer be separated from the other. Washed out imagery of the bed made of trees that lies in their shared bedroom could be seen behind you, as leaves carefully drift down in a steady pace.

You smile, making him open his eyes. In a sing-song voice, you cooed. “Let me take the suffering from you.” 

Solomon was quick to hug you back, sobbing into the fabric. You playfully scoffed, caressing your hands along his hair, murmuring sweet nothings. For judgment was blurry in watery eyes. 

You also weren’t real. Not this mashed, stitched together doll that only took to keep half of your figure.

And Solomon realized that too soon, when you come tumbling down as nothing but sand along the shore. Grains clinging on to his clothes, specks reaching his eyes as they grow even more red. He can’t bear to understand. He fought to save lives, but not killing ended up leading all his men to perish. 

Had he avoided it all if he hadn’t shown mercy.

And how foolish he looked begging for it. The gods were right; he was a Greek who reeked of false righteousness. The worst kind of good for he cannot be great.

The cauldron had overflowed, as the voices grew louder once again. Taunting him as their endless comedy, in his peripeteia, suffering in anagnorisis. In a final, desperate moment, Solomon went back to the safe confines of closing his eyes. To shut himself off from the truth. To move on, and hopefully get back on track to returning to Ithaca.

His queen. His child. That was who he fought for.

Hands clenching his chest, Solomon screamed.

“BARBATOS!” 

.

.

.

Call him a fool. He’ll never allow himself to indulge in hubris once more.

a/n: this was honestly too much for the heart. so uhh, i hope you enjoy! also if anyone is able to spot all of the references then you'll be getting a small little bonus

thank you all for your support for this event, and for your patience as this was published a day late. Never fret, we still have more stories to come! and i hope you're there to follow me along through this journey.

and also, don't forget to greet the world with open arms! <3

event materlist | main masterlist | divider by cafekitsune

[maccreadysbaby]

Project: Killcode

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

😬😬 I put the song and dresses at the bottom of the post for context!

part twenty-eight

❝ DECODE ❞

SATURDAY — JULY 28 — 7:24PM

BENTLEY AND ASTEN STAYED IN THEIR ROOM FOR A WHILE. Asten didn’t cry for very long, but he did eventually take to sitting eerily silent at the desk, staring off at nothing, and it kinda made Bentley wish he were still crying. He just sort of sat on his bed, unsure of what to say. Asten never, ever acted that way — there was only one day out of the year when he went uneasily quiet, and it was the anniversary of his parents deaths. No matter what bad things happened to him, or around him, he never acted like this.

To say Bentley was concerned would be a bit of an understatement.

The only thing that finally drew them out of their room was a barrage of loud slams from the living area — someone banging on the door of their dorm.

That was the first time Bentley and Asten made eye contact for a good hour. Asten’s green eyes were dull; layered over with something like pain, like fear, and it didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. They looked like his eyes but they… didn’t, at the same time. When Bentley was around him, he could feel a new sort of tangible emptiness that followed him around like a cloud everywhere he went. 

It hurt Bentley to see him like that. He hadn’t acted like that in a long time — not since he was on a roof with Jason holding a gun to his own head. Since then, he’d been so rock solid and level headed that Bentley thought Asten was unmovable.

But all it took was a girl and he was… unraveling. At an alarming pace.

Bentley smiled supportively at him, but he was sure it looked more like a forced half-cringe. Asten just looked away and stood up.

With a sigh, Bentley followed suit, rising from his bed and heading to the door. He grabbed the knob and, with a glance back at Asten to make sure he was ready, twisted it.

Before his eyes, he watched Asten’s entire demeanor change — the emptiness vanished from his expression, his eyes went from dull to shiny and bright in a flash, and he looked…. normal. Content. Like he was watching him build a brick wall right before his eyes to separate his feelings from the him everyone else saw.

He wondered how often Asten did that. He seemed… good at it.

Nonetheless, Bentley swung their door open just in time to see Varian swing the dorm’s door open. He couldn’t see who was on the other side, because the door was in the way, but he and Asten filed out of their bedroom anyhow.

“Hey!” Varian said, and his chipper tone let Bentley know that it was at least someone he liked. (Not that that meant much, seeing as Varian was pretty much friends with everyone in the school.)

“Hey!” An all-too familiar, bubbly, high-pitched voice called in response. Layla stepped through the door and glanced around at them. Bellamy hadn’t moved from the couch, and Koa was still at the table, but now, Rockie and Valor were posted up on the couches and bean bags, too. Her light eyes bounced between the seven of them. “Ah, I caught all of you!”

She was wearing what looked like a white dress, but with a Redwood Academy crewneck over the top of it, so it looked more like a shirt and skirt. She had on these big platformed white tennis shoes that made her a few inches taller than she really was. Her blonde hair was tied in a big knot on the top of her head.

“Okay, hi! Here’s the thing,” She stated, glancing around at all of them with an amused smile. “Who, out of all of you, is going to the dance tonight?”

Bentley glanced over at the rest of his roommates, and they all glanced at each other, his gaze catching on Rockie, Valor, and Bellamy in quick succession. Not a single one of them moved. (At least Bentley wasn’t alone in his refusal to attend social events.)

Layla made an exasperated sound, and her expression pulled into a frown. “None of you?!”

When no one responded, but simply looked between each other again, she rubbed her hand over her face with a groan. “Okay, well, that won’t work.”

“What’s up?” Varian questioned, sitting down on the dining bench and tilting his head at her (very much like a dog, Bentley thought.)

She glanced over at him, then looked between everyone else with a cheeky smile, her blue eyes lingering on Bentley’s brown ones for a beat longer than the rest that made him feel funny. “Yeah, well, the thing is — you all have to go.”

Bentley glanced over at Rockie when he grumbled: “What?” With an incredibly unamused look on his face.

It wasn’t mandatory, was it?

“Before you get all offended, let me tell you why,” She started, kicking their door closed with her white shoe. “It’s because me and my roommates have a surprise for you guys. But we can only show you at the dance.”

A surprise, but only at the dance? Bentley furrowed his brow and glanced over at Asten, who looked equally unsure. There was a long moment of silence.

“Yeah, this feels like a trap,” Valor muttered, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at her. “What’re you up to?”

“It’s not a trap! Promise!” Layla replied, holding her hands up in surrender. “Dead serious. There’s going to be something we want you to see there.”

Bentley glanced at Asten, who glanced back at him. Whatever Layla was trying to get them to do, he was about ninety-nine point nine percent sure it would be harmless. She wasn’t mean, and she didn’t want anything bad to happen to them, let alone by her own hand. So even if she did have something mischievous planned, it was probably no more than a funny prank.

There was a deep sigh, and Bentley glanced back at Valor, who sat himself up straighter on the couch. “We don’t even have anything to wear,” He continued.

“Just wear the button ups and pants from your uniforms!” She exclaimed, getting this triumphant look on her face like she’d come up with that before she even knocked on their door.

Bentley heard Koa snicker. “We’re gonna walk in matching. Like one direction.” 

“Oh, c’mon! Don’t be so stubborn!” Layla tutted. “You don’t even have to stay the whole time, just for a little while. It would mean a whole lot to a certain someone if you could make it.”

Varian hummed. “And who is this someone?”

“It would give away the surprise if I told you!” Layla rebuddled, putting her hands on her hips. “Look — please just swallow your pride and show up. For just a little while. Please? It’s important.”

Bentley, again, looked to the rest of his roommates to gauge their answers. 

“I’ll go. Can’t hurt anything,” Varian shrugged, glancing back at everyone else. 

Valor exhaled heavily, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah, sure, you’ve convinced me.”

“That’s a yes for all of you, then?” She asked, smiling like a dork as her eyes flicked to the remaining roommates. A myriad of sure and I guess rang through the room, and finally, her blue eyes met Bentley’s again. And she looked so excited and hopeful…

He inhaled. “Yeah. I’ll go.”

“Yay!” She squeaked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I’m so excited! See you there!”

Then she bounced back out of their dorm, shut the door, and everyone sighed collectively.

“Well,” Valor sighed. “I guess we better start getting ready, then. It starts in, like, an hour.”

Bentley sighed lightly, glancing over at Asten, who glanced back at him.

Per usual, he found himself doing the thing he repeatedly said he wasn’t going to do.

(Yay…)

—

Bentley felt like a fish out of water walking from their dorm to the Einstein building, where the gym was, despite wearing the exact same thing everyone else was wearing. Most other guys they’d seen on the way were wearing it too, actually, using their uniforms to double as formal wear.

Bentley wasn’t quite sure what to make out of the whole dance surprise thing. He trusted Layla, but he also… just didn’t really want to go. Bellamy had opted out by simply not coming out of his room, and now, as he and the rest of his roommates crossed the campus looking like a boyband, Bentley was starting to wish he had, too. The sun was going down, making everything glow gold. He could see sparkly dresses around the front doors as they drew nearer.

“This is gonna be the longest night of my life,” Asten grumbled to Bentley as they walked. He was staying close to his right side, just as uncomfortable and awkward as he was. “School dances are not my scene.”

“Yeah…” Bentley replied. “Maybe we won’t have to stay long.” He wasn’t sure why, but the familiar feeling of anxiety was starting to buzz under his skin again. (Weren’t dances kinda like galas?)

Asten inhaled. “Maybe…”

Valor, Rockie, Varian, and Koa were all walking ahead of them, toward the Einstein building. The seven of them had collectively managed to make themselves look at least a little less like they’d been lazing around all day — the only one of them that looked a little different was Valor, because he was still wearing the cowboy hat he never took off. (And he had wings, but Bentley didn’t think that counted.)

They barely made it to the front of the building before someone was squealing from off to the side. 

They all turned, and Layla clicked up next to them. (Had she been waiting outside the whole time to see if they’d come?)

“You came!” She exclaimed with a little bounce. She looked starkly different than she had earlier — now, she was wearing a short pink dress with sparkly dots all over it, and short, white, strappy heels. Her blonde hair was down and curled, and she had really sparkly makeup on her eyelids, just the right shade of pink to make her blue eyes look brighter. Her wrists and ears and neck were all adorned with shiny jewelry that looked really expensive. She seemed giddy — smiling like a lunatic with her really glossy lips and Bentley looked away. 

She was… pretty.

“What kind of friends would we be if we said no?” Valor replied with a snicker. “You’re just lucky we like you enough.”

“C’mon, you guys! It’s about to start!” She announced, grabbing onto Varian’s wrist and jerking him through the open doors.

(Varian seemed closer to Layla than the rest of Bentley’s roommates. He wondered why.)

The five remaining roommates shared glances with each other, and with an amused shake of his head, Valor led them inside.

It was… interesting, inside the gym. They’d decked the entire place out with pastel colored streamers and balloons and confetti and all the things that reminded Bentley of birthday parties. There was an extremely long table against the rightmost wall, lined with food and drinks and the like, and a few tables for sitting. Quiet pop music was playing in the background, and there was a big stage against the leftmost wall, with instruments but nobody to play them. The lights were off inside — most of the visibility was coming from colored spotlights on the stage and a few little lights here and there around the gym.

Bentley glanced around for anything that might look like a surprise, but came up with nothing. He couldn’t seem to see much through the probably hundreds of students spread across the gym, talking and laughing and dancing. The guys were all in variations of what Bentley and his roommates were wearing, while the girls were all in sparky, bright dresses.

It was… weird.

“Hey, you guys came!”

Someone else was approaching them — Bentley, thanks to the voice, quickly realized it was Summer. She was wearing a greenish-blue sparky dress, shorter than Layla’s, with tiny spaghetti straps and ruffles on the bottom. She was wearing very sparkly heels that made her about a head taller than him, and her hair was in a curled ponytail, putting her bright blue makeup on display. She settled into place next to Layla.

“Hi,” Koa replied way too fast. Bentley glanced over at him and, even in the dim light, he could see that his face had flushed bright red at her appearance.

Summer chuckled at him. “Like what you see?” She questioned, and when Koa didn’t respond, (his mouth was just open.) she continued: “Oh, I almost forgot! The afterparty starts at ten at Mason’s house — fifteen plus. Don’t be late.”

Summer‘s brown eyes flicked between Koa, Rockie, Asten, and Valor, then she winked and walked away, heading back into the crowd with Layla hot on her heels.

Koa quickly followed her with a: “Hey, Summer!” He fell into step beside her, and Bentley watched the three of them disappear into the sea of teenagers.

Varian snorted, crossing his arms. “He’s such a sucker.”

“I think he’d jump off a cliff if she told him to,” Valor replied.

Bentley glanced at the tables and floor full of students, then between his roommates. They were all just standing awkwardly near the wall, including himself. (What did a bunch of guys usually do at a school dance?) Varian and Valor were just sort of standing. Asten was to Bentley’s left looking extraordinarily uncomfortable, with his arms folded over his chest, his eyes repeatedly scanning the room. Maybe he was looking out for Georgia?

Rockie was on Bentley’s right. He, too, was scanning the room, but with a more concerned air about him. 

Bentley creased his brow. “You okay?”

Rockie glanced down at him, and his inhuman green eyes were almost… glowing? In the darkness. “Oh, yeah. Just looking for Georgia. I know she’s here somewhere.”

Bentley looked away so Rockie didn’t see him cringe. If Georgia had made a habit out of cheating, and she thought Rockie wasn’t going to the dance, then that meant she could be…

Bentley shook his head and promptly stopped thinking about it. “I’ll let you know if I see her.”

With that, Rockie looked back out at the crowd.

Bentley scanned the room again. It was strange… he’d heard about dances and stuff, but never thought he’d be at one. There were boys and girls dancing together, and groups of friends chit-chatting, but… he wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole thing, really. It just felt… awkward.

Luckily for him, it didn’t seem his roommates were the most comfortable either. Because they all just stood there.

Asten leaned closer to Bentley with a quiet sigh: “This is already going very well.”

“Extraordinarily,” Bentley replied. “How long did Layla say we had to stay here?”

“She said not the whole time,” He shrugged. “Not sure how long that means.”

Bentley leaned up against the wall, sort of wishing he had chosen to stay with Bellamy in the dorm. He and his roommates seemed to be the only people in the room that had no clue what they were doing.

“Oh wow, the Island of misfit toys decided to show up,”

Bentley exhaled heavily and leaned his head back against the wall at the voice, closing his eyes and praying that maybe the owner would disappear if he thought about it hard enough.

They did not.

“What do you want, Tyler?”

Bentley opened his eyes again at Valor’s voice, and Tyler, along with three other guys he had never seen before, were standing in front of them, looking all smug and cocky like they’d already done something worthwhile. They were wearing their uniforms as well — all but Tyler, whose button-up was black instead of white and blended in with his pants.

(Bentley could tell he felt really cool and edgy in the black button up.)

“Nothing, just making conversation,” Tyler replied with a nonchalant shrug, crossing his arms and looking out at the crowd. “It looks like your siren’s already wandered off to seduce the chaperones.”

Bentley furrowed his brow. Was he talking about Koa? Seducing teachers?

“Listen, coming over here just to be an ass isn’t impressing anyone,” Valor continued, crossing his arms, too. “Especially not Summer. Actually… I think she’s out there enjoying herself with our siren.”

He pointed to the center of the room, and everyone's eyes followed his finger to where Koa and Summer were talking and laughing in the crowd.

Tyler got this ugly look on his face, and he turned back to them with a huff. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it, then closed it. He looked at Summer, then back, and then he groaned: “Piss off!” And walked away, his flock of goons in tow.

Rockie sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How does he stand himself?” He muttered. “I’m nice and I can hardly stand myself.”

“I think he lives in his own world where he’s, like, famous or something,” Varian shrugged, crossing his arms, too. “His heads so big he could hardly fit through the doors.”

Bentley snickered lightly, imagining Tyler sporting a car-sized head and trying to make it fit through a doorway.

And suddenly, the lights dimmed, and Bentley quickly realized it was because the stage lights got brighter. The chatter quieted a little as students turned curiously toward the other end of the gym. 

“Hey, come on! Come on!” Layla seemed to materialize out of absolutely nowhere, beckoning them further out onto the floor, closer to the stage. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet all excitedly. “You’ve gotta see! This is your surprise!”

Bentley glanced at his roommates, and they all glanced at each other. When none of them moved, Layla grabbed someone and pulled them out onto the floor with a blinding smile, and Bentley almost had a heart attack.

Because it was him.

One second, she was ten feet away, and the next she had grabbed his hand and jerked him across the room with no hesitation. His mind seemed to blank all of a sudden, and with no choice but to follow, Bentley focused on keeping his feet under him and not bumping into people as Layla dragged him into the crowd. (As opposed to letting himself think about the fact that he was holding hands with a girl.)

Layla didn’t stop until they were at the foot of the stage, releasing Bentley’s hands and clapping excitedly, bouncing some more. “This is gonna be so cool!” 

Bentley glanced up at the stage, eyes bouncing across the instruments and things that were set up on it. There was a microphone right in the middle, but there was also a piano, two electric guitars, and a drumset spread around on it.

He remembered that Rockie said students played the dance. With the way Layla was acting, maybe she knew who was playing; maybe that was the surprise. (It would be better than something embarrassing.)

“Wayne!”

Bentley’s stomach dropped at the sound of the voice. 

With a sharp inhale, he turned, and a familiar tall blonde strutted up to him. Chloe’s hair was curled all down her back with little braids near the front, and she was wearing a tiny red dress with sparkly designs all over it. Her bedazzled heels were perhaps the tallest at the whole dance, and it made her, like, two heads taller than him. Her makeup and jewelry were blindingly sparkly.

Bentley crossed his arms. “Chloe.”

Chloe’s gold-lined brown eyes raked up and down his appearance, then flicked to something behind him. He saw Layla shift out of the corner of his eye, closer to him, like she was trying to hide.

“I should’ve expected it was her you were coming with,” She hissed, crossing her arms, looking unimpressed. “For a Wayne, you have bad taste. She’s dressed like a toddler’s babydoll.”

Bentley saw Layla shift again. 

He exhaled lightly. “At least she’s wearing clothes. You need some pants.”

Chloe gawked at him, her mouth snapping open with an ah sound, and she looked down at her dress nervously. “I look great in this!”

“Maybe you would, if I didn’t have to squint to see it,” Bentley replied coldly. “Don’t you have someone else to go flash?”

Chloe made an offended noise, opening her mouth, then closing it, then jabbing an accusatory red-painted finger in his face. “You are an asshole!”

And for a second, she looked… hurt. A familiar pang of guilt streaked through Bentley’s chest, and he uncrossed his arms, standing there kinda awkwardly.

Bentley opened his mouth again, but when he did, the deafening SHRRING! of an electric guitar pierced the air so suddenly it made him jump. The stage lights started flashing wildly, making it difficult to see — but he managed to spot five figures moving on the stage within the darkness. There was a boy at the drums, a boy at the piano, and two boys on the guitars, but they looked to be much older than him. The fifth person, the one at the microphone-

The stage lights cut on blindingly bright, all focused on the singer, who was…

Vera?

The entire place seemed to go pitch black besides the colorful lights that were shining on her. As opposed to her typical style, she was wearing a short, tight black dress with long, sheer, flowy sleeves, the whole thing adorned with floral sequin designs that shined a bright iridescent in the lights. Her hair was curled near perfectly, the purple streaks blending with the black and giving it more of a raven look. She wasn’t wearing much makeup apart from some shiny silver eyeliner and a deep lipstick, and her shoes — they were silver combat boots, in true Vera fashion.

Her eyes trailed across the crowd, sticking on a few people here and there before her brown irises locked with his. 

He hoped he wasn’t being spoken to, because, for some reason, he couldn’t really hear anything. The lights must’ve been really dark, because he couldn’t really see anything else, either. He just watched as the corners of her lips curved into a subtle smile and she brought the microphone up to her mouth.

He didn’t recognize the song they were playing, but her eyes didn’t leave his when she started singing. The first words were: “How can I decide what’s right when you’re clouding-“ HE COULD’VE SWORE SHE WINKED AT HIM WHEN SHE SAID CLOUDING? “-up my mind?” 

Suddenly, someone nudged his arm. “Careful, you’re starting to get those shiny eyes.”

He finally looked away and glanced over to find that Asten had weaved his way up to them, and was looking at him with this sort of knowing, amused look on his face. Chloe was gone.

Bentley scrunched his face up. “Shiny eyes?” 

“You know what I’m talking about. Like how Babs starts talking about something all science-ey and Dick looks at her like she hung the moon. The eyes get shiny. Shiny eyes,” Asten explained.

“Oh,” Was Bentley’s reply. Then, as it began to dawn on him exactly what that implied, he gasped lightly, turned on a dime and punched Asten in the shoulder. It wasn’t that hard, but the older boy laughed and flinched away anyways. “What?! My eyes aren’t shiny!”

“I said starting!” Asten defended, batting Bentley’s hand away. “I’m just telling you what I see!”

“Well you’re seeing wrong!” 

With a snicker, Asten replied: “Okay…”

“Asten,”

“Okay, B, okay,” He laughed.

Bentley crossed his arms and promptly turned his eyes away from the stage, instead, glancing over at Layla, who was bouncing and clapping again. 

Far past Layla, beyond the crowd and through a doorway with a locker rooms and bathrooms sign, was Chloe, and she was…

Crying.

Bentley suddenly felt that familiar drowning in guilt kind of feeling again. (Why couldn’t he ever feel just a little guilty, like everyone else?)

He wasn’t sure what came over him, or what willed him forward, but he found himself pushing through the crowd anyway.

Only, when he got to the opening, the long hallway, lined with doors, was empty. How was he supposed to know where she went?

Suddenly, one of the doors near the other end of the hall opened, and in true Bentley fashion, instead of being normal, he smushed himself into the nearest doorframe and hoped no one could see him.

Down the hallway, he saw two people come out of one of the locker rooms facing away from him — a boy and a girl. The girl was wearing a black dress with silver stars on it, and her hair was black, and loose, burned into thick curls that seemed kind of messy. The guy was tall, and seemed much older than Bentley, but he couldn’t tell much about him besides the close-cut blonde hair.

Then someone else came clicking in from another room — a ponytail and a blue sparkly dress. 

Summer.

“Stop, stop, shut up, get back in there,” She ordered, waving her hands around frantically. “Rockie’s here!”

That’s about when it dawned on Bentley that the girl with the black hair was Georgia, just without the braids.

He heard Georgia gasp. “He said he wasn’t coming!”

“I know, but Layla- just-“ Summer looked behind her quickly, obviously very stressed and anxious. She waved her hands at them again. “Jesus, you look like you just got home from a shift at a strip club. Fix your hair and get your makeup off of his face! Your dress is riding up and falling off your shoulder! Why are you even leaving like that?! Anyone could tell you’ve been… Jesus. Georgia, just go! Now!”

Georgia and whatever blonde guy fumbled their way back into the door they’d come out of, and Summer slammed it shut, exhaling heavily. 

“God…” She murmured, shaking her head. “Just keep your hands to yourself for one freaking night.”

Bentley watched in silence as she did a few anxious laps around the hall, ran her hands over her hair several times, and then huffed, walking back into the main part of the gym looking less than pleased.

Why did he have to be right about Georgia?

--

tag list that never works lmao

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun

@xiaonothere

@skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy

[strykingback]

Jaune Arc. The most HORRENDOUS example of a FUCKING KNIGHT.

Trigger warning for this being a drunk as hell post because I decided to drink after a long day of Valentines BS and wanting to make thi post to make one teensy weensy Jaune Stan mad.

Oh yes Rooster Teeth and CRWBY I'm gonna fuckin' shit all over your useless-ass knight character. Why? Because I fuckin' can. So eat a whole ass fucking dick.

So you know Jaune Arc from RWBY right? Literally the "knight character" of the series right. WELL FUCKIN' WRONG. Cause this knight is the example of "I Wanna Be the Main Character" syndrome and literally betrays everything that a knight is meant to do.

So as we know Jaune is meant to be a reference or referred by his naming convention to the actual JOAN OF ARC

Joan of Arc who is well known as history's most bravest female knight of all time. Who had managed to push back many British soldiers all while she received a vision from God in order to continue her rage against the British invaders during the Hundred Years War. Now if we're talking about the Arthurian Legend then this talk would be hella different.

Now starting things off. What pisses me off the most is why wasnt Jaune a fucking woman to kick things off. Like one of the most influential knights in human history being reduced to a secondary wannabe "I wanna be the MC" head-ass boy. Like not gonna lie it would have been much better if he was one cause it would have made a lot more sense if their semblance was seeing events before they happened which woulda made more sense and would have fit Jaune's historical illusion.

But naw. Make his semblance the generic. "I Need Healing" head-ass.

now this would mean that he would be following the Code of Chivalry which this useless-ass knight has failed in so many levels. Take note that there are two Code's of Chivalry one from the Song of Roland and one from the Arthurian Legend of King Arthur. and the following two state.

Song of Roland’s Code of Chivalry: 

Fear God and His Church Serve the liege lord in valor and faith Protect the weak and defenseless Live by honor and for glory Respect the honor of women

King Arthurs version of the Code of Chivalry: 

Honor Honesty Loyalty Valor

Immediately right off the bat we know for certain that Jaune does not respect the honor of women especially in Vol 9 where Ruby has a whole ass mental break down but Jaune says "Oooh I M THE MAIN CHARACTER! YOUR JUST A FUCKIN' BITCH AND YOU NEED TO LET ME HAVE THE SPOTLIGHT" like tell me that is immediately a massive fail especially when Jaune had respected Pyrrha so much so to the point where this man had multiple different arcs over the course of what. six fucking seasons and still has not gotten over her death. Now yes he did follow through with Penny's Idea.... which was a horrendous idea not gonna lie....

Dude shes fuckin' dead. MOVE ON WITH THE LESSONS SHE HAS TAUGHT YOU. YA FUCKIN' REDDIT MOD LOOKING HEAD-ASS!!!!

Next would have to be Honesty has he literally cheated to get in. Now I count this as a half fail. cause he did prove to have potential in the earlier seasons of RWBY but at the same time. He lied to get into Beacon Academy. which only made me think.... what did Monty cook up for him before Rooster Teeth and CRWBY fucked everything . Another would have to be Loyalty which is a hardcore fail. As he assisted RWBY (aka the four terrorists) into literally destroying an ENTIRE FUCKIING KINGDOM. Actually TWO if you're counting Mantle. Which is just fucking stupid cause this man would warn people and then suddenly everything has to focus around him like once again "Main Character Syndrome." instead of Ruby Rose who IS SUFFERING IN VOLUME NINE!!! Oh Oh Oh. but wait theres more.

but then when Ruby does the Unalive congo and everyone is shocked.. guess what everyone has to hug Jaune cause he is going through shit. When Ruby had it worse!!!

Aka The Four Dumb Fucks who wont realize their Leader just unalived themselves and they just hug the "Main Character Syndrome: Jaune who is going through it instead of mourning Ruby.

What is there in Honor for a man who barely can honor a friends death no less in the "possible afterlife"

Valor- Dude is the example of I'm a fuckin' coward and I need assistance in order to harm the big fuckin' bad.

Loyalty- Jaune " I followed my friends to destroy an entire Kingdom" Arc.

Everybody Jaune Arc. Is Full o' bullshit and he is the worst example of a fuckin' knight who should never get an arc again!

[yunessa]

I feel sometimes my friend, as if I have done this a hundred times. There is a horror to the curse I bear, yes. But there is something far worse in life. Seeing someone you care for leave this life, no matter how peacefully or bravely they go into the night. No amount of valor or honor will see that person’s eyes open or make the hand you so desperately grasp for become warm.

No, you grasp at a shell and your tears are a thousand times more sharp than the cold bite of winter. People try to comfort you- surely Pharasma will be kind they say, surely their god would welcome them- they mean well in their attempt to comfort you. But in my anguish, I only want to hurt them.I want to recoil from the comfort they think they give me with their hugs and warm hands. For the more they comfort me, the more I know that the loss of you will never fill. 

Their warm hands and  affection gives me no comfort. It hurts me worse. I feel cold, numb to their attempts and their words are starting to sound rehearsed. I can hear it in the sounds, when they stumble and correct themselves or in the wooden, brittle words they utter. I was stabbed with a heavily rusted sword once. It hurt less than hearing them speak.

They claim they hope I heal soon. They hope my wounds will heal and with time I will drink less. Perhaps they’re right that with time the wound of the loss will scab. In its place will be a hollow left behind that cannot be filled by another. Time does not heal all wounds. Sometimes it merely dulls the pain briefly.

We all mourn. But what I have lost is one of the reasons life was worth living and in this crusade has made me realise how much I have truly lost. For myself and for those times I look out the window to see the graveyard at the walls of Drezen.

You see the best of those crusaders and people here, how hard they fight, how bitterly they push. For a better tomorrow, for green fields, and to see the amber wheat of their farms. For their families and what matters. So that there even can be a tomorrow lives must be shed. Someday, they say, my friend, that Sarkoris will be green and Mendev will know peace.Someday, they whisper the words like a prayer. Because hope keeps them here, when everything outside of Drezen’s walls wants them dead or worse.

I have trouble imagining that possibly peaceful future now. Each loss in this Crusade scars me a little more. I have seen the best men march to their deaths to buy mere seconds for others. I have seen weak men give up in the face of reality. I have seen heroes break under their trauma. I have seen people who I never guessed had any strength at all become heroes more worthy of song than any other. I have seen the good and bravery of those here as much as I have seen the darkness and horror that lingers in the worldwound.

And I have realised that I cannot leave this place.

 Idyllic dreams, a better future- what is any of those things when you are not with me? Even if the Crusade was won tomorrow with not another life lost and Sarkoris turned green and lush overnight, it means nothing. You are not there to see it so the victory is hollow. None of it will matter without you there. I could open the door for somebody and feel the same level of cheer for all that victory would matter to me now.

Perhaps when this war ends I will find another place to throw myself towards, another war perhaps or another battle, if I can bear to leave you. Perhaps I should trust myself with the amount of drinks I have had.

But I have an idea. A possibility that might make this right.

And may you forgive me, but I must try.

With that I will end this letter and leave it somewhere that it may travel to you. it is said gifts to the dead are delivered so I will leave the drink I had the first time I saw you and flowers that remind me of you. Pray for my success as I will leave Drezen in the early hours.

All my love,

Yunessa

[silverjetsystm]

REPOST & LIST 6 SONGS THAT INSPIRE YOU TO WRITE YOUR MUSE .

This got long because I did some for each.

Cut.

The Killing Moon (All Night Version) - Echo & The Bunnymen (aka Marc's canonical ringtone).

Under blue moon, I saw you So soon you'll take me Up in your arms, too late to beg you Or cancel it, though I know it must be The killing time Unwillingly mine

V - Cyberpunk 2077, Marcin Przybyłowicz

Sheyn vi di levone - Gevolt

You are as beautiful a the moon, you are as bright as the stars, you have been sent to me from the heavens, you are a gift from above. I found my happiness when I saw you. You made my heart happy - you are as beautiful as a thousand suns.

Norra El Norra (Entering The Ark) - Orphaned Land

Nora El Nora, the lord of courage Return to me my lord, mend my wounds My soul is yearning, and in valor we wait Nora I sing to thee, hymn of praise To you I give my life and faith Through all time, mighty Nora Deliver us the progany of Abraham Offspring of greatness You are the living God Giver of Torah

Dead Don't Die - Shinedown

The dead don't die, the heart still beats Head held high, I haunt these streets Life's killed me a hundred thousand times You can try, you can try, but the dead don't die

Not Changing Pops, Seeking - Nightlab

I'm not changing pops, I'm seeking And I hear what you're preaching But this drowsy inanition can't stay I am screaming out this seance While a spectral love is playing with the lights It just ain't right

Everybody Knows - Leonard Cohen

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed Everybody knows the war is over Everybody knows the good guys lost Everybody knows the fight was fixed The poor stay poor, the rich get rich That's how it goes Everybody knows

Hymn For The Weekend - Coldplay

Oh, angel sent from up above You know you make my world light up When I was down, when I was hurt You came to lift me up Life is a drink and love's a drug Oh, now I think I must be miles up When I was a river dried up You came to rain a flood

Main Theme From Goncharov - Jordan Dean

My Love - Florence & The Machine

There is nothing to describe Except the moon still bright against the worrying sky I pray the trees will get their leaves soon So tell me where to put my love Do I wait for time to do what it does? I don't know where to put my love

Inner Emigration - Daniel Kahn, Painted Bird (there is a reason why I chose a very Jewish song without any Yiddish nor Hebrew for Mr. Grant)

So make a kind of inner emigration It's a kind of shift accomplished easily We all have made our disassociations Whether on the job or in our family And what could be more irrelevant than nations When everywhere you go, it's buy or sell? But if we all make only inner emigrations Then everything will only go to hell

11:11 - Ben Barnes

I wish for you to be happy I wish for you to be free I wish for you to be fearless That's wishes one, two, and three And I won't wish to be yours or for you to be mine But I'll wish them all for you every time

Dance the Night - Dua Lipa (while themes could be Grant, this wound up becoming a driving song. per the Wall Street/Main Street Treaty of 20XX, it's a Jake song)

Watch me dance, dance the night away My hеart could be burnin', but you won't see it on my face Watch me dancе, dance the night away (Uh-huh) I'll still keep the party runnin', not one hair out of place

March of the Jobless Corps - Daniel Kahn, Painted Bird (Jake speaks Yiddish. Jake is a union man TM. While I see and write Jake as the most observant of the system, he also loved stories of those Jewish secular socialists. Kahn and the Painted Bird represent Jake versus Grant's CEO materialism and Marc's violence.)

Well one, two, three, four Join the Marching Jobless Corps No work in the factories No more manufacturing All the tools are broke and rusted Every wheel and window busted Through the city streets we go Idle as a CEO Idle as a CEO

[Honestly, I listen to a lot of Daniel Kahn when I write Jake so just take a look at his albums and you'll get an idea]

tagged by @biitchcakes

[clove-pinks]

Perry's Victory on Lake Erie

The best version by Lee Murdock (on The Lost Lake Sailors album) of "Perry's Victory On Lake Erie" is also on YouTube, if you don't have Spotify.

I've searched in vain for the lyrics and finally ended up transcribing them myself! Feat. USAmericans consistently called "Columbians" and some potent nationalism.

--

You tars of Columbia give ears to my story

Who fought with brave Perry, whose cannon did roar:

Your valor has gained you an immortal glory, and fame that will last until time is no more.

On the tenth of September let us all remember, as long as the globe on its axis reels round,

Our tars and marines on Lake Erie were seen

To make the red flag of proud Britain come down.

Columbian tars are the true sons of Mars, who rake fore and aft when they fight on the deep.

On the bed of Lake Erie, commanded by Perry, they caused many Britons to take their last sleep.

The van of our fleet was brought up complete,

Commanded by Perry the Lawrence bore down.

Our guns they did roar such terrific power, that savages trembled at that dreadful sound.

The Lawrence sustained the most dreadful of fire, she fought three to one for two glasses or more,

whilst Perry undaunted did firmly stand by her, and on the proud foe heavy broadsides did pour.

Her masts being shattered, her rigging all tattered, her sails all in ribbons her wheel shot away—

With few left on deck to manage the wreck, our heroes on board her no longer would stay.

There was one gallant act of our noble commander, whilst writing my song I shall notice with pride:

When launching the smack that carried his standard, the ball whistled through her quite close by his side.

Said Perry, "Those villains intend sure to drownded us, but push on my brave boys you need never fear."

And then with his coat he plugged up the boat, and through sulfur and fire away he did steer.

The famed Niagara, now proud of her Perry, displayed all her banners in gallant array,

While twenty-five guns on board she did carry, which soon put an end to this sad bloody fray. 

The fire of the Britons grew shorter and shorter, the signal was given to break through their line.

While starboard to larboard and from every quarter, 

The guns of Columbia gloriously shine.

In the heat of the battle, whose cannon did rattle, on the Lawrence, a wreck, with her men near all slain, 

Brave Elliott did steer as they brought up the rear, and by this grand manoeuvre the victory was gained.

Oh had you been there, I vow and declare, that such a grand sight you had ne'er saw before! 

When six bloody flags that no longer would wave, were laid at the feet of our brave Commodore. 

The whole British fleet was captured complete, not one single vessel from us got away.

And prisoners, some hundreds, Columbians wondered, to see them all anchored and moored on the bay.

Great Britain may boast of her conquering heroes, 

her Rodneys her Nelsons and all the old crew,

But Rome in her glory ne'er told such a story

Nor boasted such feats as Columbians can do.

So Columbians sing, and make the woods ring,

And toast those brave heroes, by sea and by land.

Whilst Britons drink sherry, let us drink to Perry,

And toss it about with a full glass in hand.

Columbians sing and make the woods ring, and toast those brave heroes by sea and by land,

Whilst Britons drink sherry, let us drink to Perry!

And toss it about with a full glass in hand.

[windmilltothestars]

WIP Game

I was tagged by two glorious, wonderful friends: @general-illyrin and @thetreasurechest!! Thanks, guys <3 Rules: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs. As usual, I'm bending the rules slightly because my "WIP folder" is not one thing, I have literally hundreds of half-started stories and WIPs, even more ideas that I've scribbled down in some obscured 3rd location, and many, many that I haven't remotely thought about in years. So I'm gonna write down a couple Tolkien ones and a couple Les Mis ones - some with titles, some have "working" titles, some have titles I just invented for this list, some that are just kinda a concept - and call it good for this era of my life XD - Blessed and Beloved - Laughing at Old Grief - Ancestral Valor (chapter 2) - Mankind Was My Business - The World Is Wild and Bright - One Equal Temper of Heroic Hearts - Establishing the Squad in Ep. 1 - Weird Little Angsty Woodcutting Interlude - Finrod Does Not Regret - Young Outlaws Getting to Know Turin - These Violent Delights Have Pretty Chill Ends (chapter 3) - To Go Through Fire (chapter 4) - Songs of Salvation - The Gentle Light of the Evening-Star in Summer - All the Elf Wife Nonsense Wooo this was fun!!! And it'll be good think about them and share about them!

I'm no-pressure tagging @marietheran, @nerdy-catfish, @skeleton-richard, @scioscribe, @magnetocerebro, @dwarven-beard-spores, @whitehorsevale and @grondds-and-roses if you'd be at all interested in participating in a thing like this, and sharing anything you're working on! If not, no worries!! Thanks again <3

[majorproblems77]

Trick or treat? (I’m probably that teenager out candy hunting well after everyone with kids has gone home for the night… but who cares)

*Checks sweet bowl*

Oh here's something for you. :D

"Sky? What are you doing?"

Wind walked over to the Skyloftian and planted himself next to him. The chosen had the master sword resting across his lap as he looked out into the forest. They had been split from the others and were just taking a short break before moving on.

"Sometimes, when I feel stressed. Or We've had a particularly tough battle. I like to sit with Fi. She teaches me the songs of journeys yet to occur. There's something from all of you." The skyloftian smiled resting the sword slightly closer to the sailor as he looked to the blade.

"Oh? What does mine sound like?"

"Yours is a song suitable for long sails across the sea. A song of timeless melody, mixed with the raging storm." He turned to the sailor and offered the blade's handle to him. "Would you like to listen?"

"Yes... Yes please."

He placed a hand on the handle, the familiar feeling of holy light flowing through him as the ringing of windchimes filled his ears.

"Hello, Hero of the Winds! It is good to see you again." She chimed gently, "My master has made it known that you want to hear the song of your soul?"

"Is that okay?"

"Of course, hero of the winds. Listen along, and know your song. For it is one of valor, and bravery unmatched."

His eyes lit up with excitement as Fi began to play. She began low, gently flowing through notes. As she did the sailor could feel himself humming along. As if he knew this song and had heard it a hundred times.

Sky placed an arm around him as he listened. Smiling gently as the music flowed around them both. Melding with the sounds of the forest and each other's heartbeats.

As the song settled to its end. Wind leant into Sky. "Thanks, Sky." The sword pulsed a few times. "And thank you as well Fi."

As the music settled and silence surrounded them once more they found just a slither of peace. The gentle blowing of the wind the only sound they could hear.

Suppose they could wait here for the others. Just for a bit longer.

If you'd like to hear what song I'm referencing its The Song of Time and Song of Storms mashup by Taylor Davis.

[tinkertoysdamn]

WiP Wednesday Two for One

Two, count them two WiPs!

1) YSA, IMIWYW in progress

As promised, Carol had called Muneeba ahead of time but they still felt a little silly.  All Carol had managed to do in sending Kamala home was give her time to upload some assignments and have dinner with her family.  

Then again, considering how little time Carol and Peter had spent with their own respective families, maybe they had done her a favor.

“She’s in her room,” Muneeba told them, escorting them into her home, still partially under construction from the unexpected Kree attack.  The hole in the ceiling had a temporary patch of plywood while the drywall repairs on the walls were still unpainted.  “How long do you think you’ll be away this time?”

“Maybe a day, two tops,” Peter said, following her lead.  “It doesn’t take that long to make a planet.”

“Wait, you’re all making a planet?”  That incredulous question came from an older man, obviously Kamala’s father.

“I’m making a planet,” Peter clarified.  “Kamala’s there in case, I don’t know, the Kree renege on the treaty and we have to kick their butts or something.”

For that little comment, Peter got a soft punch in the arm from one Captain Marvel.

“Ow!  What’d you do that for?” Peter asked.

“Saying that kind of thing out loud, you should know better than that.”  So, Carol was the superstitious type?

Peter filed that information away for later.  Maybe Rocket or Mantis might want to join in on a little prank when things calmed down.

2) BABISTH Chapter 2

When the song was over Gamora demanded, “Play it again.”

This time, Quill wouldn’t comply.  The little scowl on his face was rather amusing.  “I’m not playing it for a fourth time.”

She hadn’t realized that was the case.  “Fine.”  There were other forms of entertainment Quill could provide.  “Tell me a story then.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  “What kind of story?”

“An Earth story.”  She liked those.

That gave Quill pause.  “You sure you aren’t sick of those by now?”

Gamora’s eyes narrowed.  “If I was, I wouldn’t ask.”

“So bossy,” he murmured, clearly pleased.  “Okay, once there was this lady named Mary Poppins—”  As he piloted their craft through endless space, Quill recounted the tale of a magical woman, a caretaker, and a teacher.  Her lessons of magic and wonder had healed a family, allowing them to learn to reconnect with each other.

It was a lovely tale.

“Was that a history, or a culture story?” Gamora asked.

“Culture story.”  It was pretty clear that Quill wasn’t used to anyone listening to his ramblings.  “Say, why do you like my stories so much?”  

That was a hard question to answer.  Gamora had been all over the universe causing mayhem and destruction.  Though she had technically stood on the soil of dozens, if not a hundred worlds, she knew little about any of them.  She had never bothered to learn anything of the people she helped her father trample.  Gamora had never indulged her curiosity, had never attempted to engage anyone else about their own lives.

Even her siblings she kept at arm’s length, wanting to know nothing of their pasts or their cultures.  

Thanos had no need for music or stories of valor.  She thought that she had been the same way, at least, until she met Peter Quill.

[thesmumbo]

Battlefield 2042's soundtrack is amazing

Please remember that this is all just my opinion, and that I speak as a fan of the soundtracks to Battlefield 4 and Battlefield 1.

When I heard about the disastrous launch of Battlefield 2042, I basically avoided the game entirely and didn't know anything about it besides some of the pre-launch hype. It wasn't until this year when season 4 released with a free trial that I decided to finally give the game a shot.

I was immediately hooked when I watched the introductory story trailer, which revealed a terrifying glimpse into the world of Battlefield 2042: a world devastated by rampant climate change, where all but two global superpowers have crumbled, whose refugees have all but been absorbed into a desperate war to control the last of Earth's fleeting resources.

When I was faced with this story premise, I was shocked. For one, just at the fact that a major gaming franchise like Battlefield had created such a strongly political story premise. But also, that the decision was made not to have a singleplayer story campaign, despite how incredibly inspired this story was, especially when compared to the mediocre stories of most of the other Battlefield games.

When I loaded into the main menu, I was again surprised, this time by the music. It was much grittier and noisier than in any Battlefield game I'd played before. It fit perfectly with the subject matter at hand. I was instantly immersed into the world of Battlefield 2042, and I would continue to be astonished by the game's soundscape as I played through the free trial.

After hearing what was in the game, I later listened through the full original soundtrack. The harsh electronics and industrial noise so strongly evoked the themes of apocalyptic climate change, and the desperation of humanity hoarding what little resources were left to survive.

I was amazed that such a big franchise (with its fair share of iconic, if a bit traditional music) made such a sharp turn into such visceral uncharted territory, both in terms of the soundtrack itself, and the world it had brought to life.

To talk more specifically about some of the tracks, what better way to begin than by discussing the Battlefield 2042 theme itself?

Every Battlefield game has had its own take on the original Battlefield theme, and this game is no different. I've always loved Battlefield 4's heartbeat-esque, bass-pounding Warsaw theme, as well as the Classic Theme present in Battlefield 1 - a triumphant return to an iconic classic. But Battlefield 2042...it completely dismantles any semblance of a traditional spin on that theme that goes all the way back to Battlefield 1942. No...it's one hundred years later, and Earth is an even more broken place. Battlefield 2042's theme is a profound statement on the ultimate futility of war: a mangled and atonal cavalcade, it is a complete reversal on the very same theme which once represented the heroism and valor of soldiers on the frontlines. Much like the Earth itself which mankind has fought over for thousands of years, the music itself is tired and broken as humanity enters (possibly) its final battle. It's brilliant.

Some other highlights on the soundtrack include The Observation of Beautiful Forms, Between the Bows, and 5 Degrees of Warming, which I've written some light analysis about below.

Observation is a forlorn yet uplifting funeral march featuring scratchy strings, echoing sirens, shaky static, and unmistakably industrial horns. To me, Observation conjures a heartbreaking image of humanity's incredible technological progress contrasted against its own role in destroying the very world it was born to.

Between the Bows is a riveting and intense noise jam that keeps building and building until a very cathartic release partway through the song, followed by another short passage of intense noise. I interpret this to be an illustration of the uncompromising and destructive manner that man established himself in the world by, until finally faced with a demise of his own making, leaving a peaceful, yet still fundamentally broken world.

5 Degrees of Warming is an insanely oppressive and heavy track that starts with what sounds like some kind of alarm or sonar ping system, followed by these dreadful and terrifying strings (I believe it's called a halldorophone, if it's safe to assume that Hildur Guðnadóttir composed this soundtrack with a similar instrumental palette to Joker). The track continues relentlessly, with each stroke getting heavier and louder, the repeated alternation between the two notes generating an extremely aggressive sound, reminiscent of an alarm system blaring at maximum volume. This is the sound of our world screaming for us to stop, but we just keep making it worse.

Unfortunately I didn't play during season 2 or 3, so I don't know about any of the specific tracks that were added during those seasons. I know the soundtrack was received very poorly from most Battlefield fans, so it must have been difficult to create more music for the game that was more pleasant while still complementary to the other tracks. But I still think the newer music present in the game is a nice progression of the same themes anyway. Like I mentioned before, the season 4 main menu theme is great. It really instills that sense of urgency and hopelessness of the battle at hand.

Even the song titles are thematically resonant! Irreversible, Load Bearing, When does a country stop being a country?,  Hourglass, Tipping Points...I could keep going on about how great these tracks are at establishing the atmosphere of Battlefield 2042's world, but I think you get the idea.

I know there are some people who enjoy the soundtrack, but still don't believe it fits into the game, because games are supposed to be fun, and Battlefield especially can be very lighthearted in its multiplayer gameplay. There's definitely something to be said for that, and I definitely agree that it would make for an even better film score (I would love to see the movie that Battlefield 2042 clearly wanted to be). Regardless, I still thought it was very effective at instilling a sense of dread and importance while playing, similar to the ominous airship horns in the music for the opening mission of Battlefield 1.

Anyway, I should probably conclude this way too long post about a heavily disliked soundtrack that probably nobody will even care about lol.

In my opinion, Battlefield 2042's soundtrack is a misunderstood masterpiece of purely instrumental storytelling, and Hildur Guðnadóttir & Sam Slater did an incredible job composing it.

It perfectly encapsulates the themes and aesthetics of the world that was crafted to be the background of Battlefield 2042, and the fact that it was so effective in that makes it all the more tragic that there will never be a singleplayer campaign for the game. Maybe the theoretical campaign or movie that Battlefield 2042 could've been is infinitely better in my head, but I'm still sad that this setting will probably never be fully realized in a linear narrative.

I hope that if you've read this post, you now enjoy and understand Battlefield 2042 and its soundtrack at least a little more than you did before.

[yunessa]

In-character character development questions for Yunessa!

💧 DROPLET  —  are you grieving something or someone? do you feel like you lost something or a part of yourself with it/them?

⚡️ LIGHTNING  BOLT  —  how has  the Crusade  impacted you? what has it made you realize about yourself? about others? about the world?

At a shrine made of stone surrounded by grass and stray flowers, there's a few letters left behind, set beneath offerings of wildflowers and a bottle of honeyed mead.

💧  & ⚡️ — 

I feel sometimes my friend, as if I have done this a hundred times. There is a horror to the curse I bear, yes. But there is something far worse in life. Seeing someone you care for leave this life, no matter how peacefully or bravely they go into the night. No amount of valor or honor will see that person's eyes open or make the hand you so desperately grasp for become warm.

No, you grasp at a shell and your tears are a thousand times more sharp than the cold bite of winter. People try to comfort you- surely Pharasma will be kind they say, surely their god would welcome them-. But the jaded and bitter parts of me want to lash out towards their attempts at comfort, their tightly grasping hands and the arms they hug me with. For the more they comfort me, the more I know that the loss of you will never fill. It will heal and with time I will drink less. With time the wound of the loss will scab. In its place will be a hollow left behind that cannot be filled by another. Time does not heal all wounds. Sometimes it merely dulls the pain.

We all mourn. But what I have lost is one of the reasons life was worth living and in this crusade has made me realise how much I have truly lost. For myself and for those times I look out the window to see the graveyard at the walls of Drezen.

You see the best of those here, how hard they fight, how bitterly they push. For a better tomorrow, for green fields, and to see the amber wheat of their farms. For their families and what matters. So that there even can be a tomorrow lives must be shed. Someday, they say, my friend, that Sarkoris will be green and Mendev will know peace.

I have trouble imagining any of that now. Each loss scars me a little more. I have seen the best men march to their deaths to buy seconds for others. I have seen weak men give up in the face of reality. I have seen people who I never guessed had any strength at all become heroes more worthy of song than any other.

And I have realised that I cannot leave this. Idyllic dreams, a better future- what is any of those things when you are not with me? Even if the Crusade was won tomorrow with not another life lost and Sarkoris turned green and lush, it means nothing. You are not there to see it so the victory is hollow.

Perhaps when this war ends I will find another place to throw myself towards if I can bear to leave you. Perhaps I should stop crying into this cup of whiskey. But I have an idea.

A possibility that might make this right.

And may you forgive me, but I must try.

With that I will end this letter and leave it somewhere that it may travel to you. it is said gifts to the dead are delivered so I will leave the drink I had the first time I saw you and flowers that remind me of you. Pray for my success as I will leave Drezen in the early hours.

All my love,

Yunessa

( @dujour13 Thank you for the ask!)

[your-good-pal-chevy]

Swordtember : 10 : Falcon

Seven young souls, alike in their determination, sat silent in the blackness of the city at night. They stared with hungry eyes out of the alleyways where they hid, waiting for their moment, waiting for the last second before it would be too late.

Stumbling through the night, clad in glittering armor and leaning on one another for support, came three gendarmes of the city watch.

They were drunk, of course. It was the time of the night where officers let their guard down and permitted those beneath them to indulge. Such officers, of course, spent their days writing reports and drinking wine; but that is the place of men who position themselves above others.

These three, however, were not mere pawns in the grand scheme of the city. Aimerie the Swift, who had won distinction and a cushy position after saving the life of a nobleman in some battle overseas. Beneoit of Nadreilles, known for his great stature and great appetite for fine cheeses. Florentin Estoc, so named for the blade with which he had personally slain a hundred men in various duels throughout his life.

These three were not mere pawns. They were decorated men, honored by the gendarmerie, recognized for valor in duty and extensive service. Each was a hero to their comrades. They were also great friends, who frequently got unimaginably drunk together before heading down to the slums to harass the poor and the immigrant.

The seven who watched their approach were not well known. They did not have even bynames, for such was their lot that they were seen as little more than gutter trash by all who bothered to look in their direction. Their names are recorded as Anyim, Bongani, Gregory, Marceau, Molan, Quentin, and of course their leader. The man who would eventually be named Lebuin the Falcon, but at that time was merely Lebuin.

Of these seven men, the breadth of their experiences could hardly be condensed into mere words. They each lived full lives, for ones so young, and were each well loved by their community. They were seen as mere trash, but each of them was a hero in his own right.

As the three gendarmes staggered drunk through the street, muttering the words to some highborn drinking song, Lebuin gave the signal. The gendarmes had arrived in the middle of the seven men, and the seven men sprung forth from ambush.

Beneoit, who was not wearing his helmet at the time (he had loaned it to another gendarme at the bar, who proceeded to vomit in it and pass out still clutching it for dear life), was the first to fall. A thrown knife from Molan flew like a bolt of lightning, plunging into his eye. Beneoit reached up, grasping numbly for the knife and pulled it free. A geyser erupted from his skull, and he fell forward.

Aimerie and Florentin knew not what had occurred, but they each knew enough to get their swords into their hands. Rapier and estoc both flashed, the drunken gendarmes putting their backs to each other as they took stock of the situation.

The seven men formed a circle around the pair, brandishing clubs and knives and axes, as well as a single sword. In their drunken stupor, the gendarmes weighed the situation and found their assailants wanting. They charged forward.

Aimerie's rapier found purchase on the outside of Marceau's arm, but Bongani brought his club up and smashed the blade away before it could cut down to the bone. With a roar of defiance, he pushed inside Aimerie's guard as Marceau fell back, and Bongani rammed his shoulder into Aimerie's chest.

Bongani and Aimeri were both stunned; Aimerie for having the wind knocked out of him, and Bongani for having tackled a man in half-plate; but Gregory was quick to make the most of the opening Bongani had created. He brought his axe down on Aimerie's collarbone, bludgeoning him greatly where it hammered into the metal of his armor.

Something snapped audibly. Aimerie's sword fell from his grip as he stumbled back, clutching at his collarbone. Bongani charged him again, dragging him to the ground, and Molan rushed forward to drive a knife up into his jaw.

On the other side, Florentin was faring much better than his comrades. He had cut Quentin down with relative ease, his estoc slipping past Quentin's guard and leaving a gruesome gash across his unprotected chest. Quentin fell to the ground, desperately trying to keep pressure on his wound lest he bleed out in the dirt.

Before Florentin stood only Anyim, brandishing a large cleaver and a dockman's hook. The gendarme chuckled, sensing his opponent's uncertainty, and pressed his advantage with vigor. He lunged forward with a skilled thrust, and Anyim only barely managed to deflect the blow with the hook. He brought his cleaver up to strike Florentin, but the gendarme countered with a swift punch to Anyim's wrist.

Anyim cried out, losing his grip on his weapon as Florentin's mailled hand grabbed him roughly by the arm. The gendarme laughed as he switched to a reverse grip on his sword, bringing the crossguard up to batter Anyim's face in a brutal display.

Once, twice, thrice did he strike Anyim, the hook falling from Anyim's hand as Florentin bloodied his nose and mouth.

And then, without warning, Florentin's hand fell from his wrist. His gauntlet and maille were both cut through as though they weren't even there.

Florentin stared at the gushing wound for a moment, struck dumb by its suddenness in the moment before the pain reached him through the fog. He fell to his knees, howling in agony, cradling the stump of his arm.

"Mercy," he begged, only now looking up to see the utter disdain upon Lebuin's face. Only now seeing the sword in his hands.

Lebuin raised his sword, the golden symbols upon its length glowing with intent. The last thing that Florentin saw was the pommel of that blade; a falcon's head, its expression just as disdainful as its wielder's.

Lebuin kicked aside Florentin's head as he sheathed his blade. "We need to move fast," he called out, "Whoever is uninjured, help me carry Quentin. He's losing too much blood."

Those seven did not die that night, even though they were outmatched in nearly every way. Though they were starved and poor and ill-equipped, save for the sword that Lebuin had stolen from his absentee father's grave, they prevailed over three of the worst gendarmes that their city had to offer.

"We'll escape this, some day," Lebuin said as he walked backwards, carrying Quentin by his legs. "Some day, enough of those bastards will be dead. Enough of them will be afraid. Some day, we'll be free."

"Hear hear," Quentin moaned, his chest trussed up in another man's coat, "And maybe I'll even live to bleed that day, too."

"I hear that," Marceau grumbled, clutching his own bloody arm.

"We'll make it," Lebuin assured them, "I know we will."

[makeoutcreekrpg]

⋆·˚ ༘ *@first love/last spring 初恋、去年の春：私にインスピレーションを与える音楽 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 by mitski

Be the cowboy es el quinto álbum de estudio de la cantante japonesa-americana Mitski, y el primero del tercer set de duplas de álbumes en los cuales Mitski ha clasificado su música, en el cual toma elementos de su primer y segundo álbum para crear composiciones de piano y guitarra y abordar un tema central a lo largo de la mayor parte del álbum, que le diera cohesión a su idea. Este concepto central podía ser en torno a la soledad; en el caso de Mitski, la soledad de ser un símbolo y también la soledad que significa existir y ser alguien, que a veces se siente como ser ninguna persona. Buscamos amor y sentido y exploramos nuestras relaciones a través del tiempo. Para este álbum, que es personalmente uno de los favoritos de su administradora, en vez de darles una interpretación de cada canción, les dejaremos uno o dos versos de cada canción para que les den su propia interpretación, esto porque creemos que las letras son bastante simbólicas y pueden evocar muchas diversas visiones, en vez de ajustarse a una sola situación determinada, ya que personalmente a la administración nos inspira la poética y metáfora de la lírica<3.

A. GEYSER “You're the one I want And I've turned down every hand That has beckoned me to come”

B. WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP ME? “You know me better than I do So why didn't you stop me?”

C. OLD FRIEND “At Blue Diner, I'll take coffee, talk about nothing, baby Blue Diner, I'll take anything you want to give me, baby”

D. A PEARL 1. “It's just that I fell in love with a war Nobody told me it ended”

2. “Sorry, I don't want your touch It's not that I don't want you Sorry, I can't take your touch”

E. LONESOME LOVE 1. “Why am I lonely for lonesome love?”

2. “Nobody fucks me like me”

F. REMEMBER MY NAME “Cause I need somebody to remember my name After all that I can do for them is done”

G. ME AND MY HUSBAND “And I am the idiot with the painted face In the corner, taking up space But when he walks in, I am loved, I am loved”

H. COME INTO THE WATER “Maybe I'm the same as all those men Writing songs of all they're dreaming”

I. NOBODY “Venus, planet of love Was destroyed by global warming Did its people want too much, too?”

J. PINK IN THE NIGHT “I glow pink in the night in my room I've been blossoming alone over you”

K. A HORSE NAMED COLD AIR “I thought I'd traveled a long way But I had circled The same old sin”

L. WASHING MACHINE HEART 1. “Toss your dirty shoes in my washing machine heart”

2. “Baby, though I've closed my eyes I know who you pretend I am”

M. BLUE LIGHT “Somebody kiss me, I'm going crazy I'm walking around the house naked”

N. TWO SLOW DANCERS 1. “It's funny how you always remember And we've both done it all a hundred times before It's funny how I still forgot”

2. “It would be a hundred times easier If we were young again”

𝐂𝐎́𝐃𝐈𝐆𝐎: #FLLS16_X

𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒: 180 fichas

𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐎́𝐍: 04/08. Después del 4 de agosto tiene un valor de 150 fichas.

𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒:

Para participar, debes elegir una de las canciones propuestas y entregar un escrito de mínimo 200 palabras, un poema de al menos cuatro versos, o bien una edición (visual o audiovisual).

El código se completa con la letra correspondiente a cada canción. Por ejemplo, si quieres usar "why didn't you stop me?", el código sería #FLLS16_B.

Puedes hacer una, dos o bien todas las opciones ¡No te sientas limitad-! Cada una contará por separado en tu cronología.

Recuerda compartir tu creación en el grupo PINK IN THE NIGHT y comentar la publicación con el siguiente formulario: NOMBRE + #CÓDIGO - LINK

[lumi-klovstad-games]

Brothers of the Fourth! Behold, upon this horizon crawls a foe fit for the sagas of old, a tide of chittering claws and gnashing mawls! The hive swarm stirs, its hunger casting a greasy veil upon the sun! But fret not, for we are the Redemptor Roses, thorns amongst the carrion, blades bathed in the light of dawn!

We were forged in the crucible of lies, crafted from the dust of a fallen angel! Yet, from that ash blossomed chivalry, not decay! We spurned the whispers of darkness, our hearts aflame with the Golden Rose, a beacon bright against the creeping night! Forget the whispers of tainted lineage, of the peacock lord's twisted embrace! We claim only the Fulgrim of the past, the hero before the fall, his nobility and glorious vision our guiding star!

This day, the swarm seeks to choke the light from the world of Man, to drown its song in a symphony of gore. But let them come! Let them crash upon our shields, break against our blades! We shall paint the void with their blood, a banner raised high above the battlefield! This is not merely duty, brothers, nor service to a throne. This is our crucible, our forge of glory! Our chance to etch our names upon the tapestry of eternity, in letters of fire and song!

Remember the tales of Lancelot, of Gawain, of Tristan and Iseult! Remember the ideals passed down through the ages, the noble pursuit of beauty and gallantry in the face of the hungering abyss! Today, we are their living testament, swords of valor against the howling beast! Let our bolters be their requiem, our blades their epitaph! Let our hearts beat with the drumbeat of righteous fury! Let Our Cherished Ladies of the Sororitas sing hymns of our deeds for millennia!

Onwards, warriors of the Fourth! For the Golden Way lies ahead, paved with the shattered corpses of our foes! Raise your voices, let the anthem of defiance ring across the void! Remember the Emperor, remember your oaths, remember Fulgrim Uncorrupted! For the Rose! For the Emperor! For the Phoenix Reborn! Let the swarm drown in the music of our fury!

Death, brothers! Bring Death this day with the fury of a hundred suns, with the grace of a hundred ballads! Let the xenos know the wrath of the Rose, the unwavering loyalty of Fulgrim's Faithful! For the Emperor, for Quatora Prime, for the Golden Way! Glory! GLORY!!

~Knight Captain Léonard Toutain, Redemptor Roses 4th Company, at the onset of the Fourth Tyrannic War's Battle of Cruht, M42