#actually I suppose it's less “true form” and more like... ascended form. second form even

[nevarroes]

aite i know you said that Cas and Bhaal have more beef than loyalty BUT: DOes Cas have a Slayer form? or is that too nastyugly for His Sculptedness

Cas does have one actually (generously included in his deal because Bhaal still expects him to fight for him even if Cas works against it like a dog that stops mid walk🔥) but ermm…. the whole "rebirthing a cambion into a Bhaalspawn" didn't quite work out as Bhaal intended on multiple levels so it corrupted Cas' true devil form instead of being. well a real slayer form. like overriding an inventory slot to me

Cas fucking hates it, as you can imagine, and feels as if Bhaal like.... just took away one more thing from him with this (worse because this was right after losing his wings too and he's rather proud of being an infernal actually). so he just avoids using it like it's a disease until he doesn't see another way out which happened a total of maybe... 3 times in his life

I'll get back 2 this once I've actually sat down to refine the design of his slayerdevil form (or whatever u would call it at this point) promise.... I've just been procrastinating this 4 ages because I'm not someoen that enjoys drawing monster stuff much but Cas. for cas i'll pull through 🙏

[gramophoneturtle]

I wonder if Joshua is supposed to be naked in Angel Composer form but we can't see it or we turn into dust.

Shorter musing: The SR says that "as the being in the Underground with the highest vibe, lesser Reapers are incapable of perceiving him". From that it sounds like adding or removing clothing probably wouldn't change that. Although, adding larger, more noticeable items like a cape or a tall hat might make him more noticeable, it might also make it more difficult to perceive the details due to the silhouette becoming more confusing. The Animation seems to show more clothing makes you more "intense" and therefore more visible, while the games point to the (suggestion) clothing being optional.

It's probably already difficult to focus on a hazy/glaring/glowing smudgy figure, so the Composer might try to alter their form to make it easier for the person to perceive them.

Longer musings about the Angelic/Composer form, spoilers from TWEWY and NTWEWY:

In the game, one can infer clothing from the game sprite as if there's a front (half) of a jacket and a (dress) shirt. Then underneath the clothing you can make out the base human shape at times, like the arm and neck. The sprite is the same during the flashback in both the DS and FR versions.

(...He got taller between games? Did he put on platform shoes? Is he floating? Or did Kitaniji change his shoes? Mysteries!)

Then in the secret ending it points to "glowy humanoid form". In the FR, they redrew the front facing sprite. It's not just a larger and unblurred dissatisfied face like the DS game, but it's drawn in a similar way like how the legs and the back were in the DS (and Final Remix) versions. Although there's less or no clothes, it's still not quite...human. "Pieces" spike off the body more clearly and he's gained pointy shoulders.

The Animation points in the opposite direction of the game's secret ending. With Hanekoma, we can see the feet and pants still look well defined after he has reached full vibe frequency and takes off. In the flashback, even though he's a little blurry, you can tell the area around the ankles and feet are a little too wide to not be pants. Especially when you compare it to his arms, which are so thin you can almost see through them. If Joshua is wearing the same outfit as his downturned self, then the thinnest parts are his bare arms.

Therefore, when the fiery Animation Angelic/Composer form has clothes, you have a better chance of seeing him. Hmm.

Definitely more in the game, we get a clearer picture of Joshua in the secret ending when Hanekoma is around. Since Hanekoma can perceive Joshua, so maybe we, through him, can see better as well. And perhaps Joshua doesn't need to obscure himself around those who know his true form. Those that can actually handle it.

There's also a potential orb form, but it could be the Universal Form For Changing Planes. In NEO we see a pillar of light when Hazuki presumably ascends up to a higher plane. Do pillars of light work just like orbs? Was the pillar just a fancy display to hide the orb form or is it a replacement or alternate method? Mysteries.

(Maybe good on Rindo for covering his eyes there. Hazuki was looking on the edge of being really bright for a second.)

If the Higher Plane has less physical, less defined forms, I like to imagine their forms less restricted and less expected to be human like. Want to be a cube? No problem. A floating Mr. Mew cat head? Done. It's just another way to express oneself. If you're going to be working with Reapers and Humans, then the Angel should be comfortable with a human body and follow enough human customs to blend in. If Angels can only come from humans ascending, then it can be a return to familiarity, comfort and/or nostalgia for some.

I like to view the sprites as a freeze frame as if their form is always shifting, pulsating, oscillating, glowing, especially with how it's drawn in the FR Secret Ending. This was one attempt, with just the aura shifting around, and here was a second attempt (eye strain warning) of the head and shoulders included, but that was mostly just playing with layer effects.

In summary, who the heck knows! It seems more clothing might make it easier for lower plane beings to see him. If there's not enough "layers" we might miss him if we're just on the verge of perceiving him. And I imagine if he's too bright, too "dense", he might be painful to look at. Thanks for the ask!

[cotillion-the-rope]

Shade Lord Ghost Drabble: Watching

The prompt: Can there be a time when Ghost literally just goes silent and after a long time their friends start to worry about them but instead Ghost has just been watching something cool and lost track of time? Like it's been like 3 weeks and they find them staring at something that would've bored anyone else after a few minutes.

~

Ghost’s presence atop Crystal Peak where the weathered statue of the Radiance had once stood was prominent and impossible to miss, especially since they’d been up there for what had to be weeks now. They hadn’t moved even once as far as Tiso could tell. Many of the new residents of Dirtmouth were made nervous by it, muttering to themselves about the Shade Lord watching over them and whether their gaze was malevolent or not. Tiso almost pitied them and their paranoia filled lives but not everyone could be powerful enough to be friends with a being such as Shade Lord Ghost. He was curious about what they were up to though.

So with nothing else to do one day he ascended the mountain via the handy lift. Spotted with rust, it was obviously quite old and swayed disconcertedly on the way up, or it would’ve been disconcerting to anyone other than Tiso; he feared nothing.

At the top he was reminded of just how big Ghost could be. Their form could vary in size, seemingly without much logic to it, and right now they were quite large. Larger than they’d looked from below. They took up much of the platform, their tentacles draping over the edge of the cliff, leaving no room for Tiso to step off the lift. Their eyes focused on Tiso immediately.

“Greetings Ghost.” As one of the few close enough to their level to be considered their friend, Tiso had the right to refer to them by their true name. “How goes it?”

“Hello. It goes well.” Their voice was deep, difficult to read emotion in, but they sounded quite calm.

“Uh… what are you doing up here?”

“Watching Dirtmouth. What to join?” Before even getting an answer, their form began shrinking, pulling back in on itself in a way that almost looked like liquid flowing. In a matter of seconds, they were small enough that they were maybe only a little more than twice Tiso’s height, leaving plenty of room on the cliff for him to join them.

He did so, carefully stepping off the lift and onto the ground next to them. Then he turned and looked down at what they were looking at; Dirtmouth. From up here there wasn’t much to be seen, everything was too small. Ghost did have six eyes though so maybe they could see better. Still even if that was the case… “Why are you watching Dirtmouth?”

“It’s interesting.” Right yeah, they weren’t exactly a great conversationalist. Living for however long they had lived without the ability to speak would do that to a person.

“How is it interesting?” Tiso had only been looking down at the town and the tiny folk moving through it for less than a minute and he was already bored.

“I’ve never witnessed the start of a new kingdom before. Always I would get there in the middle or at the end or it’ll still be new but not brand new.” Implying that they’d been to many kingdoms. “More people come every few days. Soon there won’t be enough room for them.”

Tiso already knew that. Teams of volunteer workers were already clearing out parts of the City of Tears and other places in order to start rebuilding properly in those areas too. It was true that everything did go through Dirtmouth though. What was once a dead town with only one permanent inhabitant would soon be bustling as the word got out of a new place to settle down continued to spread. Word of a the new supposed ‘God of Gods’ spurred many a curious bug to come investigate and as far as Tiso could tell was actually the main reason people came. It wasn’t every day a new god arose after all.

None of that seemed all that exciting to Tiso though. Maybe it had something to do with being so old. Sitting around for weeks on end was probably nothing to an immortal being. Ugh, that brought to mind his own mortality. He was going to have to find a way to fix that, being good pals with such a powerful god had to mean it was possible. Later though, for now he was bored of watching Dirtmouth from up here. He had better things to be doing. So in similar fashion to what Ghost had done to him when deciding a conversation was done, he got back on the lift. “Have fun with that then,” he said before pulling the lever to send the lift back down.

“See you later.”

[imma-new-soul]

Radio Static

A/N: This was suppose to be something else but turned into.. well this. Thanks to @mushyjellybeans for telling me to keep this and save it for late 💛💛 and for @babiiface95 for motivating me to write my first smut scene

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: You were a field nurse for the U.S Army stationed out in a foreign country. When most the soldier’s you were stationed with meet a grim demise it left you stranded and alone in an unfamiliar setting. After month’s of surviving on your own you find a wounded soldier and nurse him to heal. Suddenly your small comfortable world is not so small anymore (shit I suck at Summarys .. oh well)

Warning: Sexual content ( the section that is NSFW is labeled and doesn’t affect the plot in anyway so if you want to just skip it you can DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT 18 OR OLDER ), Angst, Strong language, mention of blood and injury, last but not least!! FLUFF? Maybe? I think

Word Count: 2.8k. MASTERLIST

You didn’t miss the softness and warmth of your bed in Brooklyn or the coffee from the shop in the corner, even though they had the good stuff compared to whatever was sitting in your small steel mug. Those things seemed like luxuries from a life so long ago. Stiff green cots and food that came from small tan bags were your new luxuries and you didn’t mind at all. 

The tour you were on was supposed to only be six months in a dense forest of some foreign country but ended up lasting a lot longer than anyone expected. All of the men in the group you were deployed with were long gone. Wounds too severe to continue fighting or worse, some had succumb to their injuries and never made it home. 

The war had taken everyone from you. Desperately you called out for rescue on a radio that was left behind from one of the soldiers. Each moment you waited by it, hoping to hear a response but none ever came. Your dreams drifted into the void of its own silence

For many months you’ve lived in this forest alone  surviving off of whatever was left at the old basecamp. Time slowly diminishing your rations and your hope of rescue. Being a field nurse you learned many things and being resourceful was one. 

Seeing that your food was running low you set off into the jungle every morning to scavenge for your next meal. Over time scavenging became hunting and hunting became second nature. Living this way, having to survive off of the land and all it provided wasn’t a curse but a blessing in disguise.

The shine of the moonlight kissed your skin goodnight and the insect’s that chirped sung you sweet soft lullabies. The pitter-patter of small and large creatures did not frighten you, it made you feel less alone. 

****

The day had been kind to you in the way that there were plenty of berries and fresh water to find. You smiled as you felt the cool water underneath your feet but your smile faltered when you heard a familiar sound. It was close enough to hear the bass of the noise but fair enough for the sound to almost dissipate in the air, making it harder to track.

You took a step forward hoping the noise amplified towards the direction you walked. The deep sound bounced through the tree line drawing you further into the dense. You were able to finally make out the sound “Help me, Someone PLEASE help me!!”. The shouts cut through the air till you finally found its source.

Beneath a fallen tree laid a soldier bathed in blood and mud faced down on the dirt. His screams muted when he heard the dispersed twigs from the tree crack under your feet. You rushed over to him lifting up the truck of the tree that pinned his arm to the ground.

Instantly he rolled onto his back heaving for air and clutching his wounded arm. The pressure from the tree helped stop the blood flow from the deep cut that was on his forearm but as soon as the pressure was taken off, blood started to drip from his cut soaking the already damp ground. In one blink you ripped a strand of cloth from your shirt and tied it around his arm stopping any further blood loss. 

He winced in pain, moans and goans slipping from his lips. “It’s going to be okay, just breath, you have to breath” you instructed and with hot tears trailing down his face he took one hard deep breath to steady his heart. Leaning over him you pressed a cool metal canteen to his lips lifting his head so he could take a sip of fresh cold water. 

You were able to make out the letters that where velcroed to the chest of his uniform jacket and the dog tags that hung from around his neck. “James Buchanan Barnes, you’re a Sargent?, How did you get all the way out here? Where are the rest of your men?” Interrogating questions flew from your brain right out of you mouth with little reserve. “M-My names Bucky, and their … their all dead” he voiced, strained and hoarse from holding back tears. 

Just by one single glance of him you knew he needed more medical tending to then just the improvised bandage that wrapped around his arm already soaked in blood. So you lifted him up as gently as you could, swinging his uninjured arm over your shoulder and wrapping your hand around his waist. 

Bucky saw no reason to go unwillingly. Your voice was soft and so was your touch. You were his heroin an angel that appeared to him in what he thought was his last moments. 

It took one whole staining, grueling hour to get him back to your old basecamp where the rest of your medical supplies were. In that time Bucky passed out from exhaustion but most likely from blood loss. You placed him down slowly laying him on your cot as you stripped him from his boots and large muddy pants to examine his body. Another large gash sat on his thigh a few inches above his knee. The rest of his body was riddled with smaller less severe cuts.

Cleaning him up and stitching his injures depleted most of your medical resources, so you made a mental note that from here on out you had to be extra cautious not to hurt yourself in anyway. After Bucky was patched up nicely he started to come to. 

You sat beside him while he stirred and shifted his body finally waking after three hours. “Bucky, can you hear me?” You whispered softly to not startle the man. He gave a small nod groaning in pain while his eyes stood shut. “I’m going out to get you something for your pain” you reassured him placing your hand on his shoulder to show him some form of tenderness after such a harsh morning. Bucky nodded again this time opening his eyes slightly  to meet yours. 

It didn’t take long to find the plants you were looking for Lactuca virosa, a type of wild lettuce that’s known for its pain relieving properties. As you approached the base you spotted Bucky hunched against a tree trying to steady himself enough to walk. Rushing over to him you lead him towards a chair that you’d often sit on and watch the stars at night or listen to the animal scurry. 

“Hey you have to rest, you’re not supposed to be on your feet yet, you’re gonna pop the stitches on your thigh” you strained. Bucky let out a loud huff of air in annoyance and agreed. You handed him the plant that you fetched and instructed him to consume the whole thing stem and all, and he did as he was told.

Bucky submitted to every request and demand you made. He put complete trust in you with little reason behind his logic. He didn’t even know your name or why you were helping him but he felt safe. Safe was not something he felt in a long time.  

****

Three weeks had passed since you found Bucky helplessly pinned to the ground. He was strong and his wounds were healing quickly. 

In the first week you cared for him intensely, changing his bandages routinely so no infection settled in. You bathed him and even spoon fed him while he recovered.  

The second week was a lot different, although he wasn’t completely healed he was able to walk around. You taught him how to undress and dress his bandages and purify the water brought back to camp. He even learned how to work the radio and call out for rescue each morning. 

By the third week Bucky was almost healed and hunting right by your side. It wasn’t something he picked up quickly. He had to be patient and quiet  two traits that didn’t come naturally.

Although you knew he was a perfectly capable man you felt the need to protect him. You cared for him more than you probably should. Bucky was kind and light hearted. Very different from the men you were stationed with. He never made advances towards you even though he wanted to, his eyes never lingered on places they shouldn’t, and his touch never felt threatening or unwanted. 

Bucky knew he was in love with by the first week he meet you. No one’s ever cared or took care of him like you did. He learned so much from you and your beauty was unparalleled.

You enjoyed his company also, being alone wasn’t something you wanted anymore. It felt as if you and Bucky where the only people on Earth and in a way it was true.

Bucky enjoyed the peacefulness of everything, there were no loud gunshots or explosions that left his ears ringing for days. There was a calm there, he was actually able to rest, actually able to breath. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder every few seconds or sleep with one eye open. It was a paradise and you made it even more so.

Even though Bucky tried the radio everyday he didn’t really want to actually be rescued, it meant he’d have to go back to the chaos and destruction of war. 

****

It’s been weeks that you had your eyes on one particularly sweet juicy fruit that hung from a large stretched tree. You waiting patiently for it to ripen and today it’s color seemed perfect for picking. As you ascended up the hard tricky truck the branch that bared your weight snapped and sent you plummeting to the ground.

A loud thud rang out through the air followed by high streaks of pain. You managed to lift yourself slowly from the floor. Your body was weak and sore all over. You weren’t sure if there were any further damage except for small bruises and cuts so you dusted yourself of and slowly walk back to camp feeling defeated.

When you arrived Bucky’s faces contorted into pure horror leaving you confused by his response. He quickly sat up from where was sitting to rush by your side.

“You’re bleeding, what happen to you?” Bucky asked concern laced in his words. Just then you felt the warm wet flush of blood drip down your chest. There was a  relatively long rip present on your shirt exposing the torn skin just under your collarbone. Blood stained the area quickly and flashes of white hot pain coursed through your muscles.  

Bucky lead you to his set assuring you were safe if you ended up passing out. Without a second thought he ripped the shirt from your body to remove the dirty stained fabric from your skin. 

You wound was a lot worse then Bucky first thought, large thin splinters from the tree stuck out from your skin and blood dripped constantly.  

He ran to retrieve a cloth and sat beside you placing it on the wound and pressing firmly. You screamed in pain yanking his hand away.

“Bucky you have to get the splinters out and then stitch me up” you said in a low breathy voice

“There’s so much blood ..i..dont know.. I don’t think I could do that” Bucky stammered

“Look at me” you held him wrist while he looked into your eyes 

“You can do this I believe in you, just do as I say. Okay” you instructed and Bucky agreed nodding his head rapidly.

**** NSFW ****

You started to talk him through the process very slowly trying to keep him calm and steady. one of his hands carefully picked out the wood while the other pressed on your shoulder holding you in place. Ever prick sent an immense amount of pain through you so you clutched Bucky’s thigh baring down on him.  

When the last stitch was in place Bucky cleaned you up and finally let out a deep breath in relief. 

“You did it” you smile through your teeth proud of him. You gave his thigh a tight squeeze as you spoke up again. 

“I knew you could do it” Bucky’s heart skipped a beat when he felt your hand so close to his groin. He was so caught up in the moment he hadn’t noticed the placement of your hand. His sight quickly darted to your fingers and back up to your eyes .  

Your faces were close enough that if he leaned in just a few more inches he could have a taste of your soft sweet lips. Your breath on his face further amplified the heat that was emanating from his body. His stare bounced from your lips to your eyes and back to your lips. 

Faithfully you leaned in towards him pressing your lips to his. Your hand moving up his body till it grabbed at his hair pulling him in closer. You parted your lips allowing Bucky’s tongue to enter your mouth. His tongue swirled and lapped around expertly, licking your bottom lip and taking it in between his teeth expelling small breathy moan from you. 

He growled back in response. Your moan sending blood rushing down towards his length. Bucky’s hand scanned your body roaming over every inch of your heated flesh till they fell to your hips. He tugged at you pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling him, not once removing his lips from yours. 

Both your hands found its way into his hair tugging slightly. Bucky pulled back finally breaking the kiss to trailing his plump wet lips across your jaw and down to your neck. He peppered small delicate kisses on your skin, licking a strip from your collarbone up to ear. 

He felt the goosebumps that rose on your arms and flushed your body. With a soft devilish chuckle he nibbled on your neck drawing another loud moan from your lips. You moved your hips against his feeling a need starting to grow in your stomach. 

The hardness of him through the thin fabric of his shorts created a wetness that was pool in your underwear. 

He guided your hips, moving you back and forth on his lap pressing you harder into him till his breath hitched in his throat. 

“Babe your gonna have to ride me right now before I blow without getting to feel that tight pussy squeezing this hard cock” he grunted, breath falling onto your neck. You purred back,  slowly lifting yourself off of his lap to dispose of the rest of his and your clothes and climbing back into his thighs. 

He pressed his lips on yours again devouring you at a despite pace, Your wet core hoovering dangerously above his stiff member. Holding your waist Bucky slowly pushing you down onto him. His manhood prodding at your soaked entrance inching you down little by little. When his whole length disappeared inside of you, you both threw your heads back exhaling in ecstasy.

You held still for a moment as your walls adjusted to his size, squeezing tightly around him. He bucked his hips up signaling you to start moving. You grinded down on him extremely slow. The teasing speed driving Bucky mad. He moaned at the intimacy of this moment closing his eyes focusing on the feeling of him pumping into your quivering wetness. 

You had enough of this slow torture so you decided to sped up your pace bouncing hungrily on him. Loud long moans left your lips echoing in the wide open space around you. Bucky placed his hands on your back pulling you to his chest while he slammed into you. He dropped his forehead onto your shoulder still railing you furiously. 

Your orgasm hit you without warning leaving you breathlessly screaming his name, Buckys wasn’t far behind and as your high rippled through your body tightening your walls Bucky spilled into you. His heat coating your walls and dripping down onto thigh. 

Out of breath and spent he lifted his head and kissed you again, this time it was soft and passionate. You could feel his love pouring out of his chest and making its way to yours. 

**** SFW ****

The sharp sound of static chirps through your ears snapping you back to reality. You whipped your head back towards the noise trying to make out the sound. There was another loud static noise seconds later. 

You jumped to your feet walking towards the sound.  It was coming from the radio, faded voice broke through the static. 

“ This is General Mason, we reserved your distress signal, are you still in need of assistance?” The man on the other side repeated himself over and over again. 

You turned to Bucky who was pulling up his pants, your face painted with disbelief. You pressed the mic to your lips but before you could respond Bucky reached out for the non turning the radio completely off.

You looked up at him a bit shocked till a huge water eyed smile spread across your face. Bucky pulled you into him wrapping his large arms around you as you sunk into his chest.

“I don’t want to leave I never want to leave this place” Bucky whispered as he swayed with you slowly. 

“ i don’t either” you replied tears streaming from your eyes. 

****

@honeyvbarnes @sebbbystaaan @mushyjellybeans @babiiface95 @chloerinebarnes @perpetually-tuned-out @criminal-cookies @this-kitten-is-smitten @sherrybaby14 @theladyoffangorn mutuals if you dont want to be tagged shot me a message

[dahniwitchoflight]

fucking, god, he called his ship Theseus. Oh god im not ready to face this epilogue stuff in actual visual form oh jeesus

Dirk, Dirk pls. no one can take you seriously now that we can actually SEE your Villain-Sona. 

oh god, the second hand embarassment is real.

Alright so there seems to be like, a tinge of Rose existing as her own person, doing things that Dirk dislikes, but its in conversation only, so it seems facetious.

The other true thing though is the narrative is entirely Dirk’s perspective, and Dirk is exactly the kind of person who would absolutely love and believe he was capable of subsuming another person’s soul and idealogy entirely, but we went through this deceit in the epilogues with John and Roxy as well, with John’s unquetionaing hold on reality and what is canon also seeming to have an unconcious warping effect to whatever John thought was important, but Roxy gave a good point of how do you even know you did this and i didn’t choose it or wouldnt have chose it? you dont

So we could see that being repeated here, either as a parallel of that or a subversion, remains to be seen

“ Speaking of which, I think it's time I started undoing some of the more egregious mistakes this story has been subjected to over the years. Yes, I'm talking about that guy. The other orange one. Remember him? Vriska got stalked by him a bit and it was uncomfortable for everyone concerned. Anyway, the point is that he fucked up big time, and I'm here to clean up the horseshit. It's time to get this story back on the rails, back to what it was always supposed to be. I know it, and you've somehow always known it too. There was something else, some other route that Homestuck was meant to take but then didn't, a way that wouldn't've spent so much time dicking around with stuff nobody cares about. Like seriously, why did we all have to sit through talking about everyone's most intimate and private feelings for two hundred thousand fucking words. That would never have happened in Act 1. Where did it all go wrong? “

lol the andrew hussie is peeking through a bit here, so Homestuck2 is gonna be the exact thing I figured a sequel would be, its going to be a sort of retelling of the story, but its gonna flip the importance for certain things in the opposite directions, so right here its saying Homestuck is a story with a layer of importance on the characters themselves and their mindsets and how they lived in the environment they found themselves in, with the lore and the conceit of the story being a huge creation story more of a backdrop than the focus

so Homestuck2 is going to be a more "creation story” focused more on the sburb lore, buts its going to have less of a focus on the characters (perhaps even to the detrimnet? maybe characters will seem strange and out of character? but he kinda already made that feeling i the audience with the epilogues, thats what that intended effect was)

and neither one i think will turn out to better or worse than the others, theres definitely going to be benefit and downsides for both, but its not hard to see that Homestuck1 is the story that Hussie wanted to Tell, and Homestuck2 is how he’s changing it and telling a different story than he originally would have in the first place

not that hes changing Homestucks orignal story at all, but now hes telling a decidedly different one

Thus far, even though I understand Dirk’s basic mindset being “Hussie’s story sucks im gonna tell a BETTER one” and deciding that he alones gets to decide others will is unquestionably villainous train of thought, like why cant we let the characters just decide for themselves what kind of story they wanted to have and be genuine..

I AM dying of curiosity to see what sort of lore and information were going to get out of this, especially with the twist of that sort of focus being brought more into view, it’s a tantalizing glimpse of something very sexy that im into...

WORLDBUILDING :p

The World of Homestuck to me, HAS always been more infinitely exciting and interesting to me than the characters themselves, even though i liked them fine, they werent the reason why i kept reading the story for sure

Anything little thing we get about sburb or the world system out of this im happy with, regardless of what happens to the characters

(Would that be considered a villainous mindset if I was in canon? maybe ^^; good thing im not lol it does give off very “evil mad scientist morally corrupt experiments” kind of vibe lolol)

“ Look, I know what you're all really craving. I've been studying canon—or rather, what's left of it—and I think I've found it. The critical moment, in the wake of which everything started to take a nosedive into the protracted, endless slog of sheer insufferability we got saddled with near the end. This was the single most crucial error in the process that led to the present situation. The day when the story was wrested screaming from the arms of its readers like a bawling infant and carried helplessly away, from then on to be raised according to the whims of a masochistic menace with no thought for you, the common fan. “

I do have to laugh at this though, because your not wrong??? but also, it was inevitable that a story that started out like homestuck and was written like homestuck and ended like homestuck would inevitably turn out the way it did

it was a communal product of the screaming masses that turned into a singular mans story, it was unfortunately going to lose something to everyone, because everyones ideas couldnt all coexist in one canon at the same time (thats what outside of canon is for)

and then Dirk does something I DIDNT expect him to do

“Channelling my full potential as an ascended player of Heart, I expand my consciousness to commune with the boundless force of collective willpower that is the internet. My mind floods with its divine potency, a million formless cries coalescing into a sequence of discrete, formal instructions. It is a maelstrom as chaotic as it is deafening. And yet from this formless, uninterrupted spate of hard, unembellished data, a single suggestion takes form, as if bubbling up from a vast, infinite ocean of possibility. It is a whispered prayer to a compassionate god whose ear attends faithfully the will of his believers.Ok, let's see what you chucklefucks came up with.“

instead of entirely subsuming other’s will like a villain would, he has instead opened up his heart and conciousness to absorb the ideas, suggestions and wills of the masses, he is literally trying to bring back the act1 flavor of homestuck by taking suggestions, be he is ironically doing something no different than hussie did by curating and choosing which one to respond to

hah! he really does think he is the hero of this universe with Hussie as some sort of villain. 

So Hussie has probably intentionally curated this idea of himself as “Author Villain” who drives the story seemingly into mud by seeming to reject and upend the audiences expectation rather than curate them and bringing forth the best out, 

this happens with the epilogues undoubtedly, 

and this environment has gown a character from inside the story to step out and try to “oust” him from this position and instead tell a “good” story one that “everyone” wants, but is in fact detrimental to the story and world that the characters inside it themselves wants, which is was Hussie curated the whims to in the epilogues instead of the audience

So maybe this will be a “good” story, and hit all the marks for what the audience wanted originally, but there is no benevolent force to make sure a happy ending exists for any of the characters inside of it, because what the characters want doesnt matter anymore, only the lore does

[israltale]

Darkness within

Alure smiled, while Kiros and Cobra trained at the Lake. They were now Three, if someone counted Solei who lived in the Vicinity of Order. Sadly to say, it wasn’t as peaceful as he had hoped.

Alure wasn’t sure if the King figured it out himself, had a spy or Solei couldn’t keep his mouth shut… but the Order Guards were now after them, especially after their Guardian. Kiros trained for that exact reason, to protect the Woman who was so Kind to them. 

“Hey.” Kiros stood in front of the thoughtful boy. 

“Oh… Yes?” He looked up to the Taller Hybrid. 

“So lost in thoughts, Nightlight?” Kiros asked, sitting down next to him. Cobra joined them only a little later.

“Yes… Actually i try to figure out how the King learned from us…” Kiros nodded.

“True… it only started recently. The Snake boy thought it would happen far sooner, but it’s apparently not to our changing… My changing was the last and is already almost six months past.” Alure nodded slowly. 

“Why is he after us anyway?” Of course he was curious of that. 

“It’s less you he is after and more Arisa who is in Danger.” Kiros blinked. 

“Why?” Cobra sighed. 

“It’s… a long Story and i don’t know if Arisa wants you to know about it. But the Gist of it is that the King wants her gone.” Alure shivered. 

“Is it because she is protecting us? From what you told me once… he hates everyone who is not Pure.” Cobra nodded slightly. 

“Yes, before the King could ascend the Throne, a lot of Citizen framed him for being a bastard Child… As you may have noticed in the Pure Blood Section is a certain… Colour line going. The King is actually a single coloured Dragon, which is normally only seen in the Citizen themselves.” Kiros blinked. 

“What do you mean?” Alure wanted to know as well. 

“You see… There is a colour class system in Isral… The normal citizen are mostly single Coloured, like Alure and Solei are.” Both Hybrids nodded. 

“The next class, mostly those who own a Shop are the double coloured dragon’s, like you Kiros. After that the Royalty and the high Generals, those are mostly Multi coloured. Meaning they have more than two colours.” Now Alure wondered how Millenia looked in her Dragon Form. Of Course she had to be one… Right?

“So what is the Thing with the King now? He is single coloured, so he should be multi coloured?” Cobra shook his Head. 

“That is the Point. Rulers are either double coloured or multi coloured, but there is a twist to them.” Both Hybrids stared at him. 

“The Rulers, or their Children change colour in the Light of Sun and Moon, so they are… hm let’s call it Holographic?” The smallest of the Three starred at him in awe, imagine how it must look to see a Ruler or their Offspring. 

“And that King doesn’t have that?” 

Cobra nodded. “Exactly.”

Kiros grumbled. “How did he got on the Throne then?” 

The Skeleton traced his three Scars. “At the Time the former King passed on, the older Sister and Potential Queen… The Citizen thought she was Dead.” 

Alure tilted his Head. There was something in his Phrasing. “But she isn’t?” 

Cobra smiled a bit. “Exactly. The older Sister is still alive and returned to her Home after some…. Complications.” The two Hybrids still didn’t understand why the King was after their Guardian. 

She was just the High Priest of the Land. It seemed to Click in Alure’s Mind. 

“Is the King after Lady Millenia, because she knows where the Princess is hiding?” Kiros blinked, that was actually a good reason. Cobra huffed, they were so careful about this, of course they didn’t catch the Hint. 

“Yeah… Arisa knows where the older Sister is… Being said, the older Sister is a threat to his Rule.” Kiros nodded in Understanding. 

“So he wants Millenia to find the Sister and execute her, so he won’t lose the Throne.” Cobra smiled a bit. 

“Something like that.” He somehow was glad they didn’t catch the hint. It was easier to leave them dumb, or they would do something stupid. On the Other hand, Cobra feared that it won’t take all to long for the Guards to arrive here and then not even Reeve can help them out anymore.

“Who would have thought, that the Personal Guard is watching some dirty Halfbreeds.” Cobra jumped to his Feet. 

“Grima…” A Man with snow white hair came out of the Shadows. 

Alure hid behind Cobra, while Kiros grabbed his Knives. 

“Where is she?” Grima commanded. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Grima sighed. 

“I thought you would say that, so i brought a present.” He snapped his Fingers. 

“LET ME DOWN YOU DISGUSTING ASSHOLE!” Alure gasped, a Soldier was holding Solei in a tight grasp. 

“Bring Nocturne… Or this Halfling will suffer terribly for Lying to the Excellency.” Cobra growled at Grima. 

“I’m impatient and you know that…” He said, about to snap his fingers again. 

“Let him down, Grima.” Kiros turned, only to see Millenia come up to them. 

“Ah… There you are.” Grima said with a disgustingly smug grin. 

“Arisa…” Cobra looked at her in worry. 

“I told you to let him down.” Grima nodded slightly.

“Yes you did, but i don’t take orders from you.” Millenia sighed. 

“I thought so… Sharyu.” A large Scythe appeared in her Hand. Grima shivered excited. 

“You could hurt your little halfling.” He warned, standing close to Solei. 

“Co.” The other nodded. 

“Kiros, i will get Solei, once he is here run with Alure and him.” Kiros grumbled. 

“Alright…” Alure blinked. Cobra shoots forward, he was fast and dangerous. 

The guard was knocked out fast and Cobra ushered Kiros to run with the Boys. He first feared Grima would follow them, but the Man was after something else.

 “Oh please, no reason for such Violence. The King only wants to talk with his dearest Sister.” Cobra didn’t believe him. They were after her life, not after a TALK. 

“Grima… If i go to see his Majesty… will you leave them alone?” 

Cobra starred at her. “Arisa.” 

Grima laughed. “Of course, Princess. King Lysander is not that cruel. Talk with him and see for yourself that he has no ill intentions.” Grima said. 

“Arisa!” Cobra grabbed her Hand. 

“Co.. Protect them for me. He can’t kill me, if he wants this Realm to still exist.” She whispered. 

“Arisa this is insane.” She nodded. 

“I know, but it is all i have to protect them.” He finally let go of her Hand. 

“Hold out only a bit… i will get you.” She smiled at him, before walking up to Grima, leaving with him to the Capital.

Alure stared out of the Window, while Kiros patched up Solei. 

“This asshole attacked me out of nowhere!” Solei grumbled. 

Finally the door opened, but only Cobra walked in. 

“Where is Lady Millenia?” Alure asked.

“Grima brought her to the Main City… Apparently the KING wants to talk with her.” Cobra said, while he himself didn’t believe it.

Solei huffed. Alure stood up slowly and walked to the Door.

“Where are you going?” Cobra asked. 

“I… I forgot my book at the Lake. I just wanted to get it really quick.” He said. Kiros stood up. 

“Hey Snake. take care of the little Shit, i will go with Nightlight.” He said, Cobra nodded only. 

“Be back in 30 minutes.” Both nodding before they left. 

“Did you really forgot a book there, Nightlight?” Kiros asked, as they were away from the house.

“No… i wanted to see if the Water is telling me anything…” Kiros sighed. 

“So you are worried to…” The purple Hybrid nodded. 

“It was odd… why didn’t he ordered her to tell him where the Princess is?” Kiros blinked, Alure was right! 

“You think…” Alure nodded.

“Lady Millenia said she is living here because of certain circumstances… She doesn’t know where the Princess is, she is the princess. That’s why she never showed us her Dragon form!” Kiros heaved a heavy sigh.

“That Flower sure is giving us some trouble.” Alure ran up to the Lake once there, but it was as if the Sky itself turned even darker. 

“She said once to me, that there are the Ancestors of Isral living in here..” Alure whispered. 

“I may not be a Pure Dragon, but i love this place…” He stared into the Water, noticing that it had became duller, not the shining fluid he was used to. But still it reacted to Alure, slightly riling before it showed Alure something.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He could see the Great Castle from the order Vicinity, Soldiers bringing Millenia inside, thankfully she was unharmed. 

“It has been a while.” A Man said, Alure recognised him from Solei’s description, the King of Isral and also Millenia’s supposed to be Brother. 

“Your Highness.” Millenia said politely. Lysander seemed to rage the second he saw her.

“You really are gutsy, SISTER.” He spit out. 

“Raising an Army to get the Throne!” Millenia shook her head. 

“If i had wanted the Throne i would have taken it upon my return five years ago.” She said calmly. Lysander growled darkly.

“You simply couldn’t. But no matter now… I have good news, SISTER… I will once and for all, make sure you will never return here.” He said coldly. 

“Your Highness, it is impossible to kill the Dragon of Chaos… They simply will shatter once again.” One of his Men said. 

“I know, that is why, she will go to where she belongs… Some Brothels far away from Isral.” He began to laugh. 

“After all, that is all my dearest sister is good for. Spreading her legs for others.” Millenia stood there calmly. Alure starred at the Water, see ing the Soldiers bring his Guardian away from them even further. 

He wanted to scream at them, to cry, but then he heard her, as she glanced back to were the Vicinity is supposed to be.

“Sleep while the night is young. Dreams carry you far from harm. Free from alarm, safe in my arms, please live your life for you and for me.” He felt something around him, as if she was hugging him. 

“Still, you must carry on, bearing your burdens for long. My wish for you, can only come true… You’ll still be here when i am gone.” Alure sniffled, oh how often did he hear her sing this song, when he was about to fall asleep. His soul started to throb in pain. 

“Share your smile with the world. Live for the path you choose. Know you were the only one, that i could never bear to lose.” Alure felt hot, was this a song she used to sing for the King? Was it something precious to her? In the water he saw her turn her Head away from them. 

“Sleep while the night is young, dreams  carry you far from harm. My gift to you, too precious to lose… Know that you were the future i chose.” Kiros only could watch Alure stare in the water, not knowing what he saw. Then Alure screamed painfully.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shit! Nightlight!”

Alure felt hot, painful and his soul throbbed. It was as if someone was ripping it out, while hate against the King was burning through him. 

The Dragon symbol in his soul, a dark purple, started to turn brighter, more blueish while it also started to bleed out of his Soul. Kiros was about to bolt to him, to grip his shoulders. 

‘Don’t touch him.’ Kiros stopped dead, a ghostly looking Woman in front of him. He never saw her before, but she felt familiar. A woman with shoulder long greyish purple hair and deep blue, sapphire like eyes. She wore a black dress as well, but she seemed… dead? 

“Nightlight is in Pain.” The Woman nodded. 

‘I know, but if YOU touch him his hate towards the King will devour you… Leave it to us.’ Kiros growled at this Woman. 

“Who are you?” The Woman smiled. 

‘Sharyu, i am the Scythe bound to Lady Millenia and a long passed Ancestor. Let us take care of sweet Alure.’ Kiros was still not convinced, but she was only there to keep him distracted, while other ghostly People surrounded Alure. 

The Small Hybrid yelped in Pain, but it also felt a bit like Relief. Someone was pulling out this painful Hate running through him. He blinked, only to see another Hybrid, with six large cyan coloured Horns. His sight was Hazy, as this Hybrid pulled him into a soft Hug. 

“Fear not, Alure. I shall safe what is dear to us all.” His voice sounded so Cold, so different from his Own, but he wanted to trust this Hybrid.

Kiros stared in disbelief. Alure was fine, but someone held him. Sharyu looked over her shoulder, seeing another Hybrid, the manifested Hate of Alure towards the King of all Dragons. Sitting there in the Cold light the Moon gave of. 

He had four tails and wings, while his six horns were Cyan coloured. 

“Tell me one thing.” He finally spoke, his Head raised to the Moon. 

‘This may be?’ Sharyu asked softly. Alure seemed to have passed out from the Pain his Hate had caused him.

“I was born under the Moon’s cold light… however this may be called?” Sharyu turned fully to him. 

’In our old Language… the word you may want to know is Narish.’ The Hybrid nodded slowly. 

“Then from this Day forth… my name shall be Narish, the Cold Light.” Kiros blinked. Finally noticing the similarities to his Boss. So this would be the corrupted Nightmare he knew and cherish so much. 

“Boss…” Kiros breathed. Narish finally gracing him with his one free eye light, this cold Cyan Kiros always loved. 

“There is one more, am i right?” Kiros grinned. 

“Yeah, Boss~ The Flowers personal Guard, he is back at the House.” Narish stood up, still cradling the passed out Alure.

“Then let us bring him there to rest and collect the other. Our Mission shall be to burn down all the Brothels in our way to find our Flower again.” Kiros smirked, that was something he really liked. 

“Alright, Boss~”

Cobra starred at them, as a way taller Hybrid walked in, with Alure in his Arms. Kiros was already a bit taller as Cobra, but this new one surpassed him even more. Cobra noticed that the new Hybrid was still shorter as his own Brother, but not by much he thought.

“This… doesn’t look like a book.” He said. Kiros chuckled. 

“Yeah, no Book. But the King also didn’t hold his promise… Boss here has more information.” Cobra turned his green eye lights to Narish. 

“Right, but first let us bring Alure to a Comfortable place.” Cobra nodded. 

“Solei is sleeping in the Back, let’s bring Alure there.” Narish nodded, as Cobra took the smaller Hybrid from him to bring the sleeping one to the bed. After that the Guard went back to them and guided them to the Kitchen Table. 

“Alure saw her in the Water of the Lake.” Cobra tensed as Narish started. 

“The King has ordered to bring her away into a Brothel.” Kiros growled immediately. 

“What?” Cobra hissed. Narish watched him.

“I want you two to come with me and burn down any brothel to find our Guardian again.” Cobra nodded. 

“But what about the Kids.” He asked. 

‘I shall protect them.’ Cobra looked up. 

“Sharyu?” She smiled at Cobra. It took him a while before he nodded. 

“Alright, let’s get Arisa back.” He said, standing up and clenching the Crystal he always had on his hips. They would get her Back.

Thanks to Cobra they could sneak out of the Wood without being caught or getting lost in the deep Fog around the Kingdom.

“How far are the Brothels away?” Kiros asked. 

“The Question is rather… where did he brought her? Do you know anything about it?” Narish nodded.

“Indeed. Far as i know from what i for being part of Alure is that they wanted to bring her FAR away from Isral.” Cobra thought about it. 

“There is a Red light District almost two days away from here. They probably used portals after exiting Isral.” He said thoughtful. 

“It would be faster with Arisa’s help.” Narish sighed. 

“Well, so how do we get there fast?” Cobra thought about it. Then there was the Idea.

“I know how.” He said walking to a bit away, using his Crystal to open a Portal. Narish raised his Brow bone. 

“This is… interesting?” Cobra smiled a bit. 

“There is a connection to my Crystal that holds my soul weapon and Arisa’s Necklace she always wears, it helps to bring us fast to her.” Kiros was impressed, this would save them a lot of traveling, but they already lost a few hours. 

Narish walked through the Portal, they had a Mission after all. Kiros and Cobra followed a bit after. 

The Red-light District bustled in the moonlight while some Women were trying to lure Men in. Narish looked disgusted at them. Cobra sighed, there were a lot of Brothels in this Area, it was basically a whole town made of Brothels, finding Millenia here was like searching a needle within hay.

Kiros turned to them. “So? What is the Plan?” 

Narish huffed, tugging his wings closer to him. “We need to find her, but i don’t think they will make it easy for us.” 

Cobra nodded. “Sadly no. We would have it easier if she used her magic…” 

Narish looked at him. “How so?”

Cobra chuckled. “If Arisa uses her Song magic then we could easily make out the Brothel she is in, thanks to Black Flowers growing around it.” 

Narish tilted his head. “She sang as she was brought away.” 

Kiros was impressed, Alure and in that Narish saw all that through the Water? 

“She did? Alright then let’s see if we find Black Flowers that look completely out of Place.” 

Kiros turned around, looking a bit confused. “Like… those?” 

Cobra and Narish looked to where he was Pointing at. Black Flowers growing their way to a Brothel deeper into the Town. 

“Yup, that’s her flowers.” Cobra nodded. Kiros grinned, almost bolting down the Street. 

Narish chuckled a bit. “How convenient, you can barely miss that. So if she wants to be found, she certainly will.” 

Cobra laughed a bit. “Yeah.” 

They started to Follow Kiros, who probably went to the tallest, most expensive Brothel there. 

Cobra sighed. “Berelia.” He whispered, the Crystal giving off a soft glow before turning into a large sword. 

“Convenient.” Narish said, but Kiros was not to be seen. 

“You think he is inside already?” Cobra asked, as if the Answer wanted to give itself in the higher Floors someone were thrown out of the Window, already dusting as he landed, a Knife deeply buried in his Back. 

“I presume that means…. YES.” Narish said flatly, his hands behind his Back as he casually looked to the dusting Person.

Kiros felt very stabby today, not only threatened they Solei, to be honest he hated him, but he was still a Hybrid. Then they kidnapped their Flower and now he had to run up to the 9th floor to collect their Flower before something happened. Yes Kiros felt very stabby, he would STAB anyone in his Way. 

The other Two were still not here, but he actually didn’t care about that. Finally he was up in the last floor.

“You stupid whore, are you to dumb to do this Right?” Kiros twitched, kicking the Door open. 

The Men looked up, in his hand a bundle of red hair. Kiros felt something hot inside him. It wouldn’t be so bad the need to stab a trillion knives into that Man… BUT! Kiros looked down to Millenia, her clothes in sheds and a huge bruise on her Cheek. Oh this Man would die! 

Kiros growled darkly at that man. “Get out you asshole, i payed for this Bit….” Kiros wouldn’t let him Finish as he already threw the first Knife. It settled in his Shoulder. 

The Man screamed loudly, releasing Millenia.

“ARISA!” Cobra went inside the Room Finally. 

“Take the Flower out….” Kiros said, taking the next Knife. 

“I will deal with him….” Cobra nodded. 

“Alright.” He took of his Coat to place it around Millenia. 

“Let’s go.” He said softly. Millenia looked bad… a Bruise on her Check, some cuts, but now he needed to get her out. 

“Co..” He shook his Skull.

“Not now, Arisa… Let’s get out of here.” He said, bringing Millenia out, only for her to blink in surprise, seeing face to face with Narish. 

“Guardian.” He whispered, touching her uninjured Cheek. 

“What…” Cobra sighed. 

“He was born from Alure… His Name is Narish, it’s a long story.” He said, while the Screaming from the Brothel became louder and louder.

Cobra went back in to assist Kiros, who was going rampage by now. Narish was with Millenia outside. 

“So you were born from Alure?” Narish nodded. 

“Exactly, i am his hatred that rose after seeing what the King did to you.” She flinched a bit, before Narish made her look at him. 

“We all cherish you greatly…” Millenia sighed. 

“I am aware, but still…” Narish didn’t want to let her Finish as he bend down, pressing his teeth on her Lips. Her silver eyes widening, while he kissed her. 

She didn’t know what to do, before he released her, just in time for Cobra and Kiros to return. 

“Flower!” Kiros turned her around and looked at her. “Are you fine?”

She smiled a bit up at him. “Yeah, he just hit me a bit, nothing all to bad.” Kiros sighed in relieve, before he as well, kissed her.

Narish chuckled a bit, it was obvious they loved her so much. “Narish…” He turned to Cobra. 

“I will take Leadership for the Hybrids. Millenia had enough to deal with already, i shall protect her and the rest.” 

Kiros broke the Kiss. “Sounds good to me, Boss~” He said with a grin, Pulling Millenia closer to him. 

Once back they would build a castle for them to life and as Narish had announced, he took Leadership for the little Group they had. Kiros immediately raising as his Right hand Man, Cobra assigned to guard Millenia even more. 

Narish taking Leadership made the Vicinity of Chaos turn mostly into a darker Place, only the Lake had sunshine, but all of them were fine with that so far.

[catflowerqueen]

A trend that’s going to become apparent within a lot of my “What if...?” stories (when I finally have the time and energy to sit down and write them) is that Laura can actually reliably figure out her identity as the Rainbow Child--she’s never going to know for absolute certain until she turns thirteen, of course, but she’s definitely going to have a strong suspicion about who she is. And a lot of that certainty and ability to guess actually comes from the fact that she has amnesia, ironically enough.

While the identity of the Rainbow Child is supposed to be kept a secret from her until she ascends, it actually isn’t that hard to figure out. For one thing, even if the adults around her don’t tell her outright, there’s no way that all of them act completely normal around her since all of them know who she is. (Think in the vein of Naruto--while he didn’t know the exact reason the rest of the villagers didn’t like him, their actions made it pretty clear that it was something to do with him specifically because of how wary and strange they acted around him. Laura’s incarnations typically have the same problem--if in the opposite direction--whenever she grows up among Relatia’s people. Which is most of the time). Also, even if the stories that she and the other kids hear are slightly edited in order to keep out identifying details (The Time Gear legend, for example, omits describing the eye colors of the Rainbow and Golden Children until the listener is at least thirteen), hearing enough of them definitely helps one put together a pretty convincing picture of who the Rainbow Child is, just because of all the shared similarities.

It gets both easier and harder in regards to the pokemon world. Harder because the wider world doesn’t have the same traditions and shared stories, simply because Relatia’s people/the legendaries are more secretive and the information simply isn’t as easily accessible, but easier because they’re just freer in general when it comes to sharing that sort of thing. The Rainbow Child typically didn’t visit until after ascension, anyways, so it isn’t like they really had to worry about hiding that stuff. And even then... well, most of them didn’t see the point in hiding it anyways. Relatia’s people were secretive about that sort of thing due to mostly tradition--compared to the Guild or Grovyle, for example, who are editing and keeping some of Laura’s exploits a secret from her due to genuine worry.

So with that in mind... while there is a lot more puzzle-solving and searching out information in the what if...? stories, the lack of baggage from other Relatia worshippers means that no one is going to try and actively hinder Laura from finding out her identity. The Guild won’t know or care, at any rate, especially since the only part that would actually concern them--i.e., the time gears--isn’t known to the wider world anyways. It’s not going to come up because literally no one except Relatia even knows about the truth in the first place--though, admittedly, it wouldn’t really come as a surprise to many of the others. And even with how cagey Uxie was being, it was less about “hiding” Laura’s identity from her and more about being genuinely unsure if she was actually the Rainbow Child or not. 

That isn’t to say that he would be completely honest in other scenarios where circumstances meant he was more certain about things, however... but even then, it would be less “I need to actively hide her identity from her” and more “even if I do tell her, it isn’t going to mean anything to her since she has amnesia,” coupled with the fact that the current crisis is more important at the moment anyways, since even beyond it meaning nothing to her at the moment, it also isn’t very conducive to the rest of the world since she would be too young to do anything with the information even if she was made aware of it. And he can’t even pull that stunt he tried in the World’s Treasure, since, first off, she hasn’t ascended yet, and, second, they don’t actually know what the problem is this time, and have no reason to believe that a Rainbow Child could actually help much beyond possibly being another expert on the case/being able to call Relatia for help--but, again, they would need an ascended one for that.

The other part of why Laura’s amnesia would make it easier for her to figure out her identity if given enough puzzle pieces is that she wouldn’t have the emotional baggage that comes along with the Rainbow Child’s identity. Among Relatia’s people there’s a mostly unspoken rumor/belief/what have you that the position of the Rainbow Child is just the slightest bit cursed, and that for all the power and blessings she has, she’s also burdened with a lot of hardships and pain. Many Rainbow Children lead unhappy childhoods, or otherwise have bad things happen to them in the line of duty. (Ironically, a lot of this is due to the “protections” put in place that try to give her a normal life--i.e., all the secrecy. For example: Pupil, the Little Imp’s stalker, and Laura’s formative years. For a start. And even the first Rainbow Child had her own share of unhappiness).

Whether this is actually true or not--especially in light of Pupil’s circumstances--is up for debate, since that sort of thing is easy to spin either way since things like pain/unhappiness and their circumstances are relative anyways... but the point is that it’s widely believed and subtly threaded through the background of any stories that nascent Rainbow Children would hear. And people are very good at denying information and deliberately ignoring/thinking around things that would hurt them--so while things might be obvious to Laura and other Rainbow Children in hindsight, especially with their insider’s perspective, none of them are going to go out of their way to confirm it until they literally have no other choice at age thirteen--barring certain circumstances--since--again, barring certain circumstances--no one would deliberately seek out something that would hurt them.

But Laura wouldn’t know a lot of those stories or histories. She wouldn’t have told Grovyle the sadder parts of her people’s history--partially because her young age at the time of her kidnapping by Dusknoir meant that she didn’t know too many of those tales to begin with--so when he’s met with an amnesiac Laura in these what if...? scenarios, he doesn’t have the full story either. And even though Dusknoir probably knows more because of his friendship with the Little Imp, who really knows what all she told him--and how much she accidentally omitted simply because she didn’t stop to think that what would be common knowledge to her, given her upbringing, wouldn’t be the same for him.

(For example, most pokemon probably wouldn’t catch the significance of her eye color. Sure, they might know from the story that her eyes are rainbow colored... but since humans are so rare anyways, they may not clue in on the fact that such a color is actually unusual for humans--so Dusknoir probably has no idea why, exactly, Laura was so important to Dialga. And even Uxie was going more off of the familiarity of her mind than anything else)

So while Grovyle and Dusknoir can help offer her pieces and put the puzzle together enough that she can figure it out... it really isn’t going to “mean” anything to her--or them--besides maybe explaining Dialga’s interest in her or make her feel more obligated to help out with the crisis than she already is.

It also might motivate her slightly more to figure out her past once she turns thirteen and actually go to Uxie for help immediately, since the whole “turning into a pokemon thing” and all the weird stuff and reasoning going on behind why, exactly, that happened means that she’s still going to be facing the same memory issues she had on her birthday in The World’s Treasure--except this time it’s going to be more obvious that something is actually wrong, since she’ll know that she’s supposed to be getting more from this ascension than she currently is. Which would definitely help out in terms of interpersonal relations between the Spirit Trio and everyone else rather than devolving into the absolute fiasco that ended up happening, even if they don’t actually figure out the solution to their problems any sooner and will still need to involve Relatia in order to actually fix things.

...Was any of that actually coherent?  I feel like I may have lost track of things at one point... ah well.

[artemis-entreri]

[[ This post contains Part 4 of my review/analysis of the Forgotten Realms/Drizzt novel, Boundless, by R. A. Salvatore. As such, the entirety of this post’s content is OOC. ]]

Genre: Fantasy

Series: Generations: Book 2 | Legend of Drizzt #35 (#32 if not counting The Sellswords)

Publisher: Harper Collins (September 10, 2019)

My Rating: 2 out of 5 stars

Additional Information: Artwork for the cover of Boundless and used above is originally done by Aleks Melnik. This post CONTAINS SPOILERS. Furthermore, this discussion concerns topics that I am very passionate about, and as such, at times I do use strong language. Read and expand the cut at your own discretion.

Contents:

Introduction

I. Positives   I.1 Pure Positives   I.2 Muddled Positives

II. Mediocre Writing Style   II.1 Bad Descriptions   II.2 Salvatorisms   II.3 Laborious “Action”

III. Poor Characterization   III.1 “Maestro”   III.2 Lieutenant   III.3 Barbarian   III.4 “Hero”   III.5 Mother

IV. World Breaks (you are here)   IV.1 Blinders Against the Greater World   IV.2 Befuddlement of Earth and Toril   IV.3 Self-Inconsistency   IV.4 Dungeon Amateur   IV.5 Utter Nonsense

V. Ego Stroking   V.1 The Ineffable Companions of the Hall   V.2 Me, Myself, and I

VI. Problematic Themes   VI.1 No Homo   VI.2 Disrespect of Women   VI.3 Social-normalization   VI.4 Eugenics

VII. What’s Next   VII.1 Drizzt Ascends to Godhood   VII.2 Profane Redemption   VII.3 Passing the Torch   VII.4 Don’t Notice Me Senpai

World Breaks

There's a reason that Salvatore's dark elf books are more popular than his works in his own settings, and that reason is only partly due to the Drizzt books being around longer. A fair number of people who actively like the Drizzt books don't much care for Salvatore's Demonwars books, and I suspect the reason is that the Drizzt books piggyback off of a greater world built by better creatives. One would think, then, that Salvatore would respect the foundation that has helped lift him to his height, but sadly, the opposite is true. Instead, Salvatore seems chagrined by, even resentful of, the fact that what makes his work in the shared world as popular as it is is the fact that the world is a sum of the efforts of many. Salvatore's earlier books were much better, in part due to his significantly more humble attitude, but also due to a greater care in respecting what others have woven around him. With each new Drizzt book however, it seems Salvatore is puffing out his chest more, intent on writing his name in a giant sharpie over the tapestry that many hands painstakingly wove together before. The Forgotten Realms may not have some facets as developed as other fantasy worlds like Middle-Earth, but nonetheless, even while missing complete languages, FR has enough self-consistency to at least maintain the feel of the whole. With each new book however, Salvatore turns his nose up at the Realms a new degree. Even if a reader doesn't care about the world outside of Salvatore's take on it, I would hope that they're reasonable enough to see how disrespectful and petty it is to disregard and, at times, erase the work done by others in that same setting, especially when even the creator of the world himself is not exempt from this treatment. 

Blinders Against the Greater World

Salvatore's corner of the Realms has always been very insular, but Boundless takes ignoring of the wider world to a whole new level. To Salvatore, it is as though all there is to the Realms is Faerûn. The planet that is Toril has been reduced to a single continent. Even the great Gromph Baenre, whom Salvatore has fought to elevate to the levels of Blackstaff if not Elminster, doesn't seem aware that the planet is round. When Gromph tells Penelope Harpell to take Catti-brie far away from danger, he states, "send her away, far away, to the ends of Faerun, to another plane, even." This presentation is as silly as the flat earth theory of our world, perhaps more so, because to put it in perspective, if this happened in our world, Gromph basically said something alone the lines of, "take her to the ends of North America, to another dimension, even," when he meant, "take her to the ends of the earth". So, again, there are two possibilities here: one, that Gromph isn't as great as he's made out to seem and actually believes that all of his world is the continent of Faerûn, or two, Salvatore is working very hard to erase the rest of a world that he has no use for. Both possibilities are equally bad.

I think that Salvatore's hubris prevents him from fact-checking, even when it is exceedingly easy for him to do so. Ed Greenwood routinely answers questions from fans about the Realms, only holding back when something is blocked by non-disclosure agreements. Salvatore would be spared that block, and it would be a simple matter for him to just ask Greenwood through the myriad of available instant messaging methods and ask for a quick fact check. It's very evident that he doesn't, however, nor even so much as bother Googling something like "map of Waterdeep", as is evidenced by his incorrect nomenclature of one of the city's wards. Entreri and Dahlia have made their home in the Southern Ward of the city, but Salvatore calls it the "South Ward", despite every map of Waterdeep throughout the editions specifically labeling it as "Southern Ward". Even in the recent D&D module, Waterdeep: Dragon Heist, Volo's Enchiridion notes that, "It is called the Southern Ward, not the South Ward. Waterdhavians are peculiar about this, and if you insist on referring to it as the South Ward, expect to be corrected or thought a fool." I suppose that Salvatore is a fool then, for Dahlia, and most certainly Entreri, wouldn't be foolish enough to erroneously call the area they live in the South Ward, especially since they're performing undercover reconnaissance, which would entail not standing out like a sore thumb as foreigners.

Befuddlement of Earth and Toril

One thing that Salvatore did manage to do better than some Realms authors is that, at least in the past, his dialogue read like speakers in the fantasy world rather than in our world. He's been slipping more and more in the recent books, with Boundless hitting a new low. For instance, Salvatore uses the word "okay", despite it being specifically stated by Ed Greenwood as not existing in Common. The etymology of "okay" is very specific to our world and, just as it's unlikely for Common to have come from Latin, "okay" wouldn't have independently evolved into existence in the Realms. Furthermore, while in Forgotten Realms canon there exist portals connecting different realms in the multiverse, including Earth to Toril, which has allowed for the interchange of language and ideas across worlds, such transmission is rare. Even more unlikely is for an already low probability word making its way into the depths of the Underdark, into a very xenophobic Menzoberranzan, meaning that Jarlaxle actually knowing the word "okay" in past Menzoberranzan is next to impossible. It's lazy writing, Salvatore isn't even trying anymore. The same is true for "salty", which, although is less specific to our world, did come into prominent use in recent times, a fact aligning with Salvatore's usage of it to beg the question of if he's actively trying to dumb down his writing to appeal to a wider audience. 

Unfortunately, Salvatore's regression in staying true to Common isn't limited to individual words. In Boundless, there's a glaring instance of the usage of a phrase that is specific to Earth. Specifically, during one of Entreri's melodramatic monologues, while he ponders all the analogies of death, one of the things he specifically thinks is, "the ring around the rosy". While this isn't an exact replica of a line from a well-known nursery rhyme, knowing Salvatore it was most likely a typo of "rosie" to "rosy". There are several issues with the reference. First, it's evident that Salvatore was referencing the hypothesized morbid nature of the rhyme, when it was believed that it was about the Black Death, with the "ring around the rosie" specifically referring to the swollen red rings around the plague victims' eyes and/or the the black circles that would appear on their bodies. The Black Death is specific to our world, with no indication of anything similar having happened in the Realms. Even if there was a plague similar to the Great Plague, it would be curbed way before it developed into a pandemic in a world with as much magic as exists in the Realms. Thus, it's unlikely that a nursery rhyme would develop, especially as plagues are nasty business, bards and the like would much rather extol heroes and heroic deeds. Second, it'd always been weird that a children's song would be so dark, but it was recently disproven that the rhyme is about the Black Death at all. The plague explanation was one concocted a long time after the appearance of a rhyme with no definite origin, and while a number of different theories exist for the meaning of "ring around the rosie", folklorists pointed out evidence such as the plague explanation not appearing until the mid-twentieth century and the symptoms supposedly described by the rhyme not fitting with those of the Black Death. Perhaps most tellingly, the Black Death interpretation is based on the modern (and usually American English) form of the rhyme, which is not the rhyme's original form. This particular phrase that Salvatore uses demonstrates both a world break and a failure in research. 

Another world break also happens in that same monologue, specifically, when Entreri thinks, "No existence... no existence... that, so I learn too late, my only heaven." Salvatore could've easily avoided this instance by using the word "salvation" or "peace" instead of "heaven". As it is, the concept of heaven is unique to the religions of our world. In the Realms, there is no "heaven", unless one is referring to Mount Celestia. After death, souls go to the realm of the deity they worshiped in life, and if an individual didn't worship a deity, their soul would go to the deity whose portfolio most closely aligns with how they lived their life. Those like Entreri  who reject the worship of any deity would've ended up in the Wall of the Faithless, but even that eternity would've been better than that of the cocoon. Since Entreri is defining his eternal peace as nonexistence now that the cocoon has shown him the potential horrors that await him, the Wall of the Faithless should feel pretty welcoming to him. The Wall is by no means a pleasant fate, for one's soul is eternally mortared into it, but neither is it eternal suffering either. However, there's another world break here in that Salvatore doesn't seem to want to acknowledge the Wall of the Faithless' existence. He'd go so far as to create a nonexistent "demon" that will torment those that it deems evil for eternity. The "demon" could actually not be a demon at all, but its human-faced wasp minions certainly don't seem like the kind of critter that would belong to a goodly creature. 

Self-Inconsistency

A consistent problem that occurs in the Drizzt books is the lack of self-consistency. Salvatore often seems to forget and/or mix up which of his characters have done what. This was better in Timeless, but worsened in Boundless again. One example of this that is also a disregard for the shared world as a whole is, "Dab'nay stirred from her deep slumber". Such a simple statement, yet one forgetting something as fundamental as drow having ebony skin. Elves of the Forgotten Realms, which includes drow, don't typically sleep, unless they are extremely injured. Their equivalent of rest is reverie, which they only need half as much of as creatures needing sleep, and it's a state in which they are perfectly lucid. I suppose elves can choose to sleep, but it's illogical that Dab'nay would do so even as comfortable as she feels in that moment. Dab'nay is relatively safe in her hideout, but fundamentally, she is in Menzoberranzan, in the Underdark after all, and there, no place is truly safe. Unless a drow has a death wish, they wouldn't relinquish the advantage afforded them by reverie unless they had no choice, i.e. when they're seriously wounded, which leads me to conclude that Salvatore simply forgot, yet again, that drow don't sleep. It's really a shame, and also somewhat embarrassing, given that one of his more memorable and evocative lines is, "They sat there under the stars and let the Reverie calm them" (The Two Swords). And that's not taking into account the War of the Spider Queen series that he supposedly oversaw, in which reverie is referenced in a non-insignificant way. 

Another example of self-inconsistency in Boundless is:

This is deserving of a John Stewart baffled look. Drizzt, Jarlaxle and Entreri were allowed to walk free from Quenthel's dungeons, but Zaknafein was never there, not during Quenthel's rule anyway. I suppose we don't actually know where Yvonnel the Second brought Zaknafein back from, it is conceivable that she resurrected him in Quenthel's dungeons. However, this is super unlikely, because Yvonnel had already left Menzoberranzan behind by that point with no intention of looking back. 

Yet another inconsistency in Boundless is Guenhwyvar apparently losing one of her oldest abilities, specifically, her capacity to carry others with her to and from the Astral Plane. This ability initially appeared in the first Drizzt book Salvatore wrote, The Crystal Shard, in which Guenhwyvar whisks Regis away to the safety of her home while the final Cryshal-Tirith crumbles about them. She does this again in The Halfling's Gem, stealing Regis away again right as things were getting hot for him in Pasha Pook's guild. In that same book, she later returns to the Prime Material Plane with other astral panthers to obliterate the wererats in the Thieves' Guild. Just the circumstance of Regis going on a joyride through the Astral Plane not once but twice should've led to Drizzt  learning about this particular special and powerful ability of his wondrous companion. However, if for some strange reason Regis was tight-lipped about both of his extraordinary experiences with the panther, the spectacle of a pack of panthers materializing to help the Companions rout their enemies should've definitely drawn enough notice to inspire some question and investigation. It's simply inconceivable that Drizzt wouldn't be aware of Guenhwyvar's ability to transport passengers to the Astral Plane, unless he were so dense as to not notice, or so oblivious as to not wonder. In Boundless, Drizzt demonstrates himself to be either exceedingly forgetful or exceedingly stupid to not think of this most convenient ability of Guenhwyvar's that may have solved the Retriever issue right away. Of course, since what Salvatore "created" isn't a standard Retriever, it’s possible it gained immunity to most everything and incomprehensible cosmic power, but lost its ability to track and travel to other planes?  Perhaps that’s its form of an "itty bitty living space"? Yet, in increasing Salvatore fashion, this inconvenient fact is conveniently forgotten, as even Drizzt's most trusted companion Guenhwyvar isn't immune to being nerfed so that the golden boy is elevated to new levels. After all, if Guenhwyvar simply took Drizzt to the Astral Plane and lost the Retriever that way, how could Salvatore make Drizzt do that awesome discorporating thing at the end of the novel?

Perhaps the biggest recurring issue in the Drizzt books is the arbitrary impermanence of death. Even putting aside the fact that the Companions of the Hall are immune to permanent death, always finding some way to come back even if it entails a hundred-year time jump imposed by D&D's edition change, Salvatore seems to blatantly ignore that the resurrection mechanic exists in the world. Resurrection magic might be difficult to access in remote villages as well as being prohibitively expensive for the common folk, but Drizzt and the companions are far from common folk. Bruenor is one of the wealthiest people on the continent, and the companions have allies in advanced, magic-rich cities such as Silverymoon. This isn't accounting for the fact that even in their midst, Catti-brie should be more than powerful enough to perform one resurrection a day. Pikel, too, is represented to be very powerful, and while he might not be able to resurrect, reincarnating a lost friend in a different form should certainly be within his magic arsenal. Why is none of that being employed to bring back Ambergris when she was slain in Timeless? Why was it not used when Pwent was killed, which would've had the bonus effect of also curing his vampirism? The fact that even the endlessly resourceful Jarlaxle doesn't have some sort of death-defeating spell on hand, even during the Spellplague era, is a gaping hole of an incongruity that'll never be rectified. Putting that aside, Salvatore treats death even more whimsically than Realms authors who do acknowledge resurrection magic in their books. It really feels like Pwent is revealed as not dead due to popular request, whereas Ambergris is killed off to build drama. Similarly, I question if anyone still draws any tension from any members of the Companions being in "mortal danger". It doesn't matter that Drizzt can't escape the relentless Retriever pursuing him, because we know that he's not going to die in any permanent sense, and that everything will work out all right for him. This is perhaps not something that can be laid at Salatore's feet though, as it is intrinsic to most novel series (at least those not written be George R.R. Martin).

Dungeon Amateur

Another thing that's evident from the Drizzt books is that, despite Salvatore styling himself as a D&D expert, his actual understanding of D&D mechanics is very poor. His stats for Drizzt are so laughably optimized that a properly min-maxed character could easily defeat him in one-on-one combat while being as much as ten levels lower than him. However, Drizzt has the thickest plot armor of possibly any fantasy character, so there's no need for Salvatore to understand the game system that his books borrow from and are based in. Still, it's very cringe-worthy to see, especially as with each new book, Salvatore is flagrantly disregarding D&D even more. For instance, in Boundless, Jarlaxle's bag of holding is described as being able to “hold a roomful of goods”. I suppose this is true if it was a pretty small room or if it's a room full of not very heavy goods, because bags of holding can't exceed a capacity of five hundred pounds, and if we're speaking in terms of pure volume, sixty-four cubic feet is the limit. Based on the way that Jarlaxle is pulling forth pouch after pouch full of gold from that bag of holding though, Salvatore makes it sound like he's got a dragon's hoard stored in that magical container. Gold and treasure is heavy, so if Jarlaxle indeed wanted to fit a roomful of goods in his bag of holding, he surely must stock some lightweight junk amidst all of those coins.

The above example admittedly isn't all that bad, especially when considering that since multi-classing into monk, Drizzt's plot armor thickened exponentially, giving him a bevy of awesome new abilities even though his previous awesomeness meant that he's high enough level such that he should only have one level to spend into monk. In Boundless, it seems as though Salvatore is reassigning Drizzt's levels, perhaps taking out those levels in those ranger abilities he never uses and putting them into monk, or perhaps simply by removing the level cap for him. With his sole level in monk, Drizzt kicks a balor in the head for massive damage, even though that one level would've only granted him proficiency in unarmed strikes, an alternate low amount of damage (d4), or the possibility for an extra attack. Yet Drizzt is kicking that balor for the damage of all of his fighter levels, as well as being able to remove poison from himself, an ability that monks don't even have anything similar to until level ten in the form of poison immunity.

At times, Salvatore seems self-conscious about the world and mechanic breaks he performs, and appears to try to make up for them. However, the way that he does so is clumsy and inspires one to facepalm. For instance, a guard "crumples to the floor as if she had been stomped by a tarrasque" after receiving a strike from Dahlia's nunchaku. The tarrasque is a creature that is unique to the Forgotten Realms, however it is also fifty feet long and seventy feet wide, weighing a whopping value of one hundred and thirty tons. Any medium-sized humanoid, which the guard that Dahlia strikes is, would be little more than a bloody smear even if the tarrasque gently put its foot on them. Yet, the guard didn't die immediately from such a strike, was even groaning afterwards. The vast ridiculousness of the analogy aside, it's very unlikely that the guard would be alive at all, for Dahlia's un-tarrasque-like strike nonetheless was enough to splatter the nearby Regis with "blood, bone, and brain". 

In the same vein as not making sense is:

Since when is "what in the Nine Hells" an old dwarven cliché? As far as I can remember, this is the first time it's mentioned in a Drizzt book, and I don't recall seeing that phrase categorized as such in any other Forgotten Realms novels or sourcebooks. It hardly makes sense to and reeks of poor and lazy worldbuilding, While all "facts" in a fantasy setting are made up, this detail is just so random and doesn't fit with dwarf lore. Dwarven souls can end up in the abyss and Baator (the Nine Hells) as readily as any mortal soul, but dwarves as a race don't mingle with devils as much as, for instance, humans or even elves do. As such, it's unlikely that fear of the hells would come from the dwarves. Besides, Bruenor would certainly know the difference between demons and devils, and would thus know that the lawful evil devils would not be marching aside their hated enemies, the chaotic evil demons besieging Gauntylgrm.

One final piece that makes little sense, a tidbit that breaks both D&D rules and Salvatore's own consistency, is Regis lifting Entreri's cocoon. Regis doesn't drag the cocoon, but actually lifts it, gets it on his shoulders, and carries it across a room. Sure, his legs were shaking, but the feat shouldn't have been possible for him at all. We know from Salvatore's own text via The Sellswords trilogy that Entreri weighs one hundred and fifty pounds. Assuming that's with armor included, although it's unlikely since a man that is five foot five inches tall and as muscular as Entreri is would weigh that fully nude, the cocoon itself should add at least fifty pounds, although more likely much more as it's described as being thick and made of sludge-like material. As a halfling, Regis would weigh around thirty pounds, and from what we've seen, he's more of a dexterity-based character than strength-based. He shouldn't have been able to lift the cocoon at all. 

Utter Nonsense

There are a number of things that aren't just inconsistent with the rest of the shared world, they're not even consistent with our world. A carry-over from Timeless is what was supposed to have been a nightmarish fate left to the priestess who failed, Ash'ala Melarn. The climax of the awful punishment was supposedly "when the maggots hatch in the filthy tub all about [her], that [she] can feel every bite and every squirm over the days as they devoured [her]." As I pointed out in my analysis of Timeless, maggots only eat dead flesh. They don't eat live flesh, which is why they can be employed in medical treatments as a form of biotherapy. Because they specifically target dead tissue, maggots are effective in preventing infection that is promoted by the presence of dead tissue. Thus, unless drow possess the capacity to maintain sensation in dead tissue, Ash'ala wouldn't feel the maggots' bites. It seems that Salvatore just kept compounding his mistake, for in Boundless, we're reminded of how Ash'ala is "being slowly eaten by maggots". I suppose that can be true enough if more and more of her tissue is dying and the maggots move on to consume the newly dead tissue, but it's not really a horrific image because, fundamentally, all dead things are going to be eaten by maggots. I get what Salvatore is trying to go for but if the maggots in their world is the same as ours, it wouldn't work the way that he's describing. 

Another example of something that just doesn't fit in either world appears during one of Entreri's monologues: 

I can't find anything for what "piffy" might mean here. There's an entry in the Urban Dictionary that states that it means "sexy", but that definition hardly fits in this context. There's also an explanation that it's a British saying that means to be conspicuous but left out of an activity, but that hardly fits either. Is this Salvatore's version of Trump's covfefe, or a truly epicly bad spelling of pithy that doesn't really fit either? Perhaps its an attempt to show us that language is "Boundless".

[absolxguardian]

Master and Apprentice Propechy Analysis

Alright, with Master and Apprentice giving us snippets of Jedi prophecies, it’s time for one of my favorite things, analyzing them with not just the hindsight of over 60 years of events on the characters, but with the knowledge that narrative imperative means that the prophecies cover events in the main story. So let’s go:

“She who will be born to darkness will give birth to darkness.”

I can very confidently say this refers to Leia. She’s Vader’s biological child, and her son will be Kylo Ren. The original prophecy was also in Old Alderaanian, making it even more relevant to Leia. Qui-Gon brings up a possible interpretation of the prophecy having already passed, referring a Malastaran duchess with an evil father and a Dark Jedi daughter. I’m going to say narrative imperative makes it about something the audience already knows about. And something involving the family of the likely Chosen One is going to give the events more weight to the Force, if you want an in-universe explanation.

“When the kyber that is not kyber shines forth, the time of prophecy will be at hand.”

Qui-Gon ends the book believing that the false kholen crystals on his mission indicate that his mission starts the time of prophecy. I don’t really agree with him. To start, there’s nothing about this mission that makes it more prophecy-like than any other mission Qui-Gon went on with Obi-Wan. It’s not their first, and it’s not the one right before TPM. Qui-Gon does have visions that end up being correct, but he didn’t even have them before the mission. And visions aren’t really prophecies.

If you assume the time of prophecy is the time periods covered by the movies (again narrative imperative and the Chosen One prophecy), either TPM or ANH/Rogue One starts the time of prophecy. Qui-Gon’s first vision after seeing the kholen crystals consist of them turning red, like bled crystals. I could see bled kyber crystals not being considered kyber because they’ve been damaged. If that’s the case, then TPM will mark the first time the wider Jedi order encountered Sith lightsabers in a thousand years. And so that’s when “kyber that is not kyber” shines forth. Or if the “time of prophecy” is the OT then the activation of the Death Star would be when kyber that is not kyber shines forth. The laser is powered by kyber crystals, but the modifications and impersonal activation of them could make it so they’re no longer true kyber. I don’t really have a preference for either marker, but I don’t really agree with Qui-Gon.

“When the righteous lose the light, evil once dead shall return.”

Obviously, this could be about the complacency of the Jedi Order leading to the return of the Sith and most likely is, but there’s another more specific reading for this prophecy. And that’s Maul. This would make the Jedi losing the light when they enter the Clone Wars. Now if the prophecy said evil once dead would return because of the righteous losing the light, then I’d say it’s definitely the Sith, because the survival of the Sith comes directly from the Jedi’s problems. Maul’s return is a less direct cause and effect, but the prophecy doesn’t require the return to be because of the Jedi’s problems.

“The danger of the past is not past, but sleeps in an egg. When the egg cracks, it will threaten the galaxy entire.”

Yeah, it’s the Sith. I don’t think there’s any deeper symbolic meaning of the egg part, it’s just that things grow in eggs, but can’t hurt anyone while inside one.

When Qui-Gon is musing over the whole idea of prophecies, he thinks about a prophecy that “said the Sith would disappear yet appear again”. We don’t know the exact text of the prophecy, but I could see it as being either of the previous two. Jedi studying that prophecy agree that it references to a possible return of the Order, which it obviously does. Qui-Gon mentions that it could be about Darth Wrend, a Sith who was assumed dead but then returned to fight the Jedi. Again, I think narrative imperative requires it to be former. I also think we can say that Qui-Gon studying this prophecy is why he’s so confident Darth Maul is a Sith.

“One will ascend to the highest of the Jedi despite the foreboding of those who would serve with him.”

Qui-Gon believes the prophecy refers to him, but since he never accepts the position of the council, it can’t be. And it’s clearly about Anakin. Thank you random Jedi Seer for having such a straightforward prophecy.

“Only through sacrifice of many Jedi will the Order cleanse the sin done to the nameless.”

The most obvious interpretation is that the destruction of the Jedi somehow “cleanses” what they did to the clones. I’m not sure how the Jedi Order falling makes up for what happened to the clones, it certainly doesn’t improve their situation. The only thing I can think of is that it’s somewhat implied that Order 66 only works once (Tiin was only able to pull his Order 66 trick because the clones with the inquisitors were new, but Bilabla’s clones keep hunting Kanan. On the other hand, the few Imperial clones we know of aren’t obsessed with the Jedi anymore), and so with it fulfilled, they’re finally freed from the inhibitor chip. But it seems like a pretty bad deal, but I could imagine the Force or the Seer considering freedom from possible literal mind control enough.

Another reading I could think of is that the masses of the galaxy: slaves, clones, and exploited poor beings are the nameless because no one pays much attention to their plight. With the Jedi Order reset, the sin that was their complacency and being bound to the Republic is destroyed. You see that with Ezra, Kanan, and Ahsoka, but Luke clearly falls into the same trap. Qui-Gon says that the prophecies can be filtered by the Seer’s basis (so it’s a tool to learn about how they see the world), so it’s possible that the Seer just saw Rey’s new light-side Order as Jedi, or maybe Rey ends up calling them Jedi. Of course, this is if it does turn out Rey does the likely thing of forming a new and improved Jedi-like order.

“When the Force itself sickens, past and future must split and combine.”

The stuff about past and future made me think of the World Between Worlds, but nothing about that time really strikes me as making the Force sick any more than the Empire after Rebels. They were single-handedly causing climate change on Lothal, and with the Loth Wolves, the planet seems to be very important to the Force, but I can’t really see Ezra’s time travel as “splitting and combining”. Maybe the Force was just worried about Ahsoka, since she holds the spirit of the Daughter.

However, there’s another way to read this. With the Cosmic Force “awakening” in TFA and Luke noticing a change in the Force when Rey arrives, it’s implied that the events ST trilogy is affecting the Force itself. With them returning to Jakku, where the definitely dark-side abyss is located, it's possible that part of TROS deals with the Force being sick in some way. Rey learning from the Jedi of the past, but also using her own morality and ideas to create a better order and that’s past and future splitting and combining. Take what works from tradition, but make your own future. If my second guess is true, then it means that this prophecy has actual predictive qualities for us, and that’s pretty cool.

“A Chosen One shall come, born of no father, and through him will ultimate balance in the Force be restored.”

So you know how I’ve said that I wouldn’t make a Chosen One theory without the actual text of the prophecy, well here it is. It’s also simpler than the several page mostly-censored version from legends. Well to start, unless there’s some translation gender weirdness (like the original language of the prophecy had no gendered pronouns and the translator’s own basis influenced them), Rey isn’t the Chosen One. But don’t get excited, Kylo Ren can’t be the Chosen One either, because the identity of Kylo’s dad is pretty important. In fact, the only way I can see the Chosen One being Luke is that “born of no father” isn’t literal, but instead, it's about how when Anakin fell and Padme rejected him, he forfeited the right to be Luke’s true father. I like that reading, but the ending of ROTJ seems to imply Lucas doesn’t agree with me.

In fact, I’m now firmly in the “Anakin is the Chosen One” camp, and I’ve left my “series of Chosen Ones” headcanon. The main reason is the “through him” part. It implies that it’s not Vader’s actions that cause balance in the Force, but that it’s an unintended consequence of his actions. Now people have joked that the two-ish Jedi and two-ish Darksiders after ROTS mean that Anakin balanced the Force then, and Rael even brings up that same idea, that balance is when light and dark are equal. But when the Empire rose, it was only the numbers of Sith and Jedi that were equal (and they weren’t even that equal, with the Inquisitors, short-term surviving Jedi, and the almost Jedi like Ahsoka). The Sith were clearly more powerful. However, as I mentioned before, there’s a good chance the Cosmic Force “fell asleep” after ROTJ. And there have been hints that extensions of the Cosmic Force like the Ones or Force Ghosts are actually aberrations. Anakin brings balance to Mortis by killing all of the Ones, and the Father seems confident Anakin will do the same to the wider galaxy. Now he may be wrong, but I’m more inclined to trust a Force god over someone like Maul. And Qui-Gon’s story in FACPOV makes it clear that when a Force ghost manifests, it’s an unpleasant and unnatural separation from the Force. Somehow, the end of the Sith caused the Force to smooth out the aberrations that are consciousness independent from the whole. Well, until TFA. And if that is true, it explains why the Force Ghosts couldn’t give Luke advice until TLJ.

“He who learns to conquer death will through his greatest student live again.”

Obviously “he who learns to conquer death” is supposed to be Qui-Gon, but the question is, who’s the greatest student? Qui-Gon becomes the master when he teaches both Yoda and Obi-Wan after his death, but I wouldn’t describe anything of what Yoda or Obi-Wan does counting as living again. Neither of them really live up to Qui-Gon’s temporal goals. Also, who is supposed to be the greatest? Obi-Wan was Qui-Gon’s only temporal student, and you can’t be the greatest when there’s no competition. But Qui-Gon only taught one thing to Yoda.

The fact the obvious interpretation doesn’t quite fit has led me to another reading, one that also predicts the future from our view as well. And that is that Luke ends up conquering death a lot more metaphorically through Rey. The TROS trailer has, what we have to assume to be Luke’s Force Ghost saying “we have taught you all you know- a thousand generations live in you now.” It sounds like Luke is somehow speaking for other Jedi spirits or at least the contents of the Jedi texts. As I discussed earlier, Force Ghosts are aberrations in the Force. So Luke conquering death is more metaphorical. His beliefs in both the failings of the Jedi, but the need for the Jedi to exist will come to fruition in the form of Rey’s reborn Jedi. And Luke has had many students, but since they all either fell or died, Rey is certainly his best one.

[gascon-en-exil]

I Liked Fates Before It Was Cool!: Conquest Part 3

Prologue

Opening Chapters

Conquest Part 1

Conquest Part 2

Chapters 21-Endgame, in which this turns into the end of a Pokémon game.

Chapter 21

This may just be the worst filler chapter in Fates, dull and forgettable in pretty much every way. This isn’t even the first time in Conquest that Iago has pulled his Faceless stunt against Corrin, and it’s still a dumb and poorly-developed source for a conflict. Why does Iago hate Corrin so much on this route anyway? Lilith also dies here, her death even more random and pointless than the one in Birthright. I actually had an idea for how they could have killed her off in Conquest and have it carry some actual emotional weight: have her take a killing blow from Takumi in Chapter 23. It would emphasize just how far gone Takumi is and tie Lilith’s sacrificial love for Corrin back into their Nohrian siblings’ love, particularly as Elise does take an arrow for Corrin back in Cheve. But nope, death by random Faceless it is.

Even the experience of playing this chapter is less challenging and more highly annoying, between the beefy Stoneborn stunning units and the Faceless hordes clogging the road to the end. I also hate how the rubble blocking certain paths up the stairs can be hard to see; at least once several of my units got stuck in a dead end because I couldn’t tell at first that the way I was sending them was impassable.

Before moving on, I should probably explain the Pokémon thing. Conquest’s lategame has always felt conspicuously methodical to me when compared with the other routes and with FE lategames generally. It reminds me very much of the typical (and infamously formulaic) experience of a Pokémon game, which end with a long and tedious trip through a cave that forms a physical bottleneck to the final area of the main story (this chapter) followed by sequential challenges against the Elite Four (22-25, with the four Hoshidan royals even faced in ascending order of age), a “surprise” fight against a regional Champion (26, with “surprise” in quotes because, just like with Hans and Iago, it’s rarely surprising that you have to fight them at some point), and then often a challenge against one or more otherworldly legendary Pokémon in the postgame (27 and Endgame, in which Corrin faces off against two incarnations of an insane dragon from another dimension). To contrast, Birthright’s final confrontations are more spread out and don’t even feature half of the Nohrian siblings, and the true climaxes are those that have been built up throughout the route. Revelation does throw multiple antagonists against Corrin in sequence, but in its tradition of imitating the endgame of Radiant Dawn each of them represents a different story thread getting hastily wrapped up to make way for the fight against Fates’s overall antagonist. This is not to suggest that Conquest’s lategame has no effective moments, but the deliberate scripting doesn’t help this route’s reputation for lazy plotting.

Chapter 22

I have two problems with this chapter, although one will take just a few sentences to resolve. The Dragon Veins on this map have their action described as “flatten a levee,” when what they actually do are destroy walls separating the different sections of the field. A levee is not a wall on land but an artificial embankment against a river or other body of water built to prevent flooding. They’re kind of a big deal in New Orleans, and their appearance and function do not remotely resemble the walls in this chapter. Weird word choice, localizers.

The other, more substantial problem I have here concerns Sakura and her supposed innocence. In a sense I appreciate that Sakura does here what Elise refuses to do in Birthright and takes up arms against Corrin; it highlights her resolve in spite of her characteristic timidity and helps differentiate the two little sisters in a more substantial way than the fetishistic anime tropes that they each apparently embody. I also appreciate that Sakura’s reluctance to fight comes through in the way this chapter is structured, in that she’s enclosed behind...”levees” healing her forces from afar and that you’re not required to fight her to end the chapter. What I take issue with is how easily the game casts her in the role of innocent victim after the battle, simply because Garon and his minions show up (from where?) and kill all the surrendered Hoshidans. Yes, this is a war crime and yet another demonstration of how terrible these people are and how we’re obviously going to be killing them later, but Sakura and even more so her retainers and Yukimura were earlier attacking the Nohrian army. This would have been a good point to demonstrate some genuine moral greyness in someone who gets nothing of the sort of otherwise (and that’s not even getting into her standing alongside Yukimura, a man revealed earlier in the route to be a bit sketchy himself), but thanks to Garon the scene is skewed in favor of flat villainy and justified outrage again.

Chapter 23

...Alright, I’ll be the one to ask it. Why does Hoshido have a Great Wall? It’s my understanding that, in contrast to Nohr pulling from over a half dozen Western European cultures, Hoshido is meant to be representative of solely Japanese culture - and yet when I think of East Asian countries with oversized walls I’m obviously not thinking of Japan. Perhaps some projecting on the part of the writers of the kind of defenses they think Japan would have had if it had been a large continental territory like Hoshido?

Regardless, I don’t have much to say about the specific content of this chapter. I’ve already remarked that Takumi’s arc in Conquest is well-executed, and his last stand atop a great wall overlooking a gorge in the setting sun makes for a fittingly dramatic end even before it goes all possession-assisted suicide. The deaths of his retainers have a bit of punch to them too, particularly since it’s become so customary on this route for Corrin to spare defeated opponents.

This policy along with the scope of this battle do however bring up a larger point I wanted to make when comparing routes. Both Birthright and Conquest end with Corrin’s army invading the enemy nation, conquering their capital, and deposing their sovereign along with various others who get in the way. There is though a strong contrast between the presentation of these two invasions, and they happen to involve this series’s varying representation of the scale of its wars and the forces under the player’s control. In some cases it’s understood that the characters that make up the playable cast, plus a few major NPCs like merchants, literally represent the entirety of their side of the conflict. In other cases the playable cast are implied to be merely the vanguard of a much larger army. This can sometimes get awkward, but most of the time it’s fairly clear-cut that, say, all of Blazing Sword follows the first model whereas Gaiden and its remake are evenly split between an army of the first type (Celica) and an army of the second (Alm post-Deliverance Hideout).

For basically all of Birthright and Revelation and even parts of Conquest Fates uses the literal one-to-one scale model, and that manifests clearly in Birthright’s endgame. Corrin’s army sneaks into Nohr, passing through a supposedly abandoned fortress and a river of lava to reach a succession of two secrets passages that allow them to infiltrate Castle Krakenburg. They could not be feasibly marching with a whole army at their backs, and as such the conflicts they face in Windmire play out either as ambushes, Corrin’s personal family drama, or quick surgical strikes against enemy commanders who are unambiguously killed off. Not so in Conquest, where even before Garon’s army joins up with Corrin’s there’s enough of a rearguard to secure the major military installations that they seize on the way to Shirasagi and also keep prisoners of war. Azura also alludes to rebellion among the army’s ranks, a concern that would be completely baseless were the player not meant to assume that their visible army was being followed by legions of unnamed soldiers. The effect of this is that Conquest feels much more like a, well, conquest, and there’s a greater consideration for the standard rules of engagement in wartime (and Garon’s callous disregard for them) to match the larger scope and less personal conflict. Sure, the Hoshidan royals are still crying that Corrin has betrayed them and they can’t be a family, but since Corrin doesn’t really know the Hoshidans in the same way as they do the Nohrians I don’t find that to be at the emotional core of these chapters.

Chapter 24

As natural as it is to feel sorry for Takumi for what he goes through in Conquest - exacerbated even further here after this chapter when Hinoka apparently forgets about him entirely when contemplating whether Corrin can keep their family together - Hinoka might be even sadder on a meta level. Here she is, a woman whose life has been defined since early childhood by the kidnapping of her beloved sibling forced to fight that sibling now siding with their own captors as they invade and conquer her home...and yet for the small amount of time the main story spends building up her character and motivations this confrontation carries all the emotional weight of a single-chapter boss and little else. The biggest character moments on this map are less about her and more about other royals: Azura steels herself to march on her adoptive home, Xander doubles down on the pragmatic rationalization of an abuse victim, and Camilla gets to do her performative violent flirtation routine with a side of Corrin smothering that actually manages to be kind of funny. Even the retainer banter that Hinoka excels in elsewhere feels bland in this chapter.

As such I don’t really have much more to add. This map’s gimmick is a clever expansion of one used in an early Birthright chapter at least. And, uh, the Hinokacopter I guess? I suppose the question of the day is whether that’s more or less silly than Camilla’s catwalk strut.

Chapter 25

Now that’s a less fine hunk of obnoxiously self-righteous man right there.

Intriguing foil and bara porn potential aside it’s not that I hate Ryoma, even in Conquest, but it frustrates me how unsubtle the writers were in their love for him. I recall reading meta once that Ryoma fails as a proper Camus because there’s never any acknowledgement that he’s fighting for the wrong cause, and I have to agree. Corrin tells him that they’re working to save Hoshido too in spite of appearances, but Ryoma’s suicide is still presented as an honorable tragedy that spares Corrin a painful choice that’s ultimately pointless since Iago and Garon try to kill them in the next two chapters anyway. Also, while Ryoma finally abandons his desire to drag Corrin back into the Hoshidan fold after being told that Hinoka is dead (but no reaction to Takumi’s apparent suicide - sensing a pattern there?) the rage that replaces it lacks the well-intentioned antivillainy of the traditional Camus. He’s just pissed off enough to kill Corrin in revenge for killing his sister...or rather stand there for ages waiting for you to finish the rest of the chapter. At least Xander’s passivity and nerfed stats in his final Birthright confrontation make sense in context.

The strange thing is that I have no moral problem whatsoever with the concept of honorable suicide, but this particular scenario makes me kind of hate that Ryoma does it anyway. He dies a hero for Corrin and Azura to cry over, nothing like the flawed but honorable (in his own way) individual Xander is acknowledged to be in Birthright. Ryoma’s final stand and death flatten his motivations from earlier in the route to the point where the player is not encouraged to examine them. His controlling and manipulative behavior from Chapter 12 go completely forgotten, and it’s not until this very chapter that he accepts that Corrin truly cares about and wants to be with his Nohrian family - because Corrin claims to have murdered Hinoka. (Side note: this is arguably the most Hinoka ever matters to the plot of any of the routes, yet another sign of the serial neglect of her character.) Ryoma is every bit as flawed and complex an antagonist or even an ally as Xander, but you have to dig at the story to understand that. This leaves me with a deeply unsatisfying impression of imbalance, not only because these two are the most clearly established foils among the royal siblings but also because it perfectly encapsulates the prevailing creator bias of Fates, a bias that the players were seemingly meant to accept at face value.

Chapter 26

*yawns*

This chapter and the last two may throw almost everything Conquest has to offer at you to really amp up the difficulty, but in terms of story Chapter 26 is just a speed bump to get to the big reveal at the end. Iago and Hans are still not remotely interesting villains, and nothing interesting comes of them here. Leo even gets the honors of killing Iago just as he does in Birthright. Actually, there is one good bit - the moment when all the siblings stand up to Iago and Hans and announce their intentions to kill them and how they’re going to get away with it, turning one of Iago’s usual tactics against him. It’s the most satisfying showdown with these two in any of the routes, in my opinion.

I think this would be a good time to bring up a theory I heard recently from a YouTube critic explaining how Iago and Hans’s obvious two-dimensional villainy could plausibly exist in-universe: as Anankos is using Garon to destroy both Hoshido and Nohr, it benefits his long-term goal to give high-ranking positions to destructive individuals who will not only gleefully kill off the opposition but will cause dissent and disruption among their own ranks through their blatantly awful behavior. This is likely a case of giving the writers credit for more than they deserve, but the Fates fandom is no stranger to having to do most of the worldbuilding work itself.

Chapter 27 + Endgame

I’m going to step back a bit on my criticism of Conquest’s formulaic lategame, because despite the rigid structure leading up to this finale and some shared story elements with Birthright’s endgame - the Yato power-up, the shattering of the Yato reversed by a conversation with the dead and the power of friendship, Azura’s death and continuing mystery, an all too quick smoothing over of the political situation following the battle - these chapters and Conquest’s ending are substantially better than I remember them from earlier playthroughs.

Let’s start with Xander. He goes from threatening to kill Corrin if their claims about Garon turn out to be a ruse to the first of the Nohrians to defy the newly-revealed slime monster masquerading as his father - for precisely the reason that he’s lambasted as an idiot with daddy issues on the other routes. Alone among his siblings he knew the real Garon long enough to understand what he was truly like, so it’s fitting that he’s the one to understand that they’re facing a monstrous imitation of the real man and then rally the others to join him. That’s a profound turnaround, and as such Siegfriend powering up the Yato really lands as a strong moment.

Then there’s the resolution of Takumi’s arc, which unlike with Ryoma’s two chapters ago doesn’t tidily push the reality of his feelings of loss and resentment under the rug because of the current circumstances. Corrin and Takumi get to reconcile in the setting’s equivalent of limbo, each acknowledging that their mistakes led them to this point. This does not, however, then resolve itself with the conclusion that Corrin chose the wrong path in the end; instead, they validate their decision in the face of a bright future for Nohr and peace with Hoshido (which will presumably involve a hell of a lot of diplomacy and trade agreements, but details...). I believe this was an important writing choice to make for the player, to allow for Conquest’s ending to feel like a proper resolution instead of a monstrous lie as Xander describes the war in the final cutscene.

And that cutscene, and the scenes in the Nohrian throne room preceding it - actual acknowledgement in the story of Nohr’s culture and class system at last! There’s even an oblique hint at the resource scarcity that Birthright spells out, that the Nohrians feel they must make war to support their country. As much as I would have preferred all this worldbuilding to be sprinkled throughout Conquest rather than crammed into the ending I’ll take what I can get. We have to live with friendship superpowers and easy diplomacy and, er, Camilla’s bouncy breasts to get there, but all the same the finale is a strong one.

Oh, and Azura...it’s easy to forget about Azura, considering she never explains in this route what her song will do in the endgame and she dies offscreen immediately thereafter. It’s frustrating that she has so much less presence on this route compared to Birthright when here she’s the one who directs Corrin on the path to invading Hoshido instead of coming up with any other kind of solution. Way to completely dodge any kind of responsibility for that decision, Azura.

Next time: ending and final thoughts on Conquest

[luftballons99]

how alone you are

fandom: Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler

relationships: Platonic Sebastian Michaelis & Ciel Phantomhive (s*baciel shippers don’t touch!)

summary:

“I have no one,” Ciel whispers, shaking. “I have no one.”

“You have me, my lord, until I bring you victory,” Sebastian assures him softly.

Ciel lets out a short, frost-bitten laugh. “Until you claim my soul,” he corrects.

or

A Faustian pact is a poor cure for nightmares.

tags: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, platonic fluff, Platonic Relationships, seriously if you ship seba/ciel dont touch this fic please, Trauma, References to Book of Murder and Book of Circus, venting, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Banter

chapters: 1/1

read it on ao3 here or under the cut

(i dont know why but somehow i found myself catching up all the way on the black butler manga after years of not reading it and was hit with the urge to write a fic that 1) explores sebastian and ciel's dynamic as unlikely friends(???) and 2) allows ciel to reach something of an emotional catharsis with the help of the only person (entity?) who, for better or for worse (probably for worse), actually understands him (kinda). they're both incredibly tough characters to write so i hope i at least somewhat got their personalities right? the idea of ciel venting is in and of itself pretty ooc but i suppose if any fanfiction was perfectly in character, it would all be canon, so. yknow.

anyway i cannot stress this enough i do not want any s*baciel shippers in my notifs ok? don't comment. don't even look at this fic. though i guess if youre reading this you already did, in which case, fuck you for not checking/straight up ignoring the tags. point is i dont wanna hear any shippy shit alright keep it classy. ciel's 13, give him a break. he needs a guardian, not a love interest, especially not one thats thousands of years older than him. yikes.)

There are some things - however few - that Sebastian cannot protect him from.

He is content to leave it that way, at first. It’s not his job to be a shoulder to cry on or to chase away nightmares. That was never part of their deal and he wagers that Ciel would prefer to keep it that way. Whether it is because of self-delusion or pride, he will not confide in Sebastian; not when it comes to the scars that lie beneath his skin, invisible but lethal. And truthfully, it is just as well; Sebastian is unsure what he would even do with the information. Handling someone’s emotions without exploiting them is not really his area.

All he needs to do is keep Ciel alive and healthy. All he needs to do is watch the corpses pile up at the foot of Ciel’s throne. All he needs to do is kill some time before his next meal.

And yet all Ciel needs to do to keep Sebastian at his heel is call his name.

And that, as much as it pains Sebastian sometimes, was very much part of the deal.

It has been a while since Ciel has had a nightmare; at the very least, it’s been a while since he’s had one terrifying enough to rip a grating shriek of his butler’s name from his lungs and through the quiet air of the Phantomhive manor. Sebastian has noticed, however, that Ciel has not been sleeping well, regardless. Just this morning, the young lord nearly fell asleep on his feet as Sebastian slipped his silk eyepatch on for him, and then later did fall asleep in his study, drooling into the pages of a book. Something is weighing on his mind, and while usually Sebastian would argue that it’s none of his business what goes on in his little lord’s head, it seems to be becoming his business right now as he rises from his desk and ascends the stairs to answer his master’s call.

He is at Ciel’s door in a matter of seconds and, because no one is around to see it, conjures a tray of warm milk and honey with an elegant flourish of his wrist. He sighs inwardly. He knows that Ciel is still plagued with trauma; has ruined too many gloves wiping vomit off the corner of Ciel’s mouth and reminded him to breathe too many times to forget. Still, he was hoping that his young master would have grown out of his nocturnal panic attacks by now.

After all, a violent flashback while witnessing a child’s murder makes sense to him. A nightmare after a quiet, peaceful evening at home does not.

Regardless, Sebastian dutifully knocks on Ciel’s door three times, signalling his presence. He waits before entering, watching the warm milk he prepared ripple in the flickering candlelight illuminating the hallway. He hopes the young master has enough sense to swallow his pride and invite him in before it gets cold.

“Sebastian?” he hears Ciel call after a moment, his voice raspy and muffled on the other side of his door.

Slowly, Sebastian pushes it open and steps inside. Warm light from the hall spills into the room, a slant of yellow cutting across the young master’s trembling form, tucked deep under the covers. It disappears as Sebastian shuts the door behind him.

“That’s right, my lord,” he replies softly. He balances the tray in one hand as he walks toward the sconce attached to the wall by Ciel’s bed. Knowing that Ciel will want to be able to see him clearly, he pinches the wick of the candle between his forefinger and thumb, and when he lowers his hand, a small flame has already begun to burn at the tip.

Sheets rustle as the young master stirs, emerging from his linen cocoon with a white-knuckled grip on his thick blanket and a terrified stare aimed at Sebastian. Sebastian smiles down at him pleasantly, unfazed by his master’s horror. He sets the tray down on Ciel’s nightstand and wordlessly spoons honey into his cup of milk.

“Nightmare, master?” he asks idly, stirring. Ciel doesn’t answer, still busy panting from lingering panic. “It has certainly been a while since I’ve had to come feed you milk in the middle of the night like a starving pup- “

“You shut your mouth this instant ,” Ciel barks, voice raw and loud and sudden enough to make Sebastian’s hand still and his eyes go wide, his smile slipping cleanly off his lips and leaving his expression blank. He glances up from the tray he brought, meeting Ciel’s multicolored glare. “You forget your place, butler .”

Sebastian releases the spoon he was holding, letting it clink lightly against the rim of the cup. He places a hand over his heart and bows deeply.

“My apologies, my lord,” he says evenly and, because he is sure Ciel won’t be able to see it from this angle, arches an eyebrow at the floor in incredulity. His young master certainly has a shorter fuse than usual this evening. It is true what they say about children becoming agitated when deprived of their nap-time. “Please forgive me.”

He remains still, awaiting the boy’s response. It comes a moment later in a frightened, colorless whisper.

“Come here,” Ciel says, lacking his usual authoritative tone. It’s like he’s reverted back to how he was on that first night, skinny and quivering and sick with fear. The only difference now is that he’s a few inches taller and that instead of smacking Sebastian away and commanding him to keep his distance, he seems to need human proximity - or the closest thing to it he can get his hands on. Sebastian glances up, taking a step forward and kneeling obediently at his master’s bedside.

Ciel regards him fearfully, as if Sebastian might disappear into thin air like smoke from a snuffed out candle. He reaches out a small hand from underneath the covers and curls his nimble fingers into the collar of Sebastian’s shirt. He squeezes and releases the crisp fabric repeatedly, like he needs to make sure both it and Sebastian are really there.

Sebastian remembers something Doctor Arthur said on his first and final visit to the manor; about how, in sleep, the young master looks a little less like an Earl and a little more like a Ciel. He may posture as much as he wishes, but he will always remain that battered little boy sticking his blood-brown hands out from in between the grimy bars of his cage; the boy who was forced to grow up so fast that he didn’t truly grow up at all. The boy who spit upon God and shook hands with the devil. The boy who chose hell over happiness.

“What is it, my lord?” Sebastian asks, curious and amused as Ciel continues to pat down the front of his jacket with frantic hands. They still suddenly, cupped around Sebastian’s shoulders as the young Earl thinks, his face indecipherable. Sebastian looks up at him, waiting patiently.

Ciel’s face crumples like parchment over an open flame. The ominously glowing magenta mark of the covenant in his right eye flickers as he blinks back his tears.

“I’ve had enough,” he whispers, voice trembling - from rage or sorrow, Sebastian is not sure. Rage at his own sorrow, perhaps. His fingers dig into Sebastian’s shoulders, tight like twin mouse traps. If Sebastian were human, he might flinch. “I’ve had enough of this.”

Sebastian places his hand over one of Ciel’s in what he thinks is a reassuring gesture. “Enough of what, my lord?” he wonders.

“I asked you,” Ciel starts, gritting his teeth, “for power. That was our deal, demon.”

Sebastian cocks his head to the side. “Has my service been unsatisfactory?”

Ciel smacks his palm over Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian blinks. He does not try to pry his master’s hand away, even though it would be easy. He could snap Ciel’s arm like a twig, if he wanted to, and has mused about doing so before. But they have a deal, and it demands that Sebastian never let any harm come to a single hair on Ciel’s head. And besides, it has been a while since Ciel, difficult as he is, has inspired any violent inclinations in him, and that includes now.

“I asked you for power,” the boy continues, “and yet my mind remains weak.” His voice tapers off into barely a whisper, as if he’s still afraid of admitting it out loud - even to someone who already knew. The true horror for Ciel, Sebastian knows, is not so much the torture he endured three years ago, but the fruitlessness of his efforts to take vengeance.

“The dreams do not cease,” he hisses in disgust with himself, “and I will never leave my cage.”

Sebastian is quiet for a long moment. He could say, This is the lightless path you chose. He could say, There is a difference between power and strength. He could say, You are only human. And he could spend the rest of the night with a red, stinging cheek as a result.

Ciel’s hand slips from Sebastian’s face and grips the silky lapel of his jacket. He seems to want an answer, after all.

“My lord, you are overtired,” Sebastian says gently, deciding to hedge his bets. “Please help yourself to the milk I brought; it may soothe your nerves.”

Ciel scoffs, releasing Sebastian’s jacket and hugging his knees. Sebastian stands and attends to the tray he left on Ciel’s night table, letting his hand hover over the cup of milk and feeling satisfied when it warms his palm. It hasn’t gone cold quite yet.

“I’m not a child,” Ciel spits suddenly. If it weren’t for his small stature, anyone else might believe him. He carries the title of Earl and the weight of the underworld with it on his tiny shoulders and not once has anyone but Sebastian seen him buckle under the weight - and even that is a rare thing. He’s proud, he’s greedy. He’s the worst that humanity has to offer, and he’s the best at being so.

He’s thirteen.

“Of course not, my lord,” Sebastian says graciously, though the amusement in his tone is not lost on his master, who snaps his head up and seems to bristle like a cornered cat. “Shall I take it away, then?”

Ciel’s response is an immediate, “No.” Sebastian grins down at him knowingly. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“That smile. It makes me sick.”

Sebastian picks up the cup with one hand and tucks his smile behind the other. “Please accept my sincerest apologies once again, young master,” he says, voice wavering as he tries not to laugh.

“Your ‘sincerest apologies’ don’t do me any good, Sebastian,” Ciel points out hotly, accepting his cup when it is offered to him. “Just do as you’re told.” When he looks up at Sebastian, his eyes are still glassy with poorly-masked fear. His emotional refractory period is not as short as he would like his butler to believe.

Sebastian watches Ciel peer down into his cup with a shaky sigh before taking a tentative sip of from it. After ascertaining that it isn’t too hot, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back as he continues to drink. Eventually, he lowers the cup so it rests in his lap, held in place by his small hands. His eyes remain closed as he takes a steadying breath.

“Are you sure you’re alright, young master?” Sebastian pries gently.

“My emotional state is none of your affair,” Ciel shoots back, eyes still stubbornly shut.

Sebastian’s eyebrow twitches in irritation. Obstinate brat.

“I see,” he says, tone cold. “That must be why you summoned me to your chambers in the middle of the night. Of course. How foolish of me.” He gives Ciel an icy look, patience wearing thin.

(Yes, he is immortal, and yes, he will have an eternity left at his disposal long after Ciel has died, but hours of managing the boy’s schedule while attending to the daily calamities the other Phantomhive servants cause has made him reluctant to waste time. Every minute he spends in Ciel’s chambers is a minute not spent planning their itineraries for the coming day or preemptively preparing himself mentally for his coworkers’ blunders.)

On that very first night, Ciel ordered him to never lie. Sebastian had figured out quickly that the little lord would not afford him the same luxury.

Ciel gapes up at him, appalled. “ Excuse me,” he starts indignantly, “Since when do I owe you an explanation for my orders?”

“I would never dream of expecting such a thing,” Sebastian assures him, but they both know it’s insincere. “I simply wished to express my concern for…”

He lets the statement taper off into silence when he realizes what he’s trying to say, his jaw going slack before his mouth snaps shut.

Ciel’s eyes shoot wide open before narrowing into skeptical slits, luminous amethyst and candle-lit sapphire shimmering through his lashes. “Your concern for what?” he asks, insistent but wary.

Sebastian considers his master for a moment, thinking. So much for hedging his bets.

“...Your well-being,” he answers finally, and it isn’t until the words slip off his tongue that he tastes their truth. He blinks.

Ciel’s brows pinch together, the eyes underneath searching Sebastian’s face like a bandit looting a vagrant’s corpse. He flounders. Finally, in a test of Sebastian’s meaning, he says, “Your concern is unwarranted. As you can see, I am not injured.”

And it is true - Ciel is healthy as can be; he hasn’t suffered so much as a papercut in over a month. And it has been, by all accounts, a quiet, peaceful evening.

And yet Sebastian has not felt at ease ever since he heard his master scream.

“Indeed,” he says thoughtfully, brows knitted, “but it is not an injury that had you calling my name.”

Ciel’s eyes widen as he looks up at Sebastian, stunned. “I’m fine now,” he insists after a moment, suddenly impatient.

“‘Fine’ has variable definitions,” Sebastian points out and Ciel rolls his eyes, “None of which I would use to describe your current - “

“So what?” the young master demands, incensed, the very foundations of the manor Sebastian built him quaking at the sound of his voice. Sebastian closes his mouth. “I’m alive. That is all that has ever mattered to me.” Ciel’s thin fingers press tighter around his cup of milk as if he’s trying to crush the delicate, flowery design painted on its exterior into oblivion.

What outstanding hypocrisy. Sebastian has had enough.

“You,” he begins in a rough sigh before dropping into a crouch in front of his master, unimpressed, “are quite the nuisance.”

Ciel gapes, immediately raising one hand high. Sebastian’s arm snaps forward before the young lord’s palm can make contact with the side of his face and squeezes his brittle wrist tight.

Ciel flinches, fear striking his features like lightning, and Sebastian is surprised when he doesn’t feel satisfaction at the sight. When did that change? He loosens his grip, but does not let go.

“How dare you ,” Ciel spits, outraged. Tears blur and distort the smoldering mark of their covenant. Still, he swallows a hiccup and growls, “You are trying my patience, Sebastian.”

“What a coincidence,” Sebastian remarks, feigning enthusiasm. “You are trying mine.”

The dam breaks. “You insolent - ” Ciel begins in an angry sob, face twisted in agony, but cannot seem to struggle to the end. His gem-like eyes overflow, his princely nose leaks, his heart-shaped face is blotchy and red. In this moment, he is no Earl.

Why, then, should Sebastian masquerade as his butler?

“It is your stubborn refusal to confront your emotions that results in these puerile night terrors of yours and my subsequent subjection to your misdirected, hysterical outbursts,” Sebastian informs him strictly, red eyes cold. Ciel, through slime and salt water, manages a powerful glare and a snarl. Sebastian is undeterred. “Therefore, if there is so much as a ghost of a chance that you airing your grievances now will result in even a single night more uninterrupted by this nonsense, I believe it is in our best interest to take it, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ciel begins to wrench his wrist out of Sebastian’s grasp and Sebastian allows it, even though he anticipates the sharp slap to his cheek that follows. He sighs loudly in annoyance and looks at the floor, listening to the boy in front of him sniffle and hiccup pathetically. He takes a moment to compose himself; to let the flicker of anger in his chest to go out, eyes falling shut.

He does not anticipate Ciel’s arms hooking around his neck in a distraught embrace.

Sebastian tries to remember the last time he was held.

It was probably by Mey-Rin; she trips over her skirt or her shoelaces or other people’s shoelaces or the floor at least twice a day, and it is often Sebastian who catches her before she falls and breaks her nose - or worse, the dishes she carries. And though the encounter did not leave much of an impression on him, he did sleep with Beast to find information about her benefactor.

This, however, is obviously, markedly different. This is his young master. This is a child desperate for emotional reprieve. This is a little boy in need who would rather die than admitting so.

Carefully, Sebastian places his hand on Ciel’s head, cautious and curious as to how it feels to comfort someone he’s actually invested in. He smooths over Ciel’s tousled dark hair; feels tears seep into the collar of his shirt; thinks vaguely about all the laundry that’s piled up this week. Ciel shivers against him pathetically, muffled whimpers spilling from his lips into Sebastian’s shoulder, and Sebastian keeps stroking his head the same way he’d stroke a cat’s - sans the enamored cooing.

“I hate this,” Ciel grits out spitefully, yet holds Sebastian tighter. Sebastian chuckles softly, amused by the contradiction. Ciel always has been a walking, crawling, squirming juxtaposition.

“If I may be so bold, my lord,” Sebastian offers quietly, “You need this.”

Ciel responds with a pitiful hiccup. Sebastian lifts the hand not occupied with Ciel’s hair and runs it down his back in slow motions that he can only guess are soothing.

“I have no one,” Ciel whispers, shaking. “I have no one.”

Sebastian almost asks, I thought you had no need for emotional attachments? , but manages to restrain himself. Now is not the time for banter, and he’s already been slapped once tonight.

“You have me, my lord, until I bring you victory,” Sebastian assures him softly.

Ciel lets out a short, frost-bitten laugh. “Until you claim my soul,” he corrects.

Sebastian was not expecting that. They do not discuss that part of their deal often, despite both knowing its inevitability. Strangely, the pang of hunger he feels in his core at the reminder is accompanied by something else - different, but equally as painful. While hunger leaves him hollow, this seems to fill him past capacity. He is being torn apart.

“Victory first,” he vows after a quiet moment, suffocating his feelings like he would a kitchen fire. “You have my word, sir.”

Ciel’s fingers dig into Sebastian’s back as he buries his leaking nose deeper into the crook of his neck.

“How cruel,” he whispers bitterly, “that the same hand protecting me is the one by which I will die.”

Sebastian’s hand stills mid-stroke of Ciel’s ducked head. He had never thought about it like that. Ironic, yes. Poetic, yes. But never ‘cruel.’ When he thinks about it, he finds the word fits just as well.

“You chose this, my lord,” he reminds the boy and himself, but still does not feel absolved.

“Indeed,” Ciel agrees and holds Sebastian tighter. He is never this clingy unless his life is in danger. Sebastian supposes that, in a sense, it is.

“Now, now, sir,” he chuckles, slowly leaning out of Ciel’s embrace. It is late, they have a busy day ahead of them, and one of them has to be the first to stop playing house. “I have kept you awake for far too long already.”

Ciel’s arms loosen around Sebastian’s neck as he pulls away, though his hands remain clasped at its base. His eyes are swollen red, his cheeks flushed and glittering with moisture to match. Sebastian tuts lightly and shakes his head as Ciel sniffles, reaching into his pocket and producing a handkerchief. He rubs the boy’s cheeks and nose clean, suddenly rocked by the memory of the last time he had to do this - just under three years ago. Ciel was ten and still readjusting to life outside of cages and cult rituals. It took a while before he started bothering to wipe his mouth after a glass of milk or his nose after a sneeze, and it was Sebastian who would remind him by example.

Once again he is filled with that emotion he cannot place. Confusion wrinkles his brow and parts his lips. Ciel seems to notice and gives him a curious look, but before he gets the chance to investigate, Sebastian is pulling his handkerchief away, slipping it into his pocket, and rising to his full height. Ciel’s mouth, which had fallen open when he meant to begin his interrogation, shuts silently. Sebastian cannot decide if it is a relief or not; that Ciel isn’t prying.

(He wonders - long after tonight - what Ciel does not say.)

When Ciel finally does speak, it is to interrupt Sebastian’s movement to extinguish the candle bathing the room in soft orange light with a firm, “Wait.”

Sebastian tilts his head questioningly, retracting his hand. “Master?”

“The light,” Ciel says quietly, tired eyes drooping as he looks up at his butler; his confidant; his murderer. “I like it. Don’t put it out until after I’ve fallen asleep.”

Sebastian smiles, deciding it is safe to tease once again. “The esteemed Earl Phantomhive, unable to sleep without a nightlight. How sweet,” he cooes, a hand over his heart. Ciel narrows his eyes at him. “Shall I tell you a bedtime story while I’m at it, my lord?”

“I dare you,” Ciel challenges him irritably. Sebastian knows better than to accept. He grins and watches Ciel’s eyes fall shut.

“Then I take it I am not yet permitted to retire for the evening?” he asks with a put-upon sigh.

“Do you even sleep?” Ciel wonders flippantly in a yawn that he does not bother to cover with his hand. He rolls onto his back and pulls the covers up to his chin.

Sebastian is surprised, but not put-off, by his master’s interest. “No, sir,” he says, “however, like you, I do require rest.” He pauses, chuckling. “Though obviously not as much as humans do.”

Ciel snorts. “Obviously.”

“Well then, master,” Sebastian begins pleasantly, standing with his back to the wall adjacent to Ciel’s bed, “I will remain by your side until you fall asleep.” And until the day where you do not wake up again.

Ciel hums in acknowledgement, rolling onto his side away from Sebastian and curling into a crescent shape against the mattress. Sebastian, although - or perhaps because - his master can’t see him, allows himself a genuine smile. There will be no more nightmares tonight and, hopefully, for the foreseeable future.

“Sebastian,” he hears the young lord say suddenly and glances up to the back of his head, dark against the soft white of his downy pillows.

“My lord?” Sebastian prompts softly, standing at attention.

There is a long pause before Ciel speaks again - so long that Sebastian wonders if the boy has finally succumbed to sleep - but just when it seems like the conversation is over, Ciel breaks the silence once again with a firm, albeit sleepy, “You did well today.”

Sebastian blinks. He has lived a long time; has seen many things and met many people. He is not easily stunned.

Hearing those words from his master, however, will shake him every time.

I invoked your ire to the point where you slapped me, part of him - the same part that got him slapped, incidentally - wants to remind the boy, but he keeps his quip to himself. They have gone back and forth enough for one night. Surely there is no harm in accepting the gift of his master’s acclaim.

“My lord, I am most honored by your praise,” he tells him, smiling in gratitude and pride. “If I may offer my own - “

“Oh, spare me. All I did was ruin your shirt with my stress-induced optic and nasal secretions.”

Sebastian grimaces at Ciel’s wording. “Now, my lord, surely there is a more graceful way to - “

“Just accept the compliment without patronizing me, Sebastian,” Ciel huffs, frustrated, and rolls over to meet his butler’s eyes. He points at him decisively. “That’s an order.”

Sebastian, still smiling, sighs and raises his hands in surrender. “As you wish, young master,” he concedes.

With a final nod and fluff of his pillow, Ciel settles under his covers. When his eyes shut this time, Sebastian knows they will not open again until morning. He shakes his head, leaning back against the wall with crossed arms as he watches the young lord’s thick covers rise and fall with each of his steady breaths. When Sebastian is sure Ciel is asleep, he extinguishes the light. The room plunges into the comforting darkness of night, softened by milky rays of moonlight filtering in through the window.

Sebastian collects the tray and dishes he brought, being sure not to make a sound when he lifts them up from Ciel’s nightstand. He glances down at the boy over his shoulder before making his way out of the room, remembering his words - You did well today, Sebastian.

A bittersweet smile forms on his lips as he pushes Ciel’s door open. With one last look back at his master’s sleeping form, Sebastian whispers, “As did you, my lord,” and slips out of the room.

[onihanas]

STUDY    :    ZAKURO .    tagged by the lovely @lotusword thank you !!

—    BASICS.

▸     IS    YOUR    MUSE    TALL    /    SHORT    /    AVERAGE ? Average ! Zakuro is 5′2″ which is a fairly normal height for a Japanese woman.

▸      ARE    THEY    OKAY    WITH    THEIR    HEIGHT ? She really doesn’t think about it much. It doesn’t hinder her in combat due to her ability to leap to great heights but she does notice it when she’s around someone who is much taller than her. She certainly doesn’t like feeling small so she is a bit more irritable around people of above average height. 

▸      WHAT’S    THEIR    HAIR    LIKE ? It’s a very deep violet that is usually perceived as black in lowlight. As for the length it varies depending on Zakuro’s form. When she ascends to her divine state her hair seems to grow instantaneously, reaching her upper thighs, but usually it rests at her mid-back.  Typically she wears it up in twin tails tied with bows but when she is concealing her ears on a mission she either wears it in one large ponytail or two buns. Wearing it down is a rarity so don’t hold your breath she really only does so when she’s going to sleep.

���     DO    THEY    SPEND    A    LOT    OF    TIME    ON    THEIR    HAIR     /    GROOMING ? A fair amount of time but it’s never excessive. Zakuro takes baths frequently, as for her daily routine she doesn’t typically wear makeup so really she only spends a bit of time tying up her hair. This process takes a bit longer if she is trying to pass as human and needs to comb her hair over her ears and then tie them down. 

▸      DOES   YOUR   MUSE   CARE   ABOUT   THEIR   APPEARANCE   /   WHAT    OTHERS    THINK ? Hanyou do not frequently interact with people outside of the Ministry of Spiritual Affairs. That being said there really is no need for Zakuro to fuss about her appearance. Even so, Zakuro seems to gravitate towards more traditional clothing despite being given the option to dress herself in a more Western style. On special occasions she does clean up well, this is due to the fact that she is a youkai so blending into a crowd is beneficial for her safety and being underdressed only draws more unwanted attention.

—    PREFERENCES.

▸      INDOORS    OR    OUTDOORS ?     outdoors, either in the forest or a garden. ▸      RAIN    OR    SUNSHINE ?        rain. ▸     FOREST    OR    BEACH ?      forest. ▸      PRECIOUS    METALS    OR    GEMS ?      precious metals. ▸     FLOWERS    OR    PERFUMES ?     flowers. ▸     PERSONALITY    OR    APPEARANCE ?      personality. ▸     BEING    ALONE    OR    BEING    IN    A    CROWD ?     being alone. ▸     ORDER    OR    ANARCHY ?     order. ▸      PAINFUL    TRUTHS    OR    WHITE    LIES ?     painful truths. ▸     SCIENCE    OR    MAGIC ?     magic. ▸      PEACE    OR    CONFLICT ?     peace. ▸     NIGHT    OR    DAY ?     night. ▸      DUSK    OR    DAWN ?     dusk. ▸     WARMTH    OR    COLD ?     warmth. ▸     MANY   ACQUAINTANCES    OR    A    FEW    CLOSE    FRIENDS ?     few close friends. ▸     READING    OR    PLAYING    A    GAME ?      playing a game.

—    QUESTIONNAIRE.

▸      WHAT    ARE    SOME    OF    YOUR    MUSE’S    BAD    HABITS ? She has a short-fuse and can be quick to judge at times. Ultimately, Zakuro has a lot of pent up anger between her abandonment as a child and her isolated upbringing. She did not have a real family till she was brought the ministry and even then she felt like an outsider due to her unexplained powers. She is getting better at trusting others but it’s still difficult for her to let go of her past.

▸      HAS    YOUR    MUSE    LOST    ANYONE    CLOSE    TO    THEM ?      HOW    HAS    IT    AFFECTED    THEM ? Yes, Zakuro actually believed herself to be abandoned by both her mother and father at a young age which is customary where half-spirits are concerned. Most families abandon their children immediately after they are born but Zakuro actually was raised by her mother for a few years before her final disappearance. This instilled a deep-set fear of abandonment within her as well as a constant need to feel accepted by others. As a child she was unwanted and unloved so in a way she is constantly seeking validation whether it be in her abilities as a fighter or helping other girls who were spirited away as well. Of course, later on Zakuro finds out her mother never abandoned her willingly and she was actually a divine oracle from a far-off village. Zakuro being the illegitimate child of her and human man was a child who was never supposed to be born. This realization comes with a whole other set of issues but MOVING ON.

▸      WHAT    ARE    SOME    FOND    MEMORIES    YOUR    MUSE    HAS ? The few short years she spent with her mother she cherishes the most but her life after she was brought to the ministry held a great deal of happiness for her as well. While Zakuro still felt isolated from the human world growing up alongside Suskihotaru, Bonbori and Hozuki made her feel less alone as the three girls are all orphaned youjin. Time spent with her guardian, Kushimatsu also are dear memories to her despite how harsh the older fox spirit could be to her. Overall Zakuro has known great unkindness in her life but she can now share that same burden with those that have led similar lives which makes the pain of the past more bearable.

▸     IS    IT    EASY    FOR    YOUR    MUSE    TO    KILL ? Yes and no. Zakuro’s job at the ministry revolves around slaying evil spirits and demons which she does without a second thought. When killing humans she might show some hesitation but if their intentions are unsavory she will not stop herself from striking them down.

▸      WHAT’S    IT    LIKE    WHEN    YOUR    MUSE    BREAKS    DOWN ? The anger usually hits first. Whether it is anger at someone, something, or most likely herself. She really likes to keep it together, to seem strong and put together but sometimes she cannot keep it all in. She’ will cry, she will yell but when things are more severe the tears flow without end and she needs to ground herself. It can be the touch of a hand or an embrace but when she is in that head space she needs to know she is not alone. Real true turmoil results in ascending to her divine form. Zakuro has no control over that part of herself which is why she can only slip into this state after undergoing a tragedy or something equally as emotionally taxing. In this heightened state she completely shuts down. She is emotionless and the only way she returns to normal is after the power flowing through her runs its course. Although, there is some suspicion that if Zakuro spends too much time in her divine form she will lose all her mortal memories and emotions, completely leaving behind her former self.

▸      IS    YOUR    MUSE    CAPABLE    OF    TRUSTING    SOMEONE    WITH    THEIR    LIFE ? It is possible but it takes time and A LOT of effort. Zakuro is natural suspicious of other peoples’ intentions with her thus it makes it difficult for her to trust much less put her life in someone’s hands. She is not someone that is easy to get to know simply because she is so used to humans wanting nothing to do with her so she automatically assumes the worst. That being said if you do stay by her side long enough Zakuro proves to be an incredible loyal friend. She has a caring nature that is unexpected but truly limitless when it comes to those that she loves.

▸      WHAT’S    YOUR    MUSE    LIKE    WHEN    THEY’RE    IN    LOVE ? Oh boy, basically she is a mess ? At least in the beginning stages she is when the feelings are new and she is not really sure what is happening. I don’t think she gets any less snappy around the person she loves if anything they get the full force of her sass because she knows they can take it and dish it back. On the more tender side of things Zakuro is someone who will fight for her lover whether it be on or off the battlefield. She is an extremely passionate person and that aspect of her personality bleeds into her relationships. Despite this she rather her relationships be on the more private side. While there may be a few lingering glances and handholding in public Zakuro prefers to be more intimate when she’s alone with her partner. So in the end not much changes when in love but she is EXTREMELY protective of her significant other regardless of how strong they may be on their own. Her fear of abandonment only heightens when she’s in a relationship so you’ve been warned.

TAGGING: @calamitycutlass , @tigurijiayo , @spacefell , and whoever else wants to ! 

[abaikgirl]

Caught Up in the Moment

Part 2 of my “Loki: UN Representative” fanfiction. Thanks so much for everyone who commented and liked the last one. This story is kind of getting away from me so expect more chapters soon (when I’m finished with finals that is). Read part 1 here

Special thanks to @captainmervel @lionheartlovely @mischiefs-hawk and another super awesome person who sent an ask to my inbox asking to tag you but the inbox ate the message so I can’t find your username rn! But you know who you are!!

Enjoy! 

Loki made his way to the elevator and stopped when he heard someone call out to him. Turning around, he smiled a vicious grin. “General Ross, good morning,” he greeted. “I hear you’re currently under review, otherwise I would offer to share the elevator up.”

It was true. In light of Loki’s allegedly ‘slanderous’ speech, the general was under heavy scrutiny and had been excused from the remainder of the meetings until everything settled. But if Loki was as good as he thought he was at understanding Midgardian news, the general was never returning to this or any other political arena any time soon. 

General Ross scowled. “I know what you’re doing,” he growled. 

“Oh? And what is that, exactly?” Loki asked. He would normally have brought this conversation to an abrupt (and bloody) end by now, but he promised Thor he wouldn’t stab anyone unless physically provoked. 

General Ross drew himself to his full height, which wasn’t much compared to Loki’s towering stature. “I know you’re trying to win over the council so you can get away with whatever you want. I’m not buying your good-guy routine and they won’t either when I expose you.”

“Oh I am definitely trying to win them over,” Loki admitted. “But not for myself. For the good of Asgard.”

General Ross let out a huff of disbelief that made Loki���s hands itch for a dagger to plunge into his chest. But he restrained himself and clenched his hand into a fist. 

“I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done to my career, Loki, you can count on that.”

This threat made Loki burst into hearty, genuine laughter. “Oh, I’m sure you will certainly try, general, of that I have no doubt.” Loki turned and pressed the button for the elevator. “But I have already fallen through a hole in space time, been tortured by the Black Order, smashed by the Hulk, stabbed through the chest by a dark elf and had my neck snapped by Thanos himself and yet, I’m still here.” The elevator arrived and Loki stepped into it. “I doubt you could possibly do worse than any of them, so forgive me if I’m not intimidated.”

The elevator closed and the last thing General Ross saw was Loki’s smirking face as he ascended to the UN meeting hall. 

***

After his explosive first day, many diplomats cast nervous gazes back at him for the majority of the second and third days, as if waiting for him to interject, object or just start attacking them. But much to everyone’s surprise, Loki remained a silent, almost invisible observer. More than once he felt like a spectator at the most mundane sport imaginable. Environmental concerns were raised, violent uprises were assessed and considered as a risk for war but eventually dismissed. Thor had advised that Asgard’s resources should be offered to those in the direst need because there were so few of Asgardians left and it would take time for them to rebuild. Perhaps they could trade technological advances for resources and manpower. Loki despised asking for help but there wasn’t much choice now that Asgard’s sprawling populace had been reduces to a mere 400 people, including the surviving Sakaarian warriors. Between Hela’s short but vicious reign and Thanos’ attack on the Ark, it was a miracle that any Asgardians were left at all. 

Everyone practically held their breath every time there was a vote, waiting to see which way Asgard would lean. Loki honestly felt neutral on most matters. He had very little stake in the bickering of the divided nations of earth who all had centuries of bad blood and prejudice to resolve. The worse experience Loki had ever had on earth was facing off against the Hulk and they were friends now so he hardly saw what all the fuss was about. 

But slowly, alliances began to be formed. Norway of course was the first alliance Loki had sought to make considering they had bartered a small portion of their country away to found New Asgard on. In exchange for voting in their favor on a few matters, Loki had secured resources and assistance with building New Asgard. 

T’Challa had sent his fiancé Nakia to represent Wakanda and although her betrothed felt Loki was not to be trusted, Nakia had a bit more of an open mind about Loki and there was an unspoken understanding that Asgard would always support Wakanda in whatever way they could. 

It wasn’t actually until Nakia’s speech a week later that Loki felt the need to speak up again. She was talking about the slave trade, and how it especially affected those on the African continent. It was quite moving how she called out to the other nations to follow Wakanda’s example to help stop these groups and to provide support to necessary groups that find homes for those refugees who have fled their homes in order to escape slavery and other forms of oppression. 

“Well it’s all very well for Wakanda to say this,” one of the other diplomats sneered. “But with unlimited resources and advances it must be very easy to put forth the effort. But most of us have more important issues within our own countries without having to deal with unwelcome refugees and the problems that they bring with them.”

“I beg your pardon?” Loki asked. The room went deathly still and all eyes were on him as he proceeded. “Might I remind those assembled that Asgard falls under the category of unwanted refugees? Are you saying that only those countries without problems should help, then? Name one country in here without severe economic trouble.”

The diplomat stammered and turned red with embarrassment as Loki’s bright green eyes burned into him. When he failed to find anything coherent to say, Loki continued. “Even in the compromised state that Asgard is currently in, I would be honored to be the first to pledge all available resources to help in the cause presented by the nation of Wakanda. If no one else wants these refugees, then we’ll take them. Asgard will take them all.”

* * *

“I appreciate your passion and support for our cause, All-Brother,” Nakia said to him after. She had managed to catch up to him before he reached the Bifrost pad outside and there was a teasing smile on her lips as she said the title. 

“Please, just Loki,” he replied. “I feel quite empathetic to your cause, it was my pleasure to show support.”

“King T’Challa would say you aren’t capable of empathy,” she replied. 

Loki let out a short laugh. “Well, he would be wrong, now wouldn’t he? Considering the state of Asgard and her people, I would have to be utterly heartless not to have some empathy. We are currently living on the grace of strangers. It is the least we can do to offer support to others who feel the same hardships.” 

“It would be remiss of Wakanda to allow Asgard to share all of the burden, then,” she replied. “If there are any refugees that you cannot take on, please redirect them to the outreach programs we’ve set up.” She handed him a card that was clear and etched with information. “The card acts a summoning beacon. If you activate it, we’ll send someone to come and assist you in a day or so.”

“Another wonder made by Shuri, I presume?” Loki asked. He only met T’Challa’s younger sister once but he knew brilliance when he saw it. The card was almost as advanced as the technology they had on Asgard and not just any mortal could make something so genius.  

Nakia nodded. “She is the brightest in all of Wakanda.”

“In all of Midgard I would hazard,” Loki relied. 

“Again, I appreciate your help, All-Brother,” Nakia crossed her arms in the Wakandan salute. 

“And yours, Queen-Mother,” Loki replied mirroring the salute. 

The title made Nakia choke in surprise and Loki laughed at her shock. “My apologies,” he chuckled. “Was I not supposed to know that?”

“No, it’s fine. Everyone knows I’m sure. It’s just I don’t think I’m quite ready to be called that just yet.” Nakia’s dark skin flushed dark red with embarrassment.

“No one ever thinks themselves ready for ruling when the time comes,” Loki replied. “Unless you’re my brother, but even he changed his mind as he matured. But allow me to congratulate you on your engagement. T’Challa is very lucky to have you.”

She thanked him and said her goodbyes. Loki stepped onto the platform and sighed, knowing what was awaiting him at home. Thor would not be pleased to hear about his declaration, but there was no point in putting it off. Looking to the sky, he called out “Take me home, brother.” And with a flash of rainbow light he was transported to New Asgard. 

* * *

“You were very reckless today brother,” Thor chastised over dinner. 

“I know,” Loki replied, picking at his food. “I suppose I got caught up in the moment, brother. That Nakia is very convincing. It’s a shame T’Challa already proposed or I might consider marrying her myself.”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Brunnhilde snapped, pointing at him with her knife that had a large piece of meat impaled on it. “You know we barely have enough to go around as it is, how can we possibly take on more people who have less than we do?”

It was true. The ‘royal hall’ was merely the largest structure in the small town they had managed to build. And even as the leaders of Asgard, they ate at the same table as everyone else, like they did on the Ark. As they discussed the matter, families with small children crowded in next to sole survivors who had no one left. They were more of a fractured mess than any of the other nations of Midgard and everyone knew it. 

“Maybe we can make it work,” Thor said thoughtfully.  “After all, there are lots of gaps in our knowledge that need filling. Most of us aren’t farmers or craftsmen. Asgard is struggling and we could maybe use some new blood.”

Brunnhilde sighed. As usual, Thor was the optimist, seeing problems ahead and hoping somehow it will all work out. Much to her irritation, it usually did. “Are you saying this because you really believe it or just to make Loki feel better?” she asked. 

“Hey,” Loki protested. Truthfully he also wondered the same thing. These days Thor worked extra hard to mend the remaining rifts between them and Loki found himself wondering at times just how much of it Thor really meant. 

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” Thor insisted, appalled that Brunnhilde would suggest such a thing. “Besides, this show of support with help strengthen our relationship with Wakanda. Keep this up Loki, and they just might let you visit.” 

Loki couldn’t hide his glimmer of hope at the thought of it. T’Challa had placed a strict ban on Loki’s presence, despite his multiple attempts to accompany Thor in disguise. Each time he was quickly discovered by T’Challa’s genius sister Shuri whose ability to see through his illusions and magic continued to amaze him.

“But we need to barter for more resources as well,” Brunnhilde reminded them. “Have any of the other countries offered assistance?”

“The United States and China have both made offers of aid in exchange for technological advancements,” Loki replied. “Of course, they both made it clear that to aid one we must refuse aid to the other.” Both countries had approached him in private on a break and had almost identical conversations with him. Loki didn’t mind too much that they were just trying to get more advanced weaponry out of it since it was the first time anyone had voluntarily talked to him out of session in a way that was non-threatening. Threats he was used to, but bargaining was more his style. 

“I of course think it would be best to choose the Americans,” Loki counseled. “The United States is after all the home of the Avengers.”

Thor nodded. “I agree, it would be unwise to alienate them at a time such as this. Be sure to pass on our decision at the next opportunity.” 

“Yes, my king,” Loki replied with a theatrical bow. 

“Stop it,” Thor laughed, hitting him on the arm. 

“Yes, Loki, stop harassing his majesty,” Brunnhilde teased. 

“That’s enough out of both of you,” Thor insisted, but he was still smiling. It was difficult for him to think he was king now and it was strange to hear people call him by his royal title. In many ways he still felt he was only play-acting and any moment Odin would reappear to take over and rule Asgard again. 

Loki stood. “I’ll prepare the offer for the Americans then. Unless you require something else of me, All-Brother?”

“Not at the moment, All-Brother,” Thor replied. Another nickname they loved to tease. “Brunnhilde, make sure he actually goes to sleep this time. I know he’s been staying up all night with his pet project.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll knock him out with a bottle if he doesn’t cooperate,” Brun assured Thor and she followed Loki out with a liquor bottle in hand as if to emphasize the seriousness of her threat.

Loki had begun the long and lengthy task of acquiring the history of Asgard from the remaining survivors on the ark. The information had been stored on the ship’s computer and a backup escaped with Brunn and the others before Thanos attacked, but some information was still missing. So, Loki continued to add all he could recall from his reading and experience to the record but it was a tedious process and he had given up many nights sleep for it.

Of course, that wasn’t the only reason he sacrificed sleep. 

“You need to tell him,” Brunnhilde said as soon as they were out of earshot. “About the nightmares. He could help.”

“I don’t need to be coddled like some child,” Loki replied as she chugged down what was left of her bottle of mead. “Besides, Thor has enough to worry about already.” He rested his eyes on her with a playful look. “Don’t tell me you’re worried for me, Brunn?”

She wiped her mouth on her sleeve with a scowl. “No, I’m worried you’ll be so sleep deprived that you’ll ruin our chances of getting support from the other Midgardians,” she snapped, hitting him in the arm with the empty bottle. 

Loki flinched, stumbling away from her. It was a harder hit than he was expecting. “I already told you and that didn’t help at all,” he whined. “What do you think will happen when I tell Thor? It will all just go away?”

“You didn’t tell me, I heard you shouting and found you in the middle of a nightmare and then you told me,” Brunnhilde reminded him. “I don’t care that you didn’t approach me. I don’t talk to you about my problems so I have no reason to expect you to tell me yours. But it will break Thor’s heart to know you’ve been hiding this from him.”

They had arrived at Loki’s chambers and they stopped. It was painful to admit but she was right. Hiding behind a mask of cold indifference, Loki opened the door. “Good night, Brunnhilde.”

The formality of the address was all she needed to know he was done talking and she stormed off before he had the chance to close the door in her face. 

In the quiet of his room, Loki sighed. Brunnhilde was right and he hated it when she was right. Ever since his death and resurrection his nights had been riddled with very real nightmares of the Mad Titan’s hand squeezing the life out of him or, worse, killing Thor instead of him, crushing his head like an egg and laughing when Loki collapsed over his brother’s corpse in grief. 

So, Loki didn’t sleep. He worked and worked and worked, jotting down every detail of Asgard’s history and magic and technology and organizing it into careful records. When he did finally collapse from exhaustion it was blissfully dreamless.

[grifalinas]

Stan was the last to go to sleep that night. Mabel was easy enough to calm down; he grabbed a blanket and wrapped her in it, holding her curled up in his lap while he and Ford talked low voices. Eventually, the comfort and sleepiness won out over her fear, and she settled again, one tiny fist clutching his shirt.

Ford was next, Stan getting up to chase him from the desk to the couch after he felt his brother had been awake and reading that spooky journal of his for long enough. Ford looked for a moment like he meant to protest, but it was surprisingly hard to argue with a man clutching a sleeping toddler, so Ford tucked his journal into his coat and slunk over to the couch. 

Stan sat on the end, stroking Mabel’s hair and- and Ford had to strain his ears to be sure- humming softly to her while she slept. Eventually, Ford fell asleep too, a familiar-sounding lullaby settling on him, much different in Stan’s gruff voice than it had been in their mother’s high trill, but no less comforting to hear.

Stan wasn’t aware of falling asleep. He knew that at some point he’d lain down, his head at the corner of the couch, only a few feet from Ford’s, Mabel curled against him and still wrapped in her blanket. He remembered being cold, and thinking of sitting up to grab another blanket, but his limbs felt heavy, and he’d just gotten comfortable, and it was so hard to settle, and those thoughts had gotten fuzzier and fuzzier until-

- he was standing on the Stan O’ War’s deck, floating in the middle of a calm sea. In the distance he could make out a strip of beach that the Stan O’ War was heading toward, but before he could make out if it was really tiny or just far away in perspective, the ship had run aground on it and it was... big.

He hopped out of the boat and wandered along the sand idly, wondering what was going on, and then a laugh filled the air around him, a cold, cruel laugh, one that set his hackles up and had him raising his fists instinctively. His eyes darted around; the sand around him was blowing away to reveal the shape of a triangle beneath him, the monster from Ford’s book.

“All right, show yourself ya’ nutbread corn chip.”

The laugh had started out coming from all around him, but it converged now until it was beneath him, where the shape in the sand was manifesting as a singular form hovering in front of him.

“Well, well, well!” it said. The voice was higher than he’d been expecting from a dream demon. “Well now, what do we have here?”

The triangle floated around him, looking him all over while he tried to track its motion. It finally stopped, and though it had no mouth, Stan got the impression it was grinning at him.

“Nice to finally meet you, Pacman Goldfish. Name’s Bill- put ‘er there!” He stuck out one skinny little stick arm, but Stan just narrowed his eyes. When it became apparent he wasn’t going to shake Bill’s hand, Bill rolled his eye and let his hand fall. “So you’re ol’ Six-Fingers’ dumb, sweaty twin brother, huh? You’re less fat than Sixer said. Have you lost weight, or was he just exaggerating?”

Stan let out a soft, exasperated noise. He’d been expecting something a bit more challenging, but Bill was going right for the obvious weaknesses, and not even being subtle about it. And yes, he could easily believe that Ford had remarked that Stan was just a dumber, sweatier- and, Stan supposed, fatter- version of himself, but why would that upset Stan? He’d said some pretty rotten things about Ford in the past decade, that was for sure. Besides, it was true.

He lowered his fists. “That track mighta actually worked if you’d tried it first night,” he said. “Or for that matter, if you’d tried it before you attacked my daughter. Now I’m just going to ignore everything you say in favor of punching you.”

“Your-” Bill looked startled, and then burst into high, shrill laughter. “Your daughter? Oh, that is just too good!” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Lemme tell ya, Pacman Goldfish, I could tell you a thing or two about your, heh, daughter.” At Stan’s warning look, though, he shrugged. “Or I could just leave you to figure it out yourself. Anyway, I didn’t attack her,” he added, slotting finger quotes around ‘attack’. “Your little Shooting Star is here early- way early- and I needed to see what that was about.”

“Early? What do you mean, early?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” Bill said cheerily. He manifested beside Stan and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Stan glared and shrugged it off. “I just came here to give you a warning.”

“What kinda warning?”

“Just this: your brother is mixed up with some crazy stuff. Really dangerous end of the world biz. And whatever he might tell you, he can’t stop it. The best he can do is delay it for a bit. And if you’re here, then you and your, ahem, ‘daughter’ are going to get caught up in it.” There were those air quotes again. Stan narrowed his eyes. “Take my advice, Pacman Goldfish. Take your cute little Shooting Star and get as far away from Gravity Falls and your dear sweet brother as you possibly can. It’s the only way to keep her safe.”

So that was in. Stan moved his hands to his hips. “So you want me to skip town? Just turn my back on my brother and leave ‘im hanging when he’s in danger?”

“Why not?” Bill flipped upside down, and held his arms out in a shrug. “He certainly didn’t mind leaving you hanging when you were the one in danger, right? I’m just trying to look out for you, kid. And your daughter too, of course. She’s way too young to be involved in the kinda stuff your brother has.”

“Ya got a point,” Stan said, nodding thoughtfully. “I don’t want Mabel getting hurt, and if it’s the end of the world we’re talking about...” He trailed off, and Bill’s laughter surrounded him again. He started ascending.

“Just consider it!” he shouted down. “And hey, if you need anymore advice, just gimme a call! The method is in the second journal.”

And then he was gone, and Stan was awake. He started, but didn’t sit up or shout or anything. Years on the road had taught him to still himself even at sudden waking; you never knew when leaping up in shock would give away your hiding place.

Stan raised himself slowly onto his elbow and looked around the room. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight coming through the window that he could see Ford was still asleep, albeit uneasily. Mabel was still beside him, looking more content than before. At least that was something.

Shooting Star. Stan spent a moment staring down at her face, turning the title over and over in his mind until it barely seemed like a word anymore. Once it became apparent that he wasn’t going to make sense of it, he slipped carefully away and over to Ford. Ford still had the journal clutched in his hands, but Stan had spent years as a pickpocket and taking a book from a sleeping man- even a jumpy, paranoid, shoot-first-questions-later man like Ford- was a cinch.

It wasn’t that he believed a word Bill was saying, as such. But he knew a conman when he met one- even if he hadn’t been warned already- and he knew that the number one tool a conman kept up his sleeve, the conman’s equivalent of a screwdriver, was the truth. Never tell a lie when a truth will serve you far better, and likewise be easier to keep track of. Bill was probably not being honest with Stan- in fact, Stan would be surprised if he was- but he was telling the truth.

Stan needed answers. Ford had promised to tell him everything in the morning- had claimed that what he had to say was not for being spoken in the dark- but Stan couldn’t wait till morning. Besides, he doubted Ford would tell him everything, since his promise had felt more like stalling anyway.

So if Ford wasn’t going to give him the answers he wanted, he’d get them from another source.

[artsheart2104]

Faces in the Crowd: A Paradoxical Mimesis

I would have liked to start this novel the way Jose Martí begins “Simple Verses/Versos Sencillos”.

v   

  In my life, it seems as if everything is another life. Not knowing. Not understanding. Not living. I am living the life that I am making for myself now… and that comforts me a little. I find it different to digest the notion of being free in public spaces- I have tall, thick legs. Proactive… Provocative in false bravados- self-confident within. These legs take me places- Even if this life isn’t my own.

v     

Why does impermanence break me? This world… Nothing is ever permanent:

People, places, love, sex, touch, and even the pencil I used to write on these pages… To me, it seems as naïve to believe in the faith of poly-tune or mono-tune lexicons- An everyday language. A silence into a shout- And to those that tend to whisper late at night: Please… try again- The lie is worth it.

v   

             The thing about diaries is that you really cannot tell someone how you really feel- except: You actually can.

v   

           What seems to be true about the spaces within pages is that they tend to fill up the emptiness of paper- Much the same way that spaces in life tend to be filled and then… one writes them away in their peculiar syntax- And sometimes… It seems like you really make empty filled-up with something: A void with oozing love.

v   

                Pencils are a work of art: I lose them. Spend more money on new pencils. Replenishing. And repeat, again- over and over- Syntactical synchronicity does not occur unless a writing utensil is present- Intertwined with the fingers that shed ice cold tears that went dry- yet still felt for a period that you had winter within.

v  

                I would have liked to start this novel the way Gabriel Garcia Marquez begins “The Most Handsome Drowned Man in the World”…

v  

                There’s nothing so ill-advised as to attributing metonymic value to inanimate or imaginary things- Especially ordinary things like language. - It can be sordid or verdant- The task is to dissect the synecdoche into a mere nothing- except that language is everything.

v  

           Writing is a manifestation of that which belongs to something that is difficult to say: As hollow as one feels… writing is a catharsis. An eloquent word- phrase- all at the stroke of a pencil.

v   

We all have hollows within- in some ways. It’s like we need to fill in a part of ourselves that inexplicably tends to feel like is whole.

v   

                Only two melancholic and poignant lines remain &… The likelihood of it to ascend or transcend seems to dilute at the passing whim of every second.

v  

                       Faces in the crowd all around permeate perpetually…

           Paranoia in elusive metonymies that allow me to somehow transcend the darknesses engraved within and outside.

v   

Trompe-l'œil?

                       Raison d'être?

v   

                   I have a theory: concepts are myriads…. sometimes full of wonder- always innate with meaning. Awe- lovely- flowery things- I’d like to try [less than] the latter.

v   

                          Physique sometimes elapses sensuality- It’s like the body is a perfect flowery things- It is dead. It is alive. It is withered. And it is throbbing- Like the blood that circulates. It travels distances- I wonder what it is like to throb the same way as flowers do when they sprout from the earth?

v   

 Spring: It is raging. It is fluid. Re-used. Rushed- Recycled- Yet, it is subtly patient.

v   

           “I never belonged to that world”. Sometimes… it feels like I never belong in any world.

 v   

              I lie in intermittent spaces I float in-and-out- and it always complicates my life. Where do I begin? Where do I go? Where do I begin? [I belong in] A world- someplace where kindness lives. I wonder.

v   

Hide and seek is the figurative language of joy.

v   

           The world of dreams… It must be an interesting one. – Revelations- Appearances- Presence- Destinies- What of the minds that make us who we are? – Terrified to Jubilant.

v   

Physical injuries- scars- reverberating lacerations-pain and pleasure: They are all temporary.

v   

Connections… even those are temporary- They matter- That is undeniable. The real question is: How much?

v   

I would have liked to end this novel with Wallace Steven’s “The Snowman”.

v   

           We all have hollow phantoms within ourselves- Like we have voids to fill- Like we are empty- Like we are in need of something to fill us in.- Like we are stretched thinly- And we are cut in some way… Like there is no hope to stay in shape- to stay in place. - That which we seek cannot be found sometimes in avoidance.

v   

 Life is about sustaining breath- Novels and poems sustain mine- In such a way that permanent inscription of myself lies within the confines of these pages.

v   

Is there a way for language to mean something? Nothing and everything?

v   

                 Trying out someone else’s belongings… books- clothes- personalities? They are markers of identity. Do we feel safe when we embody what others have as our own?

v  

                                               I sometimes feel like my lips are not mine.

v  

                                      The places… the streets- these crowds… This ever changing world… It has value. Si no siento valor en mi mismo pongo el valor en mi maleta- mis audifonos- la poesia- Y los pasos que camino en esta vida…

v   

                  I have been dealt too much moral accusation by part of loved ones… Like my life is supposed to be some fixed moral compass… Spare me? I have some free will to follow- Free will to channel- No matter what the form consists of, free will… please come to me.

v   

                       I like to think that somehow anomalies make sense… No matter how or what their forms consists of.

v   

                       Will my words somehow fill in some voids in another man? In another poem? In another book? A blueprint. [His] Full-fledged freedom to explore the empty spaces in between my lines… and those occupied as well.

v   

                               The same way I cross paths with a new poem is equal to a sheer amalgamation of joy.

v   

                               Can we convince ourselves of our worth? Of Ourselves?

v   

                               The wonder of libraries: They open up new worlds.

v   

                               Is Illness indistinguishable? As if nothing really lies ahead…? As if there were only dead-ends…? I wonder.

v   

           The trials and trails I leave behind me often reverberate nuisances, sadness…, and perhaps even disappointment.

v   

                         Recovery is always possible. It comes in many shapes, ways, and forms:

Somehow, somewhere, there will be lights dancing to your night skies. There will be hope- Shining hope. Do not forget- These faces in the crowd- This hand that writes- This body that sinks and rises- These and many more-

                                               They are all en ‘El Presente’.

v   

                                                                                                                                                 -I. Gonzalez [1.17.18]

[bloomsoftly]

of blades & silk, chapter 1

this is the first chapter of a new wintershock fic that @paranoidwino and I are making together–this first chapter was written as a surprise to her for her birthday.

Since it’s technically 30 July in Italy, I’m posting it now. ;) I hope you like it, Wino! you deserve all the happy things on this day and every other day. ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

(sooooo many thanks to @ragwitch for reading this over and assuaging my nerves. you’re the greatest!)

Prologue: Collateral Damage 

St. Petersburg, Russia, 1998

As she raced through the streets of the city, Darcy cursed herself at least a million times. She had one rule, and she broke it. Not on purpose, but that didn’t matter when here she was anyway, racing to undo the damage she’d unwittingly wrought.

 She’d created the rule for herself years ago, when she’d first pulled herself from the streets and began teaching herself how to use poisons. Never stick around after finishing a deal. The best way to avoid hearing about the nefarious things people did with her merchandise was to skip out before they started discussing the details. It wasn’t a perfect system for dealing with her conscience, of course, but it was enough that she could wrangle it into submission. Most of the time, anyway. Some nights, she still had nightmares. But all in all, it had worked fairly well for the better part of a decade.

Which was why she was furious that these stupid assholes hadn’t waited until she was gone to start discussing their little plan. If they had, she wouldn’t have had any idea that they planned to assassinate Olga Lebedeva, one of the only people willing to stand up for human rights in this God forsaken country. And one of the only politically-minded figures Darcy respected.

If they had waited, she would have heard about the murder on the news, and weeks later when they realized it was poison—if they ever did—she would’ve been able to convince herself that it wasn’t her poison, wasn’t her fault. Instead, here she was, sprinting through the city. Racing against time to stop an assassination attempt she had helped come to fruition in the first place.

At least she knew how to get around the city without being seen. Now all she had to do was get into the Belmond Grand Hotel without being seen, slip Lebedeva the antidote, and get out unnoticed. If she did it right, the Petrovs would never even know that she’d interfered. Slightly worried, she patted down her pockets, searching for the little vial of antidote she always kept with her during a deal. It was there, in the inside left pocket of her jacket, and she breathed a sigh of relief. If nothing else, she could trust in her paranoia to save her skin. Ever since—was it seven years ago? Eight?—the Vasiliev family had tried to get out of paying her, using the same poison she’d supplied them with. She’d been young and stupid. Luckily for Olga Lebedeva, she learned from her mistakes.

And finally she was in the heart of St. Petersburg, a place she usually avoided for the bright lights and wealthy people. Back in her pickpocketing days, the Nevsky Prospekt would’ve been a gold mine, but these days she tried to blend in with the shadows.

Which would not be possible here, she realized, looking up at the brightly-lit facade of the building and through the doors to the gleaming marble lobby. Nice job, Darcy. Maybe you should’ve thought of a plan before you rode in on your white horse. You have the antidote, but how are you planning on getting it to the woman?

Realizing that she was going to start drawing serious attention if she stood outside the hotel for much longer, staring but not making any move to come in, she strode purposefully for the main entrance. As she entered the lobby, she veered toward the right. She knew better than to head for the lobby desk; it’s not like they were going to simply hand over Lebedeva’s reservation information and room number.

But if the woman could afford this hotel—and damn, if Darcy wasn’t jealous—surely she could afford security. And security in Russia meant lazy men who liked to drink on the job. With that in mind, she headed for the lobby bar.

Sure enough, there were two big, burly Russian security types at a table near the bar. She slowed her pace as she passed their table, enough to hear them complaining about their boss. It was all ‘this woman’ or ‘can you believe the nerve of her,’ and she figured she was in the right place. She was almost offended on Lebedeva’s behalf; in addition to the incessant complaints, these two didn’t look even remotely concerned with their boss’ safety. They were concerned with the legs and bust on every woman in the room, though, which could work in her favor.

Adding an extra sway to her hips, she sauntered past them. Their conversation stuttered to a halt as she passed, and she stifled a grin of satisfaction. Men, she thought derisively. They were so easy. And true to form, she wasn’t even at the bar long enough to signal the bartender for a drink. He’d just looked in her direction long enough to nod and head her way when suddenly the two men were on either side of her. They leaned in close, pinning her in, and an overwhelming stench of sweat and cheap cologne hit her nostrils.

The bartender took one look at the three of them and turned away, wiping down an imaginary spot on the bar. Darcy barely refrained from wrinkling her nose in disgust—at the terrible odor and the cowardly bartender, both. Instead, she offered a mysterious smile and purred, “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

One of them trailed meaty fingers down the outside of her arm, and she suppressed a flinch. “See, we were thinking that we could help you,” the one on her right said. “No beautiful woman should have to drink alone.” The other man said nothing, but waggled his eyebrows on cue. She absently wondered how often they did this to poor women in bars, and whether it actually worked very often. Luckily for them (or unluckily, depending on the point of view), it would tonight.

“What are you drinking?” she pouted, playing hard to get. Let them think she was reluctant and needed to be won over, and they’d be less likely to remember her later.

“Green Mark,” the chatty one replied with a leer. She was impressed in spite of herself, let it filter through her expression. He saw it, and the leer became a cocky smirk. “We know how to drink, baby. And we’re not afraid to pay. Good things in life tend to be expensive.” He played with a blonde strand of hair that fell over her shoulder while the other bonehead nodded along seriously.

Oh. Okay, well. She could still work with this. It might be easier this way, actually. She leaned into the talkative one, stroking a hand over his chest. “In that case, lead the way,” she purred, looking up at him through dark eyelashes.

His face flushed—too easy—and he turned, leading her to their table. Only when they had both turned away did Darcy slip the room key she’d stolen from his jacket into the neckline of her dress. She followed them to their table and took the shot of vodka they offered her, relishing the burn as it slid down her throat. After two decades in this country, it still wasn’t her favorite liquor—tonight, though, she appreciated the liquid courage. She was going to need it.

Reaching for a piece of bread to soak up the alcohol that was currently burning a hole in her intestines, Darcy tuned out their obnoxious voices. They were clearly trying to impress her, each getting louder as they tried to drown the other man out. When the second guy offered her another shot, she took it without hesitation. As she slammed the shot glass back on the table she stood up, pretending to wobble slightly. “Ooh,” she giggled, leaning against the table for effect. “That’s the good stuff.”

They offered identical smirks, which turned into a frown when she added, “I need to go to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

Before she could move, one of the man surged forward to clasp a hard hand around her wrist. “I’ll come with you,” he said with an angry sneer.

A frisson of fear slithered through her gut, replacing the vodka, but Darcy didn’t pull away. She knew better than that. “Don’t be silly,” she slurred, hoping it sounded more like tipsiness than paralyzing fear. “I’ll be right back.”

“Anton,” the second man hissed, “let her go. Lebedeva—” he broke himself off with a look in her direction, and the other man seemed to understand.

With an angry huff, he released her. She fought to stand steady and meet his eyes. “You come right back,” he growled. “Do you understand?”

She nodded mutely, grateful that the table hid her shaky knees. He looked away, and she took it as her cue to go. Swaying slightly, her trembling legs giving credence to her tipsy disguise, she headed for the lobby.

When she hit the main entrance, Darcy headed for the restroom. Slipping into a stall, she allowed herself one shaky breath before slipping the key out of her bra. The number 342 was engraved on the back side, and she took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then exited the stall. She headed straight for the elevator from the restroom, not daring to look toward the bar entrance.

She made it without incident, and pressed the button to close the elevator door before anyone else could join her. With every second that the elevator ascended, she second-guessed her decision. Was it worth it, if she got caught? If the mafia ever found out it was her, she was dead for sure. And perhaps Lebedeva wasn’t much of a feminist icon anyway, a snide voice inside her whispered, if she hired men like the ones downstairs. Even the memory of them made her furious, burning away the last of her fear.

She’d convinced herself to stop, hit the button for the ground floor, and leave this damn hotel forever—when the elevator dinged. The doors slid open noisily, bringing the hallway into view. It was empty, and a pit opened up in her stomach. The hallway wasn’t supposed to be empty. She checked the floor number just in case, but there was no mistake. This was Lebedeva’s floor.

This was the woman’s floor, and there were no security personnel in sight. 

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She was too late. But what was the point of using poison, if they were going to murder the activist’s security guards anyway? Something wasn’t right.

But that was Olga Lebedeva’s room, four doors down, and Darcy hadn’t come all this way to let the woman die. The key slid into the lock, turning easily, and she cautiously stepped into the room. Only to abandon caution as she caught sight of the woman sprawled across the floor, clutching at her throat and gasping for air.

A glass of wine was spilled across the carpet several feet away, and Darcy realized she didn’t have much time. She raced to the woman’s side and dropped, uncaring of the wine that stained her knees. With a rough hand, she lifted the woman’s head off the floor. Reaching for the antidote with the other, she uncorked the little vial with her mouth. “Hey,” she hissed, trying to get the woman to focus. “I need you to open your mouth.”

The woman’s eyes lolled back in her head, and she didn’t respond. Cursing viciously, she readjusted them so that the woman’s head was propped up on Darcy’s knees, freeing her hands. She pried open the woman’s mouth, poured the antidote in, and then held her jaw closed as Lebedeva sputtered and choked. She waited as the woman swallowed and fell silent, head listing to one side.

Darcy waited in silence; she didn’t know if she’d made it on time, didn’t know if the woman had swallowed enough of the antidote to do any good. She just sat there with the woman’s head in her lap, waiting for her to either live or die. She wasn’t religious, had no God to pray to, so she just closed her eyes and breathed.

A gasp cut through the quiet, and the woman surged upward, clutching at Darcy’s shoulders. She sobbed into her chest uncontrollably, forcing Darcy’s arms to come up and support her. She rocked them back and forth, stroking the woman’s wine-soaked hair, and muttered soothing nonsense in her ear. “There, there,” she said, having no idea what to say to a distraught woman who’d been dying several minutes before, “You’re alright. You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

As if the words had reminded her of something terrible, the woman shook her head frantically. “Not safe,” she muttered into Darcy’s shoulder. “Security’s gone.”

“Yeah, I saw that. What happened?” Darcy asked, but the woman was nonsensical again. She looked like she was going to be sick, actually, and Darcy moved out of the way just in time. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she lightly rubbed the woman’s back. That’s what she was supposed to do when someone was ill, right? Honestly, she had no idea. She was so distracted by the smell of the vomit that it took her a second to recognize the sounds of angry shouting in the hallway.

The other woman paused in the middle of wiping her mouth on her arm and looked up at Darcy fearfully. So, the voices were not her missing security guards, then. Without hesitating, Darcy yanked the woman to her feet and strode toward the bedroom. She had no weapons, no way to protect them, and the only thing they could do was hide. There wasn’t time to be gentle, and maybe another time she would’ve felt bad about the hard grip she kept on a woman who had so recently been violently ill. But right now they needed to get out of sight.

Lebedeva seemed to understand that, too, and she didn’t make a word of protest. Sardonically, Darcy wondered whether the woman would still trust her if she knew Darcy was the one who made the poison that almost killed her. The voices were getting closer, though, and there was no time to think like that. Making a quick assessment of the bedroom, Darcy made a decision and shoved the other woman to her knees, pointing at the bed silently. The closet was empty, and would be one of the first places the intruders looked. Same for the bathroom. Dropping to her knees, she shimmied under the bed.

Reaching over, she clapped a hand over the woman’s mouth, just in time for the door to the hallway to bang open. Her hand muffled Lebedeva’s involuntary squeak. Darcy herself made no sound; she’d learned a long time ago how to hide her terror and stay absolutely still and silent.

The thunk of multiple pairs of boots sounded in the other room. “She was here,” a man snarled. “The bitch was here.”

“Did she leave?” someone else asked. Footsteps hurried quickly away, back toward the hallway.

“Search the bedroom,” the first man ordered. “Our sources say she was going to be poisoned. She can’t have gotten far.” Several pairs of booted feet passed by the bed, and Darcy clamped her fingers tighter over the other woman’s mouth. Neither of them moved an inch, and she held her breath.

“That fucking asshole,” one of them said. “Always ordering us around.”

“Shut up,” another hissed. “He’ll kill you for that.”

The third one shut them both up. “You, check the closet. You, with me. The bathroom.”

They moved away, and the two women could do nothing but wait. There’s no way they’d be able to sneak out without being seen.

Holding her breath was making her dizzy and lightheaded, so Darcy released it as quietly as possible. Her heart pounded in her chest so loudly she was afraid they might somehow hear it. It felt like forever before one of them called out, “She’s not in here, boss!”

The other two echoed him, but their boss didn’t answer. There was a light thump from the sitting room, like a body hitting the floor. The three came racing past the bed, headed toward the door to the living area. A fourth set of boots—black combat boots, well-worn, and utterly silent footsteps—appeared in the doorway. Three suppressed gunshots sounded, loud in the otherwise-silent room, and their bodies fell immediately. Darcy looked away from their empty eyes, toward Lebedeva, who sobbed into her hand.

She tightened her fingers’ grip on the other woman’s face, digging in hard enough to draw blood, but it was too late. She barely had enough time to meet the other woman’s terrified gaze before Darcy was being ripped away, pulled out from under the bed by her hair. A gun was pressed into her cheek before her eyes could even focus. She looked past the barrel—it was abnormally long, with the suppressor attached to the end—into the eyes of her murderer.

Darcy froze, staring into those empty eyes. Panic made her still, and she couldn’t even plead for her life. Not that it would do any good, anyway; she knew who he was. Привидение. The Red Room’s prized possession, their leashed killer. She stared up at him, past the dirty brown hair and the straight nose to the empty eyes. Her life in Russia had never been easy, and this was not the first time she’d stared death in the face.

Even if she couldn’t fight back, she wouldn’t bow down either. His eyes bored into hers for long moments, and she vaguely wondered if he was playing some kind of game, taunting her. But then something flickered behind his eyes, something like humanity, and he glanced away. The barrel of the gun was still hard against her cheek, bruising the skin there. But his gaze fixated on her wine-stained hands, palms up in supplication next to her head. His gaze tracked her body slowly, as if looking for weapons.

He found none, clearly, and slowly his eyes came back to her face. “Civilian,” he grunted in Russian, with a strange accent. It reminded her of home, of the way she’d spoken the language in her early years.

Not quite, she thought, but wasn’t stupid enough to say it out loud.

“Not the target,” he grunted again, glaring at her. Daring her to contradict him. Like she would ever do that.

Finally, he removed the barrel from her face and stood. Turning to head out the door, he paused. Without looking at her, he muttered, “Take the southeast stairwell. It’s clear of guards.” And then he was gone.

She lay there frozen for a solid minute after he’d left, trying to coax her frozen muscles to move. Darcy couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but strain to hear his footsteps, certain he’d change his mind and come back to kill her. Her heart beat loudly in her ears, drowning out all other sound.

A sudden movement out of the corner of her eye made her flinch. It was Lebedeva, crawling toward her.

“We need to go,” the other woman whispered. The lingering terror on her face made it clear that she knew who the man was, too. They needed to get out of there, now. The urgency of her thoughts finally forced her body into action, and Darcy rolled to her feet. Grabbing the other woman’s hand, she headed for the stairwell.

“Are you crazy?!” the woman hissed, echoing Darcy’s thoughts and pulling them to a stop. “You’re going to follow his advice?”

“He’s the only one I can say for certain has no intention of killing me,” she pointed out, dragging Lebedeva toward the stairwell door. If only she could convince her voice not to shake, or her knees not to tremble. The other woman seemed to understand that they had no choice, and didn’t try to stop her again.

The stairwell was empty, just as he had said. Why would he help? she wondered, before cutting off that train of thought. It would do her no good to think about it now.

And then they were in an alley behind the hotel, and then they were running. Both were silent for long minutes, united in unspoken agreement to get as far away from danger as possible before they stopped. And then Lebedeva could go no farther, and she pulled them to a stop. Looking around, Darcy realized she had no idea where they were. They’d run in a blind panic, and she felt a stab of shame surge through her gut. It wasn’t smart, what she’d done; there was nothing intelligent about anything she’d done that evening.

The other woman spoke, tearing her away from her self-flagellating thoughts. “I can never repay you,” she said, holding onto Darcy’s arm.

She ripped it away, recoiling. “Don’t say that,” she spat. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know you saved my life—” the other woman said, reaching for her again.

“I made the poison that almost killed you!” Darcy hissed. The words lingered in the air between them, turning it all to acid. A different kind of shame burned in her gut, and she had to fight to keep the other woman’s gaze.

“Oh,” was all she said. Lebedeva took a step back, then stopped. A calculating look swept over her face. “But you came to save me.”

There was no point in denying it. “I did,” she said, suddenly weary. “But that doesn’t make me a good person.” She took several steps backward; surely the other woman could find her own way home now. “I almost killed you, then I saved you. We’re square.”

Lebedeva didn’t look away as she retreated backward. Her eyes were piercing in a keen way, like she saw all the things Darcy didn’t want her to see. Covering up her discomfort, Darcy called, “And hire better fucking security. The ones you’ve got are pigs. Or dead,” she added on an afterthought.

She turned, ready to disappear into the shadows. A soft chuckle sounded behind her, and Lebedeva promised, “I will.”

There was nothing else to say, and Darcy fled. Her knees and hands were covered in wine, her dress had a splatter of vomit along the hem, and she was pretty sure she’d been lying in some man’s blood. Oh, and her cheek was going to be the size of a baseball tomorrow.

She really needed to get out of this line of work.

to be continued...