#and i ALREADY KNOW THE FATE THAT BEFELL THEM

[kitwilsonsass]

one functional braincell. one. a single one.

[pillowspace]

(Just a quick ramble with major ISAT spoilers)

You know those AUs where Loop winds up getting dragged along by Siffrin to join the party in the end? And you know those AUs where another character loops instead of Siffrin?

A thought that always fascinates me when it comes to AUs where another character is looping with canon Loop as their guide is what kind of relationship Loop would have with Siffrin, and vice versa. What would meeting Loop be like for Siffrin? Like, this is very different circumstances from canon. They don't have the loops in common, and if Loop wouldn't be hiding their identity when joining the party, then there's no time for Siffrin to warm up to their company before knowing the truth.

You're leading a semi-normal life, then all of a sudden one of your friends turns out to have been trapped in a time loop, and they go, "so I don't mean to alarm you, but I've grown very attached to a version of yourself that befell the worst possible fate that you yourself very narrowly avoided without even knowing it. You'll see yourself in their habits, but what they've gone through (what YOU could have gone through with one single mistake) has changed them. Anyway, say hi :)" How unsettling is that? What would either of them feel looking each other in the eyes for the first time, when Loop had likely never enjoyed looking at Siffrin during the loops? What would be their first time navigating a conversation, about anything at all? After a couple months, what of their dynamic then? I just wonder about it sometimes. What it's like to meet your best/worst case scenario self, not having gone through any of it together, and not having to depend on each other. There's no need to act all pleasant and lie because Loop's not here to help him, and Loop's presumably already in their tired healing stage with the party member who had looped, so they're already past their most bitter stage (not to say that they aren't bitter). Loop and Siffrin just kind of... exist within the same space is all. What's that like, I'm so intensely curious about it

[syndrossi]

How would Restoration!Daemon react to his future, and that of Rhaenyra/his sons/ect? Once he accepts that he’s in the future, I’m sure he’ll immediately find the nearest history book and find out how things go for his family. Needless to say, I don’t think he’ll be very pleased with the results. I guess this ties in to his reaction to House Targaryen in general, but I feel like it would hit a bit harder than Robert’s Rebellion because he was there. He was alive and he didn’t stop it. He’d be super upset by Rhaenyra’s madness, and would probably insist that it’s just Green slanders. Anyone heard referring to the “Mad Queen” or “Maegor with Teats” in his vicinity would immediately become closely aquatinted with Dark Sister. I think Aegon’s fate would be a more complicated thing to him, since on the one hand he’d be in agony over the fact that his son ends up being afraid of dragons, but on the other he might end up being a bit resentful that the dragons died out under his son. I think he’d be proud of Viserys for holding the realm together. As for his own death, I can’t even begin to sort through all the feelings he’d have about that.

I think what would upset Daemon the most, since they're his world right now (and he's not yet married to Rhaenyra) is this utter absence of his twin sons in the histories. I don't know what he would conclude from that. They were murdered early on and omitted from the histories? But surely the intrigue of hidden princes would merit at least a mention! His marriage with Rhea is described as childless, which is not true, going off their cover story.

I have to think he'd conclude that things didn't happen the same here. He never learned of their existence, they were taken to Blackcrown and killed by Otto or some other horrible fate befell them.

Tangent: the fun thing about the Redfort twins is that the absolutely could have existed in canon! There's nothing to contradict their existence; Daemon just never "discovered" them. I mentioned this in a comment somewhere, but I like to think that they were fostered in Blackcrown and ended up in Dorne together, adventuring. Raymar married into House Dayne (hence the occasional pale-haired child), and perhaps Jon did as well! But it cheers me to think that their lines continued somewhere. Heck, Dyanna Dayne could be one of their granddaughters, perhaps from a cousin marriage between Dayne daughter x Redfort and the Dayne main line! Or there could have been a circumstances where there were no sons at all and it was a matrilineal marriage, so his children were already in the main line.

/tangent

Rhaenyra's (and Viserys's) deaths would hit him hard, as would the loss of their dragons. Learning that he had four more children, and that his sons both suffered (Aegon being a prisoner and forced to watch his mother's execution, Viserys disappearing and being taken to Essos) would also mess with him. What was he doing when all of that happened? How could he have let himself be killed when they needed him?

OTOH, I don't know how easy it will be to read a single history book of his family's reign. It'll probably be scattered accounts, with different biases, and difficult to get a clean/clear view of it. Lots of contradicting things, both because the accounts got it wrong and because he lived in an alternate timeline, might cause him to doubt a good chunk of its accuracy.

He would 100% discard the Rhaenyra stuff as slander, just as he assumes Aerys's reputation is pure slander. (I almost wonder if he thinks Aerys = his reincarnation, given that he's Rhaegar's father, though once he hears enough firsthand accounts he may reconsider.)

[justaz]

teehee au where merlin is beloved by like all of camelot and just has everyone wrapped around his finger (not that different from canon honestly) and one day arthur is on his way out on a mission from his father that merlin insisted he be on bc uther found out about his magic and merlin just wanted arthur far away from it so he didn’t have to witness it. uther knows that merlin cares deeply for arthur and was genuine in the compromise so he allowed it. after arthur is gone, uther orders the pyre to be built and merlin is burned before sundown.

since arthur’s mission was top secret (again insisted by merlin) no one knew where he was or how to send a message to him to let him know what was happening. the citadel is ROCKED bro like a lot of them are in shock and weighed down by grief (especially the guards and knights that were forced to follow their king’s orders). this was like the first time that almost the whole citadel knew who the sorcerer was and they all adored him. organizing happens rather quickly especially with the knights and guards turning a blind eye to the conspiring of high treason that’s literally happening right in front of them.

arthur meanwhile runs into either morgause or nimueh somehow idk and they tell him about the deal his father made and shows him the contract he signed and points out the line that states the deal calls for a life to be taken in exchange for a life made which makes it clear that his father knew somebody was to die for it. he pulls a quick 180° and dashes back to camelot, arriving in the middle of the night to see fires burning high as the rioting citizens scream and shout calling for justice and listing names that seem vaguely familiar but he cant place.

arthur, already hellbent on patricide, hears the fate that befell merlin and his rage is multiplied tenfold. he marches through the streets with tunnel vision until he finds his father who seems relieved to have his son back until he draws his sword against uther. arthur doesn’t argue or insist he draw his sword. arthur just lists his two people, his mother and his merlin, much like the rioting people outside are.

uther stops him: you look down on me for building a kingdom on blood, but that is what you’ll be doing if you kill me

arthur barely blinks: then i guess i really am your son

uther’s head is paraded around the city until morning

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia - Chapter 4: The Orange Lily Bends Its Head In Grief (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 4: The Orange Lily Bends Its Head In Grief 

The time comes for mourning, old memories and harsh truths. 

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | 

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist | 

Warnings: Extreme slow burn, angst, mentions of Aemma’s traumatic birth scene, Y/N kinda being a headass, Daemon being an ass, Viserys hate club 

Word Count: 2.8k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: I’m sorry this chapter was later than expected 😭 i got a bit sick after the concert I attended yesterday (1975 was great but goddamn the crowd was inactive asf) I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! 

wonderful dividers courtesy of @firefly-graphics​  !  

The day was beautiful. The sun hung bright and brilliant in the blue sky, and the smell of salt and sand permeated through the air, along with a slight whiff of smoke from the magnificent dragon situated at the top of the hill, its beady eyes cast upon the crowd of mourners clad in black. 

You stared numbly at the raised dais where Aemma’s embalmed body laid. Little Baelon was next to her, and you couldn’t help but wonder how Aemma would have reacted, had she known the life that had been taken from her in the hopes of letting her babe live, was now naught but sand scattered in the wind: utterly useless. 

Rhaenyra stood next to you: the both of you keeping a fair distance from Viserys. Tears were welled up in her purple eyes, but she did her best not to let them fall, attempting to maintain her calm countenance. She reminded you much of yourself when you had lost your mother, mourning, and unsure on how to express your grief. 

Daemon spoke to Rhaenyra hushedly, the both of them conversing in High Valyrian. You did not deign to translate the faint snippets of their conversation that you overheard in your head, despite your decent grasp of the tongue. You barely noticed as Rhaenyra inched forward gingerly. 

“Dracarys!” You kept your eyes fixed upon Aemma and Baelon’s funeral pyre as it was set alight.. The hot whoosh of flames fanned across your face, and everyone took a step back unconsciously to avoid the heat, but you didn’t feel anything, not as you watched the body of your dearest friend and her ill-fated son burn away to naught but ashes. 

Daemon did not know what to make of today. Grief was a stranger to him: even though he had seen the deaths of his mother, father and grandfather, the depth of the feeling eluded him. Mayhaps there was something wrong with him: given how much death there had been in the later stages of his grandsire’s reign, it was a wonder he was unfeeling at funerals. Still, he found no sense in dwelling over the dead. The dead were the dead, and sorrow would not bring them back. 

He was about to depart from the cliffs, and mount a horse back to the Red Keep, when his gaze befell upon a most strange scene. His brother, and…Y/N? 

Rhaenyra had already ridden off on Syrax back to the Dragonpit, and most of the royal retinue had already retreated back to the Red Keep, unable to stand the sweltering heat, but his brother was here, talking to Y/N, who by now, was becoming ostensibly more and more like she would rather hurl herself off the cliffs than suffer in his brother’s presence for any longer. Viserys’ expression was earnest, mournful, and any man would have softened at the pitiful state the King was in, but Y/N seemed to have none of that. He wondered just what was going on, considering how Y/N was always close with his brother. ‘At least, she was always much more jovial with my brother than with me,’ Daemon thought darkly. 

“Brother,” Viserys turned to face Daemon as you breathed out a sigh of relief, glad to no longer be the centre of Viserys’ attention anymore. Try as you may, you could not shake the lingering sensation of disgust in your gut whenever you laid eyes upon Viserys. Your mind constantly kept flashing back to that horrific scene on Aemma’s deathbed, of the incisions and the realisation of what Viserys had ordered dawning on you when he couldn’t quite meet your gaze. What affection you had for your childhood friend was slowly dispersing into rage and grief, as you struggled to reconcile the jovial and amiable man you once knew with the reality of a man who was callous enough to sacrifice his wife to gain a son. 

Startled when you felt a hand placed firmly on your shoulder, steering you away from Viserys’ bewildered form, you glanced up at Daemon, but he said nothing as the both of you walked away from the King. After a while, when you had both reached the ends of the cliffs, he finally let go of your shoulder. The both of you were silent, staring out at the blue sea, as you both awaited for the other to break the silence. 

“Why did you pull me away from the conversation?” you murmured. “I could tell how uncomfortable you looked,” Although his gaze was directed towards the bay, Daemon’s voice was soft. “You were practically begging to get out of the conversation.” “And here I thought my many years at court had made me better at veiling my emotions.” “With how long we’ve known each other, byka zaldrizes, it would be an insult to me if I couldn’t see past your facades,” Daemon remarked dryly. He began strolling along the length of the cliffs, and you quietly followed suit. 

“...thank you. I…he may be my king, but I am of the opinion that if I had to suffer in his presence any longer, I might punch him.” you admitted, gratitude and exhaustion tainting my voice. Daemon let out a soft snort, “I thought you would have learnt that assaulting a royal never does you any favours.” “You’ve known me for so long, Daemon, in the face of anger, I never did seem to possess the ability to think rationally. What’s more, I think Viserys is deserving of it.” You could feel your heart starting to pound furiously again, the scene of Aemma laying in bed, covered in blood…brutally slit open, her eyes opened wide in death and her expression of agony flashed repeatedly into your mind, making your stomach roll unpleasantly. Tears prickled at the corner of your eyes, and. you bit your lip in an attempt to stave them off, tilting your head away to obscure Daemon from the view. He said nothing, only offering you a handkerchief. You took it, dabbing at your tears lightly, trying to calm yourself by inhaling the salty scent of the sea air. 

Daemon watched her with inquisitive eyes. He had heard rumours of how close Y/N was with his sister-in-law, but with the weight of her grief becoming increasingly apparent, he finally understood the extent of their bond. His heart filled with a strange tugging sensation, but he dismissed it as just the oddity of seeing Y/N cry. In his boyhood memories, he always regarded her as this strong-willed, fierce and irritable little girl. To see her cry was…it made him feel strange. The Y/N of his boyhood seemed so contrasting from the Y/N in front of him now. He had seen Y/N’s physical changes since girlhood, and now he was witnessing the emotional changes. Uncomfortable, he fidgeted with his fingers, about to offer his condolences, but he remembered how much she hated it when he professed his grief at her mother’s passing, and stopped himself. The sight of Y/N dabbing at her tears however, became more and more excruciating for him to bear with every passing minute. He longed to do something, anything, to lighten the tension between them, but what could he say? It wasn’t like comforting his niece, with the Queen that she was serving dead, Y/N might as well have been a sailor lost at sea, with no compass. So instead, he had to bite his tongue as he waited for Y/N to snap out of it. 

You clasped the handkerchief tightly between your fingers, suddenly feeling the traces of embroidery on it. You glanced at the handkerchief, and saw a familiar pattern of lily flowers across the fabric, in your stitching. “I didn’t know you still kept it,” you turned to Daemon, surprised. “I thought you would have shredded it years ago.” “Well, it would be rude of me to intentionally ruin a gift, especially one made of a gesture of goodwill, my lady.” 

Your fingers traced the orange lilies, biting back a smile at the memory behind this handkerchief. Once, in your childhood, you had been most wroth to discover Daemon had stolen your favourite doll and ‘accidentally’ ripped it. In retaliation, you had snuck into his room one night and emptied the contents of his chamberpot on him. Aghast, your mother had ordered you to make a truce with him by sending him a gift. Reluctantly, you sewed him a handkerchief, but to add insult to injury, you didn’t embroider a noble or rare flower on it, such as roses or carnations, but rather, you had chosen lilies. Although it was considered a flower of elegance, the colour of the lilies conveyed otherwise. To put it plainly and unpleasantly, they were one gigantic “fuck you” to Daemon. You couldn’t help but snigger as you recalled his reaction to the handkerchief: his face had twisted most unpleasantly, and he’d looked downright murderous, but since Prince Baelon and your mother were in the room, he could only swallow whatever insults he wanted to churn out and grunt out his thanks, much to your triumph. 

The lilies had turned a little yellow with age, regardless, the handkerchief looked well kept. You returned the handkerchief back to him, his fingers brushing against yours in a lingering touch as he took it back. “For what it’s worth…I am truly sorry for your loss, Y/N,” Daemon offered gallantly, “I know how close you are…were…with my sister-in-law, and she was a great woman. She was always kind to me, at least.”. Normally, you would have teased him for his uncharacteristic politeness, but Aemma’s death had drained all the fight left in you. “I thank you, my Prince,” your voice was hollow. 

Your next few moments were spent in silence, as awkwardness ensued. Daemon was nigh close to throwing himself off the cliffs. He was thoroughly unaccustomed to dealing with grief. He wonders if he had made the right decision when he chose to spirit you away from Viserys. At least the royal party had departed now, but it made it all the more difficult for him to leave Y/N alone on the cliffs. 

“Do you know…what he did?” your voice was tremulous, barely a whisper, but it anchored Daemon back to reality once more. His forehead creased, he said quietly, “I’ve heard. It was…dreadful to say the least.” “Truth be told, I do not know if I could ever…bring myself to forgive his act of cruelty.” “He is your king,” Daemon said, an uncharacteristic gentleness in his voice. “And your friend of many years.” "As was Aemma, Daemon,” you said, your voice tinged with sadness. 

Wishing to broach on this topic no more, you turned your conversation to something else. “Now that he killed both his wife and heir, what do you suppose would happen to the succession now?” Daemon notes with intrigue that your tone has taken a sharper tone toward Viserys, and he couldn’t fight the small sliver of smugness he feels at your distaste. Perhaps it was childish…but he always disliked it when you spoke about Viserys with such reverence, like he could do no wrong in your eyes. 

“He still has an heir,” Daemon reminds her, “Me.” 

You scoffed slightly, “I think you’re forgetting Rhaenyra. She is the King’s only trueborn daughter.” Daemon was annoyed, “A brother’s claim triumphs over a daughter’s.” “You’ve never paid any attention to the laws of Andal succession then.” “We are Targaryens, byka zaldrizes, what regard have we for those fucking laws?” Daemon snorted, “Moreover, Rhaenyra is but a child, besieged with grief. The right choice of heir for the stability of the realm should be me.” 

“You’re just using Aemma’s death as a way to further your own ambitions,” your tone was accusatory, and Daemon wanted nothing more than to shove this infernal woman off the cliffs. Why did everyone always think the worst of him? “I can assure you, that contesting the heir to the throne is the least of your worries right now.” 

You narrowed your eyes, “And what is that supposed to mean?” Daemon let a smirk play out on his face, “Now that my sweet sister-in-law is dead, what do you suppose will happen to you?” You blinked, confused by his sudden mention of your future. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Daemon.” 

“You are well aware that since your tenure as lady-in-waiting to the Queen is at an end, you will most likely be sent home to the Reach, do you not?” Your voice grew annoyed, “My focus now is on mourning Aemma, she was my friend, Daemon. As for what the future holds, I do not care about that.” Daemon let out a snort of laughter, “Are you sure about that, Y/N? It might not be the wisest course of action, you know.” 

You stopped in your tracks and gave him a frosty glare, “And since when did you care about my wellbeing, Daemon?” Daemon chuckled mirthlessly, “I do not. However, since my late sister-in-law harboured a form of affection for you, however of an annoying little brat you may be, I believe it in my responsibility to give you a warning.” “I have no need for your warnings,” you said brusquely. 

Daemon leaned forward, his violet eyes gleaming with savage delight, “Perhaps you should think again then.” He drew back, circling around you as his eyes watched you like a hawk. “With the Queen dead, it would be inevitable before you are summoned back to Highgarden. Tell me, what are you to do when you are ordered to wed by your father, hmm?” 

You bit your lip, disconcerted. But it was all the answer Daemon needed to carry on. “You no longer have any reason nor power to retain your status at court,” he mused, looking down at your stiffened form. “And when it comes, your father will summon you back to Highgarden. And you shall be wedded off like a prized pig to some lord, who could be balding, old, or ill-tempered. Or all three. Who knows?” He hears your sharp intake of breath, and he could see it clearly now. Your fear for this sort of fate. 

“Whether you like it or not, you must worry for your political standing. Even if you hate to make merry with my brother, you will have to stomach it.” You finally snap, your eyes ablaze, “I will not. Why should I give a damn about my political standing anyway? Should I refuse to go home, my father will not force me. The King will not force me.” 

Daemon laughed, the sound bouncing off the cliffs. It was a rough, jagged laugh, more out of dark bemusement than of any joy. “Byka zaldrizes, it seems you’re even more of a fool than I imagined. You might have matured in terms of your visage, but I see your immaturity still shines through.” 

Hurt by his words, you could only keep silent. Your mind was racing. You didn’t want to admit it…but you could see some truth in his words. Viserys could heartlessly give the order for his wife to be cut open, he would not defend you from something as simple as marriage. He was after all, a father, and a king to boot. He would sympathise with your father’s claims of duty to your house. 

Daemon’s voice was chiding as he spoke. “There is no doubt my brother will take a new wife after this. After that, there will be a new queen in court, a shift in power. And you?” he reached out to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ears. “Will be naught but a speck in the past. The new queen might be someone you are not acquainted with, and she will surround herself with an entourage she is familiar with. One which you will not be a part of. Who will protect you from your father’s will then? Certainly not my brother, if I know him.” 

You saw the sense in his words, but a certain sort of rebellion still blazed in you. “I would never allow myself to be used by my father this way,” you said, lifting your chin defiantly. “I am a grown woman now, and I can make my choices.” 

Daemon looked down at you, something akin to pity on his face. “If that’s what you think,” Daemon’s voice was soft, “Then you are a naive fool, my lady.” Abashed by his words, you could only look down, feeling lost. It was too much for you to deal with: mourning Aemma and Baelon, your newfound disgust and fear for Viserys, and now, terror for your future. You couldn’t deal with this. Not right now, maybe not ever. You weren’t used to this sudden weight of realisation, of burden on your shoulders, and Daemon could tell. He always could. 

The two of you stewed in despondent silence, before Daemon sighed, “Come, my lady. I should escort you back to the Red Keep.” You have a great deal to think about, his violet eyes seemed to whisper to you, making you feel even more unsettled. You nodded hesitantly, and he offered you his arm, before the both of you walked back to the remaining wheelhouse in a silence that was much colder and contemplative than before. 

Taglist for Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes​ @salembridger

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy​

those who are bolded are the ones that couldn’t be tagged! let me know in the comments or through this form 

and that makes chapter 4! chapter 5 should be released in around 2-3 days time! do let me know what you think in the comments! if you liked this chapter, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated 💗 thank you for reading! 

[risilence]

Hello everyone! I am still writing hahahaha I just get a bit distracted, but i promise I will go back to the other stories I've written ʕ๑╹ᴥ╹ʔ They will get completed!! Just give me some time ʕ ´•̥̥̥ω•̥̥̥`ʔ

Originally I was going to wait to post this new story, but you know I decided to add another meal to my bill. ʕ•̀ω•́ʔ✧ Because I haven't learnt my lesson! Plus I want to give back to the RahuChief nation!

So without further a-do please see the link below for the full chapter and of course the small sample. I hope you guys enjoy it ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ💕

Please Read ME!

Night's Guard

Rahu’s memories from that point on became blurry and skittish. A mixture of her own screams, of her sword plunging into bodies, being slashed and pierced, biting someone’s face, Rahu’s mind was dyed red among the endless carnage that befell her. She couldn’t accept that she had failed, that her comrades had died, that she had lost Paradeiso’s first stronghold of this war. Especially one that was constantly emphasized as a crucial boundary that was necessary to block the barbarians of the east.

Back in her present mind, Rahu laughed emptily at the collage of memories. The mental angst driving her insane as she limped away with the undeserved title of sole survivor.

For whatever reason, she had somehow lived. Only managing to escape when she was tossed head first into an open barrel and kicked out of the way by someone who no longer held a distinguished face or voice. The barrel’s speedy getaway only stopping when she collided with a tree. The barrel, having kept her safe and hidden from the enemy’s eyes, shattered on impact. The force slamming Rahu’s head against the bark and granting her the freedom to lay unconsciously within the tall thick bushes that disguised her.

When she had awoke, Rahu was greeted with the smell of crisped bodies and burnt wood. She needed time to sort herself out before she had finally regained some sense of time and place. Not wasting another second, Rahu grabbed the nearest sword loitering around and ran back to her post. Ready to join the battle again if her team hadn’t already pushed back the enemy.

Preparing to fight again, Rahu couldn’t envision her team losing. Call it absolute fate or blind devotion, Rahu had never once believed Paradeiso would be defeated at any point of the start of this war. Only to drop her weapon when she saw the aftermath of this surprised attack.

There was nothing left of her fortress nor of her comrades.

Rahu could only think of one thing to do now at the face of such a defeat.

Report back.

So, Rahu moved. She moved with no sense of direction, with no care in her steps, her eyes hollow as she pushed on by mere instinctual duty. Slipping and stumbling as her mind attacked her with flashes of the battle, of her actions, of the aftermath.

She needed to tell someone, to warn them of how advanced their enemy truly were, but something deep inside of Rahu was dead. Dead and clouding her thinking as she eventually fell off the woods edge and plunged herself into a river.

Gasping and fighting with the little strength she held, Rahu was tossed and pushed along its currents as they moved her further away from the nearest town. Her last thoughts surprisingly peaceful as she believed that such an ending was more deserved for a solider like her.

…

When Rahu opened her eyes, the first thing that overwhelmed her senses was the grand disappointment of being alive.

Dull and done, she spent an unlawful amount of time merely staring blankly up toward the ceiling. Her immobilizing state lasting for as long as it took her to identify she wasn’t a prisoner of war either. In fact, being safe and sound had forced her to finally take notice of her surroundings.

Like tuning a radio perfectly to a station, Rahu focused in. She could smell medicine herbs, she could hear the sounds of someone humming, the weight of the blanket laid upon her, the wraps around her limbs and torso pinching her still, and the patch against her right eye.

“Finally awake I see.”

And now a voice.

“You gave me quiet the shock when I went to fetch water and found you face planted in mud. You should consider yourself lucky that you ran into me. Anyone else would have robbed you or slit your throat.”

The woman was sitting to her right, her temporary blind spot, and yet Rahu didn’t have the energy to move her head. Nor could she as Rahu soon discovered that her head was being held in place by iron support brace and cast.

“Don’t move around too much. Our towns doctor took a look at you while you were unconscious and she said your skin was the only thing keeping you together,” The figure sighed as her thin fingers came to brush Rahu’s hair away from her untouched left eye, “Just how many bones were you trying to break? Trying to set a new record or something.”

Rahu opened her mouth to speak, but found herself empty with air.

“Yeah… don’t try to speak either. You really are a walking miracle.”

Rahu had so much questions, so much curiosity, and it was as if the woman who had rescued her knew it too. At last, circling around the bed to join Rahu on her left side to properly converse with the wound soldier. A warm smile on her soft lips, her grey eyes full of passion and sympathy, dark midnight hair held up in a ponytail, her body thin as her hands went to help adjust Rahu up. Sitting her up enough so she could digest.

“Here. Drink this,” The woman brought a wooden bowl of bitter tea to Rahu’s lips.

Rahu merely stared into her eyes. Her own were nothing compare to the rejuvenated life rested upon those sharp eyes of her rescuer. Rahu instinctually protected herself by tightening her lips into a thin line in refusal of the strange liquid.

“I figured it wouldn’t be so easy,” The woman brought the bowl back to herself, letting the tea rest upon her lap as the stranger clarified her intentions, “I don’t blame you. You’re a soldier of Paradeiso, correct? I recognized their armor anywhere. And don’t worry, I hid it somewhere well,” the stranger sighed, “I imagine you realized now that you’re in Syndicate.”

[oztoft]

responsibility in 'all of us are dead': a small analysis

in an uncontrolled setting, the meaning of responsibility is skewed as people latch onto the people they think that should be taking care of them. in a nation-wide scenario, it could be a politician, in a familial scenario it could be a parent and in an academic scenario it could be a teacher. these people are to be differentiated from those who need the help because they are wise, experienced and they should know what to do. but what happens when they don't?

in 'all of us are dead', all three of these responsibilities are explored as well as some others. firstly, a politician. the assemblywoman for Hyosan. she recognised on her own that in her position, it would be better to save more people than people she loved. what power did she have when it came to the masses? she could've resigned, and let the duty of comforting the citizens of Hyosan be passed on like a torch to another, but to be a leader is to take action, and in her case, it was to comfort those who had nothing left to be happy about. with no homes and no family, the people would surely turn to their 'superiors'. whether to blame or thank, some sort of recognition would be shown. and this assemblywoman knew that people would hate her, resent her for the fate that befell their lives, and still ripped up her resignation letter because she had a duty to fill. it wasn't her fault but it was still her responsibility.

secondly, the responsibility of a parent. as a mother or father, you would want to see your child grow and be healthy and strive in their lives. to be happy and to be loved and to have all this fulfilled by you. but sometimes life isn't fair and doesn't allow such ideas. byeong chan knew this all too well. his son was being bullied and he could do nothing but try and make a change. and talking with the school would have been effective if not for the corrupt principal. so he had to take matters into his own hands. byeong chan thought he was being kind to his son, but by injecting his Jonas virus into Jin su he really did live by his quote of 'instead of dying like a human, i wanted him to survive as a monster'. what monster is a bullied child? so byeong chan, instead of trying to save his child, he doomed him and allowed this unfathomable fate be given to thousands across the city. (did he not think of the parents who had the responsibility to bury their children, but could find no bodies after they were killed?) he made amends to his son's memory after he revealed the true way to eradicate the virus, but his final responsibility should've have been to Jin su, not the world.

conversely, more successful examples of a parent's responsibilities include the way the students' parents might've tried getting to the school in order to save their children after hearing of the outbreak. cheongsan's mother, who persevered through an injured leg, defying the military, and her own safety in order to try and reach her only son. (his name was the last thing on her tongue before she died). secondly, nam soju, who also sacrificed his own safety for his daughter's, barely thinking about his bullet graze wound in the journey leading up to his heroic appearance at the school. as a first responder, he had a responsibility to people regardless but even after he saved multiple lives, he could not save his own. thirdly, kim ji min's parents who drove to her school just in the hopes that they could save her (they could not save a daughter who was dead). their hopes, as well as them, were killed in an instant after getting bitten. none of these people could've ever known how bad it was going to become, yet they couldn't fight off the wired urge to save those they cherished. additionally, a duty to your child is unspoken but it's overlooked how heesu didn't initially want hers. giving birth on her own as a teenager was already a strenuous ordeal, but to abandon her baby and immediately figure out the world outside was overrun with zombies? a disaster. but eye opening to her. she could have left her child in the bathroom because it would have meant someone would find them but in an apocalyptic setting, there was no guarantee. she wanted to give her baby a least a few hours of life. and she got them more than that. her quick thinking to tie herself to the door handle whilst using her baby's crying to keep her mind intact enough to stave off the zombification for a while was commendable. 

another type of responsibility is the one park sun hwa felt regarding her students. she could've been like the dean, or the principal, or the coach. selfish, scared, cowardly people who couldn't think of any lives other than their own. she was scared but she was selfless. she was an English teacher but she addressed the whole school. she was only one person but she gave hope to her students. in an apocalyptic setting, there was no need for her to teach her students anymore. or to stay with them. but she did both because she felt her position as an adult to be protective of those younger than her. 'when you cause someone to die, living becomes meaningless'. what duty did she have to keep teaching? she did that not as their teacher but as their elder, to pass on the last possible piece of advice she could before she went on to sacrifice her safety to save a student who went against her aforementioned saying. what is her responsibility in saving a murderer who was her student prior?

[ask-the-crimson-king]

A Fate Determined

What a fall from grace.

He used to be quartered in a finely furnished cabin, with an entire library at his fingertips whenever he chose. He could find other scholars of the Great Ocean and consult them or banter with them. He could create marvelous experiments with his brothers, even if they sometimes had less than ideal results. 

Now, he was sequestered away in the dingy underbelly of a beaten -- and most likely stolen -- warship that belonged to a band of miscreants and barbarians. Fitting, he reasoned, considering what had passed.

He was armored, even though today was not to be a day of skirmishing and combat. He had long since learned the value of maintaining some level of protection, especially in times between fighting. His associates, for he was not permitted to call them cousin nor even ally, were negotiating. With whom, the sorcerer did not know, for he was told it was not his right to know.

Being a sorcerer, most would reason that he could just pluck the information he wanted from the minds of the unwilling, and they would be correct.

If his new "boss" was not a member of the dreaded XII alongside most of the members of this miserable band. Though whether he could even refer to them as members of a Legion felt dubious. The change brought about from the Siege and these few... what, centuries now? had changed them so fundamentally. They were fracturing and breaking away. Most of the Legions were.

After all, their primarchs were beginning to abandon them, and they were without direction and unity. 

His own Legion had fractured long before the others. Recent events only broke them further. 

He shakes his head to clear the thoughts. He'd rather not entertain and remember what had happened. 

For now, he needed to focus. The leader of this warband had instructed him to formulate a ritual to summon forth a greater daemon of Khorne, and-

A knock at his door stops his thoughts. 

"Hey! Sorcerer!" comes a gruff shout. Pachua. A former member of the III, usually the one sent to fetch the sorcerer since most of the others in the band could hardly stand to be near him. The sorcerer once had a fleeting vision of Pachua holding the head of the current leader, Ukwtakun, and using it as a bargaining chip. 

"Yes?" the sorcerer replied, already rising from where he had been sitting. 

"You're called to the command deck," Pachua said. 

"Any particular reason?" the sorcerer asked as he opened the door. "Am I assisting in navigation again?"

"Don't know, don't care to know," Pachua said with a snort. "I have other things to attend to." Before another word could be said, the other Astartes stalked off, the dim light from the overhead lumens reflecting the garish colors and fresh trophies he had recently adorned his armors with. With a sigh, the sorcerer quickly made his way through the ship, coming to the doors that opened to the command bridge. 

Immediately he was greeted with an unfamiliar sight. Two Terminators, painted in crimson edged in silver, barred his way. Scripture was both etched into their plate and pinned to their armor in various scrolls. He took notice of several symbols meant to ward away the creatures of the Immaterium -- unsurprising, given that these two were of the XVII. 

"Greetings," the sorcerer said to them. "Ukwtakun summoned me."

"You are the sorcerer?" one asked. 

"I am." Perhaps the XVII were not aware of the changes that had befell his Legion. He knew his cerulean and gold plate seemed strange to them. 

"He is speaking with our Apostle," said the other. 

Apostle. The sorcerer was still uncomfortable with the word.

"May I ask that he be informed of my presence, at least?" 

"We've sent word along," the Terminator said, sounding annoyed. 

A silence stretched out between the three of them. While he awaited clearance to enter, his mind wandered, as did his other senses. Despite the suppression required to avoid getting killed, he could still keenly sense the auras of those around him.

A reliable talent to help avoid taking a fist or an axe to the face. 

He thought it a hold-over from his time as part of the Atheanean Cult from before the Fall. Such designations were archaic, now, and his mastery over the arts of old was giving way to new talents and curiosities. 

Some were not as new as he let on when he was still with the Legion, but he had wanted to keep up appearances then. Part of him did find it amusing that his ambitious brother had been right, in a way. There was more to the disciplines than what the Five Cults provided. 

Soon enough, the doors opened, and the sorcerer was allowed to enter. He gave a nod of acknowledgement and respect to the two Terminators as he entered, though who he saw left him stopped in his tracks.

Standing near to the brutualized warrior that was Ukwtakun was a face the sorcerer had not seen in centuries. Scripture marched down the left side of his face, his crimson armor left unadorned aside from the occasional lines of scripture or wards that looked similar to those borne by the Terminators who had stood sentry outside. A crozius arcanum rested near his feet.

"There you are!" Ukwtakun's voice ripped him from his momentary stupor. The warrior's face was nearly bisected by a massive scar that ran from one temple to the opposite corner of his jaw. A wild swing from a Blood Angel, he had said. It nearly took his eye out. The sorcerer gave a brief bow.

"How may I-"

"I called for you hours ago," the warrior interrupted. His lips pulled into a snarl. "Where were you?"

"In study and mediatation," the sorcerer answered carefully. His eyes flicked between the berserker and his guest. The XVII Legion warrior remained stoic. The sorcerer had caught a momentary glimpse of recognition flickering across his aura, but now his was being drowned out by the ever-burning rage his current "boss" held within him. 

His answer did not sit well. 

"Looks like I have to remind you that you come when called for, sorcerer," Ukwtakun snarled. "You're only here because you're convenient, but I'm sure we could always replace you."

The sorcerer said nothing to this. It was true. They happened to find him as he was fleeing, and they could have butchered him, but did not. 

"I understand," he said meekly. 

"I don't think-"

"Is this the time for this?" 

The voice came from the Word Bearer -- the Apostle -- that Ukwtakun was dealing with. It was soft yet commanding. Both the sorcerer and the berserker looked at him. 

"You're on my ship, Book Thumper," Ukwtakun growled. "If I have to deal with an insubordin-

"And you are requiring my word to resupply at Ghalmek," the Word Bearer countered. "And, if my assumptions are correct, this is the sorcerer that you require to uphold your half of our bargain." 

Silence. Uneasy silence. Ukwtakun's aura diminished slightly under the weight of the presence the Apostle emanated. 

"I'll deal with your bookworming later," Ukwtakun spat towards the sorcerer. He nodded, already beginning to prepare himself for what was to come. If he was lucky, he would only maybe lose a limb for this. 

"So you are his psyker," the Apostle said, now focusing his attention on the sorcerer. His eyes were dark, but they were warm. Open and inviting, matching the rest of his body language. "May I have your name?"

"I-"

"Doesn't deserve it," Ukwtakun said with a snort. "Ask him your questions so I can have him dealt with."

"Fine." The Apostle sighed. "You are experienced in diabolism, yes? Have you begun experimenting with the creation of bound weaponry or armor?"

"I... Yes, somewhat," the sorcerer answered. Something was strange. He recognized this Apostle from the times before the War... didn't he recognize him? He thought he saw a flicker of recognition before, but it could have been a mistake. 

"Somewhat?" There was no malice or derision in the word.

"I have not been granted the space nor the proper supplies to enact the proper experimentation," the sorcerer answered. He flinched as he felt a flare from Ukwtakun, who had reached for his chainaxe. 

"You filthy-"

"And if you were provided such materials," the Apostle went on, one hand gripping the arm of the berserker, "you could perform such experiments and yield positive results?" 

The sorcerer hesitated. His hearts were pounding. He had not felt this much stress since-

"Are you trying to steal my sorcerer?" Ukwtakun asked, breaking away from the Apostle. 

"It is not stealing," the Apostle replied cooly. "You promised me a sorcerer who would be able to assist in the binding and creation of weapons and armors, in exchange for repair and resupply at Ghalmek so that you would not have to go through the Iron Warriors while you are working with elements of the Emperor's Children." 

Silence again. 

"We still have need for him," the berserker said. 

"It sounded to me as though you are ready to replace him." The Apostle tilted his head. "Have I misunderstood your earlier declaration of, 'you're only here because you're convenient'?"

The sorcerer found himself stunned and blinking. He stared with his mouth slightly agape at the Apostle, whom he swore gave him the smallest of smiles. Again, recognition flickered over his aura. 

He does remember!

Hope flared for the first time in ages. Could he get him away? That's what it sounded like he was trying to do. He silently pleaded with whatever powers were out there that he was successful. 

The berserker was shaking with barely suppressed rage. The two had their eyes locked on each other; one's face a rigid mask, the other keeping calm and composed. 

"Fine!" Ukwtakun said abruptly. "Take the stupid sniveling rat. So long as you can get us our stuff, you can have him."

"Gladly. I'll have word sent that we are on the way." The Apostle grabbed his crozius and put it over his shoulder, looking to the sorcerer. "Come with me. I would like to have a conversation with you in private."

"Of course," the sorcerer said, offering a bow, "but my things-"

"Please, go retrieve them," the Apostle told him. "Allow one of the Annointed to accompany you. Abdima?"

One of the Terminators by the door put a fist to his breastplate. The sorcerer offered a salute and another bow, swiftly leaving while the Apostle and Ukwtakun shared some final words. 

His mind was racing. Hope felt strange and new to him. Freedom at last from the confines of his dingy hole, freedom from the ever-present stress of existing around trigger-happy berserkers. 

Freedom to experiment and allow his talents to roam free once more. 

They made it back to his current room, and he sensed the unease radiating from his Terminator escort. It was, admittedly, a mess. Strange paraphanalia and a stack of old journals and musings crowded the room, which was truly only about as wide as two paces for an Astartes.

Human quarters, obviously. 

For the first time in an age, the sorcerer unfurled his mind beyond the tightly bound cage he had made for himself, scooped up his belongings in a telekinetic grasp, and nodded to the Terminator. If he encountered any difficulties from the band, he expected the Terminator to help diffuse any open aggression. 

As they walked back to reconvene with the Apostle and the other elements of his retinue, he dared to feel excited. Anxiety, ever-present, also flooded through him. It was not fear; it could never be. But he was uncertain. This had to be too good to be true. There was something he did not see, surely.

The thought dampened everything, even after he saw the Apostle offer him a genuinely warm smile and even as he was welcomed aboard the Word Bearer's vessel. It was called the Unitas Abyssi, and it was decorated in just the way the sorcerer had imagined any ship of the XVII would be.

Thousands of mortals moved about, offering prayers and hails as the Astartes passed by. The smell of incense burned throughout its halls. The sorcerer felt the attentions of the denizens of the Great Ocean no matter where he went. The Apostle was leading him down to his own personal chambers at the heart of the ship, the two of them accompanied by an entourage of Terminators. 

The walk was a silent one, and the Terminators had been dismissed once they made it to the Apostle's quarters. Beyond the doors lay a great central chamber which had four other rooms that split off from it. The room itself was occupied by the beginnings of a garden, with various troughs and small plants slowly breaching a surface covered in strange mulches. It smelled earthy. A few benches had been arrayed around a focal point in the center, upon which a mosaic depicting the octed star of Chaos had been placed. The Apostle sat on one of them, his back facing the far wall that stood mostly blank and bare. 

"Now that we are away from that blunt berserker," the Apostle had said, gesturing to a bench near to him. The sorcerer went and sat down. "May I have your name?"

"I..." he paused. "I am Zikar-Sin, sir."

"Zikar-Sin," he said, nodding. "I thought you seemed familiar. I am sure my introduction is unnecessary."

"So you did recognize me!"

"Of course," the Apostle said with a smile. "How could I forget the Son of Magnus who challenged me in the middle of a symposium to defend my intellectual and theological honor?"

"And how could I forget the Chaplain to whom I served secondment with who dared to call Prosperine food 'too sweet' after sampling nothing but sweets for an afternoon?"

“That I sampled at your insistence, need I remind you.”

 Zikar-Sin smiled. "It is good to see you Ans'ar."

"The feeling is mutual. I had feared for your loss after what befell Prospero," Ans'ar said. Zikar-Sin's bright expression darkened, and his eyes turned away from the Apostle. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and when he looked up, he saw the face of an aggrieved friend. "I am glad to learn you live."

The sorcerer did not know how to respond to that. His mind was becoming full of thoughts of what had happened, and his brain uncomfortably reminded him of the complicity of the Word Bearers in the wake of the devastation of Prospero.

It was, after all, Horus who had ordered it done. 

"I did not mean to stir up hurtful memories-"

"It's fine," Zikar-Sin said shortly. He flinched, then curled a bit into himself. "I did not mean to interrupt you."

His eyes flickered away from the Apostle. He felt him take his hand away from his shoulder. 

"Where have you been?" Ans'ar asked quietly. "How did you come to be with a group of World Eaters?"

"That is a very long story," Zikar-Sin said with a tired sigh. The Apostle snorted. 

"It is good, then, that I have a very long time to listen." He stood. "Wait here." He walked into one of the adjacent rooms. Zikar-Sin heard some light rummaging and the clinking of glass. When he returned, there was a bottle in one hand and two glasses for wine in the other. Zikar-Sin suppressed a snort of his own, but there was a definite glint of amusement in his face. Ans'ar caught it.

"What?"

"Are you going to light some candles and bring out flowers next?" Zikar-Sin asked with a chuckle. Ans'ar paused, then laughed himself. 

"Come, now. There won't be any flowers aboard this vessel for the next few weeks at least." He sat down and poured each of them a glass. Zikar-Sin recognized the vintage from its scent alone. It was sourced from Vharadesh. 

He took his glass with a small thank you. Ans'ar nodded and set the bottle down next to him.

"Now that I have cleverly socially trapped you," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "Let us hear your tale of woe."

Zikar-Sin looked down at the deep crimson of the wine inside his own glass.

He inhaled and exhaled, then took a swig of it that drained nearly half the glass. It had been far too long since he could enjoy anything with proper flavor in it. 

"Alright. Let us begin in the aftermath of Terra, and Ahriman's folly."

--

Lightning danced and surged around them all. Immense power, the likes of which had only been invoked a handful of times before, pulled at all of them. It felt as though his soul was being stretched thin and pit through a sieve. The world shook. 

He fell to his hands and knees, huffing and panting. His eyes burned. The tides of the Great Ocean beat against them all, smashing them upon unseen rocks and distant, unknown and intangible shores. It took immense strength to remember how to think and how to breathe. 

He did not know how long this sensation would last. He did not remember what happened between being on the ground and being back on his feet, potentiality boiling around him, and screaming for his brothers as their bodies and minds were turned to dust and sealed away within their armor. Sorrow and disbelief filled him; he began to draw upon the power still roiling around him when he felt it siphoned away. A greater storm was gathering in the Great Ocean. A hurricane of fury and malice, all directed and pointed towards the thing that had started this all. 

A father on his way to kill his favored son. 

In the wake of the disaster, there was despair. There was anguish. There were tears, though he would never admit it to anyone else. 

Despair fed into desperation. He hardly knows what he is thinking by the time he has everyone gathered.

Eighteen. Eighteen of his brothers, now damned into an existence of barely-sapient automata. Only three of his still-flesh brethren knows what he is about to attempt.

He prays. He hopes, so fervently, so desperately, that this will work. If it can work on them, then it can work on everyone, can't it? Surely it must!

The ritual begins. There is laughter. There is unfaltering focus. 

And it fails.

Eighteen souls are devoured. Eighteen souls are torn free and sent into the Immaterium.

And the one who conducted it all runs.

He flees, as far and as fast as he can. He even stole a ship to leave. He grabbed only what was around him at the time; nothing but a handful of grimoires and talismans, alongside the armor he wore. 

But he flees. To where, he did not know. He thinks that perhaps he will die in isolation. Or perhaps he can work on undoing his mistake, and undoing whatever had been done to the Legion-

And that is when he is found. His place of refuge boarded and searched by a band of warriors looking for things to scavenge. 

And my, what a prize he was. 

They were lost, having butchered their own mortal navigators and astropaths. They very nearly gave him the same fate before the Emperor's Child, Pachua, intervened. They needed a psyker. He was tired of floating aimlessly, he wanted to find a place of true war again. 

And so he had been abducted and forcibly recruited, acting as navigator for a band of insane berserkers. He had learned swiftly that his psychic talents had to be suppressed as far as he could, otherwise he was going to be fighting the warband each moment he was within eyesight. 

There he had remained, an exile and outcast, grieving and dreading the future of his Legion, left to fester in the underbelly of their miserable ship, until Ans'ar happened to find him.

--

Silence follows. Zikar-Sin finishes his glass of wine. 

"I knew the plight of the Thousand Sons was a difficult one," Ans'ar said, "but I also know you do not deserve such mistreatment."

"It matters little what I deserved."

The sorcerer shrugged. "Though, respectfully, I disagree. My actions led to the destruction of eighteen of my brothers. Total and complete, beyond what this... this Rubric did to them." He shakes his head, then hesitates. He removed one of his gauntlets, revealing a hand that was covered in feathering. Most of the feathering was small, and some scales had begun forming upon the segments of his fingers. Small eyes blink from between his knuckles. 

"Flesh Change?" Ans'ar asks carefully, leaning in closer. 

"Mutation from our new patron," Zikar-Sin said bitterly. "A reminder of my failures, and a reminder of the fate most likely to consume me one day. The ritual that Ahriman conducted was supposed to scour the Flesh Change from the Legion for good. It did. But it does not mean we cannot still be 'blessed'." 

The Apostle's face darkens. Most of what Zikar-Sin is speaking must surely sound like blasphemy and sacrilege to him. 

"I would like to offer you something," he says slowly. 

"Is it some escoteric item of note?" There is a small eye-roll.

"Better. I want you to formally join my Host."

Zikar-Sin raised a brow. "Was that not already the plan?"

"Not quite. I was willing to have you on in a manner similar to how Ukwtakun had you -- an auxiliary sorcerer we had on hand. But I would like to formally induct you into the Legion."

"You think I would forsake the Thousand Sons?"

"Have you not already?"

The question disarmed him. He was left blinking like a fool, his mind genuinely going blank. 

"I... suppose I have," he said slowly, his brow furrowing. 

"If you need time to think on it, then I will grant it to you. But for now I will arrange for you to be given proper rooms and a proper place for you to conduct rituals and experiments," Ans'ar said, offering more wine to him. Zikar-Sin gently declined, though the Apostle filled his own glass. "You will be given the respect and room you deserve to operate as you please. Within reason, of course, I am not going to let you take the mortal thralls and whore their lives away without purpose."

The sorcerer bit back a retort about the practices of the Word Bearers as a whole, and only gave Ans'ar a nod of acknowledgement. He handed back his empty glass and stood, sensing that their conversation was over, for now. 

"I will have Abdima show you to your new rooms. I would like to speak again in a day or so about your first experiments," Ans'ar said, affecting a more business-like tone. Zikar-Sin nodded again.

"As you wish." He paused. "How should I address you in front of the others? Surely they would take offense to an outsider calling you by your name."

"You may refer to me as Apostle, as they do." Ans'ar drank from his glass, then set the empty glasses down and stood, walking over to Zikar-Sin. He put a hand on his shoulder, then pulled him in for a quick embrace. "I mean it. I am glad to see that you are alive, old friend."

The sorcerer was caught off-guard, and awkwardly returned the gesture. "As am I to see you." The Apostle pulled back, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder before he called for his Terminators -- his Annointed, as Zikar-Sin would learn to call them -- to escort him to his new rooms.

--

More freedom took some getting used to. Being able to unfurl his mind and senses and not immediately detect murderous intent aimed directly toward his person was a good change of pace. Of course, there was always suspicion, he knew it would be foolish not to expect it. 

He was an outsider, but he would only be the first of many to join the 17th Host. 

His presence became part of the background hum of the operations of the Host. The Annointed greeted him by name after a few short weeks, as did some of the Astartes he began working a little closer with. Some were diabolists, but they had learned sorcery through means similar to that of Kor Phaeron.

Having the natural connection to the Great Ocean and the decades of experience that Zikar-Sin could provide was invaluable. 

Eventually, Ans'ar came to him with the offer again. A chance to be fully and completely repatriated into the Word Bearers. The hesitance he had from before had mostly melted by this point. 

And so, Zikar-Sin was no longer Zikar-Sin of the Thousand Sons, former adept of the Cult Athaenean of the Fifth Fellowship. He became Zikar-Sin of the 17th Host, Master of Possession, as he would remain for the next ten millennia.

[shrineofprophecy]

Serval hardly knew what befell her when she found herself in front of her parents' house with her full bags. One day, she was doing well on her analysis of the Stellaron, finding answers that no one was able to before and the next day, she was fired from her job and her research completely destroyed. Yet losing her work wasn't even the worst part. It was the fact that Cocolia, someone she loved dearly and more than anyone in the world, was the one who unexpectedly decided to turn fate on her. Everything they had done together, time they spent since their academy days, playing music on the rooftop... It was all gone.

Taking a deep breath, Serval raised her fist and nervously knocked on the door. What was she supposed to tell her parents when she hardly knew why she deserved to be in this position. All she could wish for was consolation. Something that wasn't too much to ask for, was it?

The door opened and she wanted to force a smile, to pretend that she was doing fine. That she would be fine but instead she swallowed upon seeing her outraged father. News really did spread fast...

"You dare show your face here?" The man started with a raised voice. "You should be begging the Supreme Guardian on your knees for forgiveness!"

"But father, you don't know what happened! I didn't do—"

"Does it matter? You have disgraced the Landau family!" His words stung and she could have expected it but it didn't make the pain any less. He had never approved of her ways and never complimented her for anything she had achieved. Even when she became close to Cocolia, did her tell her what to do and how to act like she was some sort of puppet. It was the only time her father was milder but she already knew his true nature.

When the man stormed back inside, Serval followed his footsteps which headed directly to her bedroom. She hardly had time to look at her worried mother, who never even dared to talk back to her husband.

"What are you doing?!" Serval cried out as she watched her father open her closet and pulled her clothes out, carelessly throwing them on the floor. Once he was done, he threw open the drawers of her cabinet and threw everything out. "Stop it! You're going to ruin—"

Grabbing his arm was a mistake when he shoved her harshly onto the ground. Before Serval could say anything, an oil lamp was thrown into her direction, making her automatically raise her arm in protection. Luckily it barely missed but it didn't reduce the shock she felt.

"Grab your stuff and get out. You have 30 minutes."

"What?" Her eyes widened and she scrambled back onto her feet, looking at him with both confusion, fear but also anger. "Where am I supposed to go? I don't have my appartment anymore and I can't find a new place immediately. You can't just throw me on the street."

"You should have thought about that before you decided to get on the Supreme Guardian's bad side." He walked past her. "I always knew you were going to be trouble one day. You're no longer a daughter of mine."

With those words, her father left the room and she stayed behind in the silence. Serval watched him in disbelief and tears streamed down her face. What hurt her wasn't the fact that she was disowned by her parents, who had never shown support or treated her and her siblings the way they deserved, but the fact that she didn't know why she deserved all of this.

Now Serval was forced to become the grown-up she had always wished to be. To make her own decisions about her own life.

But she never expected it to be like this...

[abybweisse]

Just a quick question. Did Vincent and Rachel’s souls get collected and the only reason why they can’t become bizzarre dolls is because they have no body to the host new cinematic records?

Why Vincent and Rachel can't become bizarre dolls

Their souls should have already been collected by active reapers, and that's what technically makes them dead, right?

They can't become bizarre dolls because:

1. Their bodies have been destroyed. Well, we know that's the case with Vincent. We are only assuming the same fate befell Rachel's body, since her body was right next to his when our earl found them.

2. If their bodies were destroyed, so were their cinematic records, which are stored in the brain.

No bodies. No cinematic records. No bizarre dolls.

That's why I theorize that whoever set the fire either knew Undertaker was a reaper or was acting on the instructions of someone who knew. And probably not just that he's a reaper (who can glean information from viewing cinematic records) but a reaper who has been messing around with corpses and cinematic records....

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Hello, new journal. My name is Khvath Slaveborn. Your successor served me well over what still remains one of the most taxing times of my life, and now I put my hopes in you, that you shall not fail where it did. I fear that journal is lost forever in the caves below what is now Furnace City, and I dread to think of the terrible fate that befell its fine leather cover and hand-mâchéd pages in that grot-infested hell.

There will surely come more scowls and malcontent in your pages in the future, but for now, I am committing to memory the positives since I escaped Hysh's most Stygian depths. For one, a favor from my dear friends in the Templars of Our Burning Savior saw me spending some time on a drilling rig bound for Chamon. There I lived for some weeks among the oft-whispered but rarely seen duardin of Hashut, the Chaos God of Industry and Commerce. I found their arguments – or at least the arguments conveyed by their translator – highly convincing and believe I shall implement elements of Hashutian worship into my melange of spiritual practices.

When I and my surviving men arose in Chamon, it was to great fortune. I found myself aiding in the siege of an Order city on the brink of wretched completion. Ten years in assembly and on the eve of its founding, I conspired with honorable knights of Nurgle and cunning Skaven engineers to subvert the city's own leylines. Little did we know, but Death had also tampered with our magic – a circumstance that still haunts the city to this day.

Regardless, the Orderlings called this city Maker's Run, a name which we kept on its eruption into plague and ruin. After some time of conflict, I secured an undamaged fortress in the city's heart. This prize gained me both my new base of operations in Chamon – the handsome club-fortress of Veridia Deux – but also the Waystone Arena beside it. Now in charge of the city's two chief sources of entertainment, I'm working to my own ends (profit, mostly) hiring both mercenary warbands to secure my fortunes and gladiatorial champions to maintain them.

My retinue have secured victories of their own. Many of my warriors have begun their own paths to ascension, using our time in Chamon to construct their mighty suits of armor. I myself feel the touch of the gods, as my communion with more and more spiritually attuned beings have taught me deeper and deeper secrets of arcane might. I shall not stray from the path I have already set, for to reach higher is a terribly potent hubris, but I feel I have been rewarded at last for my efforts. To cease them now would be to dishonor all that came before me.

One thing does trouble me, however. Unlike many beneath the eye of the gods, I have a home, which I have not seen in some years now. Few things phase or terrify me any more, but the thought of Carngrad's fate without my guiding hand does give me pause. I've dreamed neither sign nor portent of the great city where my name was made, and one day I will have to return to it. I am a Black Pilgrim now, a sorcerer on the march to the status of Varanguard, and one day I will have to petition before the throne of the Everchosen.

So what becomes of my mind if I find Carngrad in ruins? What becomes of my soul when I see my works undone – or, perhaps worse, the city unchanged from how I left it? What will I do when I return to Carngrad a far different man from the simple courier praying for survival in its gore-soaked streets?

We will see. There will come a time when I return to Carngrad, to pass through the Eightpoints. If all goes well, it will not only be the forces of Chaos who march me to that destiny.

[driftward]

Title: FFXIV Write 2023 - 20. Hamper Characters: Yda Hext, Thancred Waters, Urianger Augurelt, Y'shtola Rhul, Minfilia Warde Rating: Teen Summary: Thancred's very funny. Notes: Sometimes I claim to be committing crimes against words. This time, I kind of mean it.

Being a conscript for the mighty Garlean empire was both better and worse than he had anticipated it would be.

Worse, because of course it wasn't possible to imagine to what it would be like, separated from his family, thousands of malms away from his home, knowing that his obedience was the only thing keeping them safe. Having to be in someone else's home, knowing that the goal of the Empire was to make sure the same fate befell them, onward and onward, a beast hungry for sweat and blood, forever.

Better, because in practice, it was actually really boring.

A lot of drills. A lot of getting up early at hours gods could not see and frankly neither should men. And a lot of chores.

So many chores.

He was not sure what he had imagined military life to be like, but certainly, he had not imagined this. He spent much more time cleaning his weapon than using it, even more time marching around and checking on things he felt certain did not need checked, but checking them anyroad. Lots of standing around waiting for a lot of nothing to be done. Cleaning the Castrum. Cleaning his barracks. Cleaning his clothes. Cleaning his comrades' clothes, and that was the duty he had pulled today.

He sighed as he went from barracks to barracks, pushing, pulling, and otherwise cajoling along an increasingly long train of hampers, each one on some caster wheels and connected to one another through some clever coupling mechanism, and all driven by a magitek contrivance whose workings he didn't know. He didn't have to. Just had to guide it and make sure all the laundry got picked up. It wasn't hard work at all, just tedious. Just go to a barracks, find the watch, tell them why he was there, wait while the hampers were gathered, usually already full, add them to the train, and be on his way.

He was supposed to keep track of how many he had from where. But each hamper had a barracks number on it, and so long as the laundry room did their job, the laundry would be returned to the correct hampers, and whoever took them back didn't have too hard a time of it. And so he only made certain he didn't lose any, and paid little attention to how many he had, eventually just duly driving his long, smelly train into the heart of the Castrum where the laundry magitek devices were. This was where his job ended for now, and he was risking being late to his next duty. So while he sorely wished to stop and try to chat up the comely lass who greeted him - he could tell, even inside of the ugly sack cloth uniforms they all wore, that she was, if nothing else, athletic and trim - he saluted her sharply, signed off on the duty board, and went on his way.

She watched him go, her hands on her hips, not moving towards the hamper train or otherwise making an effort to do her job. Not so far away, tucked out of sight, another conscript was taking an unfortunate nap. Once the man who had delivered the hampers to her had gone, she began to whistle a merry tune loudly to herself as she walked along the train. She examined each barracks mark until she came to two in particular, and shifted the tune she was whistling, as well as building it up a good deal louder.

When the two hampers began to shift, she returned to her prior tune and volume, and turned slowly in place, keeping an eye out, as the heads of Thancred and Urianger popped up from the hampers. She kept whistling as they pulled themself free and resettled the clothes, and made their way to a corner she gestured at.

She spent some time doing her job. Or at least, some approximation of what her job should be. Once some of the autolaunderes were working, mechanical arms ducking uniforms into hot soapy water and swishing them around noisily, filling the space with steam, she found her way to her friends.

"You failed to mention how bad this job -stank-, Thancred. Or how hot it'd be in here. I'm about ready to die in this uniform."

"I'll thank you to not do any such thing," said Thancred. "Where is Papalymo?"

"Waiting by our escape hatch. You also failed to mention that that particular pipe was for waste outflow, it's full of water filthy with ceruleam! He's got words for you, you know."

"I just bet," said Thancred, dryly. "Urianger?"

Urianger had a set of heavy goggles resting on his head as he took stock of their surroundings. "I have readied mine enchantments and am ready to play my part. Mine spellworks are ready to addle the senses and delight the masses. Shouldst any pierce mine defensive auras of illusion, I shall stymie them with a dazzling display before taking mine leave."

"I can't believe this worked," said Yda, glancing around.

"Stay focused. Hasn't worked yet. Though I do hope to get the chance to tell Y'shtola I told her so. Alright. We're going in. Stick to the plan and cover us. Once you hear the alarum, get going, Urianger shouldn't be far behind. When you hear the explosions, the ruse will be up. Any questions."

"Ugh, yes. Why'd I agree to this."

"For the good of the realm," said Thancred, giving her a wink. "If I could have done it alone -"

"And I wish you wouldn't."

"-I would have."

Urianger nudged Thancred. "Come. My spellworks are intricate and delicate, and shall not hold forever."

The two nodded at Yda. "See you on the outside," she said cheerfully as Thancred seemed to almost melt into the shadows.

"A console from which I might make mine announcements?" asked Urianger, and she gestured down a hallway. "They're already all asleep that way. Do be careful."

"When am I not?" he asked.

Yda just put her hands on her hips and looked around the laundry room as her two friends disappeared to their respective tasks.

"I always get the lousy jobs," she complained.

~*~

Minfilia's face was bemused as Urianger told the ins and outs of the tale of how their little group had successfully infiltrated the Castrum. He was fully in his element, recounting the story as though it were an epic poem, telling of how he in turn bedazzled, confused, terrified, and bamboozled the castrum guards. Thancred just sat in a chair off to one side, looking terribly pleased with himself as he flipped his blade in his hand. Yda and Papalymo had already returned to the Twelveswood, but Y'shtola had stopped in to listen, and just now had her eyes squinted shut, her ears back and head down as she squeezed her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

"And verily, I tell you true, the local Garleans now surely believe their own commander mad, thanks to my clever use of glamour and misdirection," he finished with a broad grin and a bit of a bow.

Thancred spoke up. "And are blaming themselves for making a fine mess of their central routing. It'll be moons before they get it all repaired, and in the meanwhile, no trains in or out. They'll need to resort to airships. Which while their airship technology exceeds ours, they're still shy about floating their larger ones over our area. And the smaller ones just aren't as efficient as their trains."

"And you're certain that no trace of this little job of yours will be traced back to Eorzea or worse yet, to us?" asked Minfilia, drumming her fingers on the desk.

"As confident as I am in Urianger's spellworks," said Thancred.

Minfilia sat down in her chair, and sighed. "Well. Alright. I suppose the reward was worth the risk in the end. Thank you, Thancred."

"Certainly. Though now that it's done, I think our little job should have one of those colorful names the Grand Companies like to give to their big operations. You know, something memorable. Just for posterity."

Y'shtola lifted her head to give him a glare, while Minfilia just raised an eyebrow. "...go on."

"Well, a good code name should gesture vaguely in the direction of what it does... while not entirely giving the game away, of course... let me think, we've set back Imperial progress for moons... and given our methods... I'm thinking... hmn..." Thancred paused as he faked looked like he was thinking.

"Operation Hamper."

Minfilia blinked at him a few times before bursting into laughter. "Get out!" she squealed. Thancred winked at her as he stood to leave, and he glanced over in the corner.

And there was the cherry on top of a successful mission.

All those years of bard schooling were worth it for the absolutely withering look Y'shtola was giving him. He blew her a kiss, and whistled on his way out, a chuckling Urianger close behind him.

[ill-try-to-do-book-reviews]

The Cabin at the End of the World

Paul Tremblay

RATING: 🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯 (5/5)

The Cabin at the End of the World is a horrifying tale of homophobia, cultism, and perhaps even Catholic guilt. It has a slow start, but when it picks up speed, it absolutely does not stop. No matter where you are in this book, you will not figure out the ending. You will find yourself questioning if maybe this little pseudo-cult is right, and you will wonder up until the very end about who, if anyone, is going to make it out of this story alive.

SUMMARY: Seven-year-old Wen and her parents, Eric and Andrew, are vacationing at a remote cabin on a quiet New Hampshire lake. Their closest neighbors are more than two miles in either direction along a rutted dirt road.

One afternoon, as Wen catches grasshoppers in the front yard, a stranger unexpectedly appears in the driveway. Leonard is the largest man Wen has ever seen, but he is young, friendly, and he wins her over almost instantly. Leonard and Wen talk and play until Leonard abruptly apologizes and tells Wen, “None of what’s going to happen is your fault.” Three more strangers then arrive at the cabin carrying unidentifiable, menacing objects. As Wen sprints inside to warn her parents, Leonard calls out: “Your dads won’t want to let us in, Wen. But they have to. We need your help to save the world.”

Thus begins an unbearably tense, gripping tale of paranoia, sacrifice, apocalypse, and survival that escalates to a shattering conclusion, one in which the fate of a loving family and quite possibly all of humanity are entwined. The Cabin at the End of the World is a masterpiece of terror and suspense from the fantastically fertile imagination of Paul Tremblay.

MY DETAILED REVIEW (SPOILER WARNING):

This story is fucking gut-wrenching. There were times that I had to take a break from reading for my own sanity, despite how much I wanted to keep going until all of my questions were answered.

And all of your questions will not be answered. Is the apocalypse actually happening? Who fucking knows. But really, isn't that the point? It doesn't matter if the apocalypse is happening or not - because we will go on.

Normally, I'm not a reader pushed on by romance. I could normally not care less if the protagonists have somebody waiting for them back home - it just doesn't motivate me to read any faster than if I were already hooked. But Eric and Andrew's love for each other, and their love for Wen, it was a pretty big factor in my finishing of this book in 7 hours, 48 minutes. I wanted, needed, to know if their small little family would make it out alive. I couldn't bear the thought of little Wen being without one of her dads, or one of her dads being without his husband, or, gods forbid, her dads being without their daughter.

Wen's death was a gut punch. Not a wholly unexpected one, I admit, but still a heart shattering moment to know that the little girl they had fought so long and hard for had died. And, though I do regret to admit it, the fact that she died so unceremoniously.

A gruesome death befell everyone in our story, and narratively, it is rather fitting that Wen was shot, on accident, by a man who loved her and a man who lied to her and took advantage of her trust and naievity.

As much as I feel whether the apocalypse was real or not does not matter to the story, I also can't help but find myself making my own interpretations of whether or not it was. As a born Christian, now pagan, I found myself on Andrew's side for a majority of the book.

But what is all the more frightening is how I was also finding myself beginning to believe Leonard and his gang, just like Eric.

I made notes to myself throughout my reading that I was predicting Eric was going to give in and believe, at least partially out of Catholic guilt, once that second earthquake and tsunami hit. Finding myself to be partially right was vindicating, but finding that I am also susceptible to cult-like mentalities, especially on the basis of end-of-the-world, the-Rapture-is-here talk that is so engrained into my mine, was also a reminder. A reminder that no matter how sure you are of yourself, you are not immune to propaganda.

Anyways, as for whether I believe the apocalypse or not, no. I think that it was a religious nutjob who rallied other religious nutjobs. Granted, I cannot explain whether Redmond or O'Bannon was stalking Andrew or if it was n unfortunate coincidence that they were the ones at the cabin, or anything like that. There are questions I have leaving this book that I do not have enough evidence to base an idea or theory or solid answer off of.

All in all, The Cabin at the End of the World is a gut-wrenching story that had me biting my fingers in suspense from start to finish. I have a feeling it is going to be one of those books that you read once and the story sticks with you for the rest of your life. Regardless, a physical copy is in my future, because I loved this book from front to back.

[writingsoftrash]

Alice In Mechaland Chapter One, Part One: Savior At The Eleventh Hour

An. A.I Artificial Intelligence/Gigolo Joe x OC fanfiction by sarsa Masterpost of Chapters Original A/N 03/03/2020: yeah I have absolutely 0 explanation as to why I am obsessed/fixated with this movie or why I decided to write a self indulgent fic to give Joe a happy ending. (Well I say happy but it's, not totally happy WHOOPS.) I stopped questioning myself a long time ago. If, for some reason, someone out there enjoys this. well, then. I did a good job at least. will it be finished? hell if i know. like i said, totally self indulgent fic, is it mary sue? idk i don't care i wrote what i wanted to write i've written like 9k words already, and i'm gonna split what i have up into chapters! hurray! Updated A/N 7/27/24: tl;dr, crossposting the fic to tumblr. dunno if this will gain it a wider audience or not, idk. but surprisingly this self indulgent incredibly niche fic is one of my most popular fics on AO3 so why not! It's still unfinished, (and plenty more to go.) but I hope if there's any new readers - you love it as much as I love writing it. Also, due to the chapters being as long as they are - they will have to be split up into parts. Apologies for that, Tumblr is dumb. I've tried a hundred million ways to post just the (1st) chapter in its entirety and it just. won't. so, apologies!

He was sitting in the cold, (not that he could feel it of course, being that he was made of nothing more than wires and gears,) police station, idly tapping his feet against the concrete floor whilst whistling. He knew, deep down-  as many creatures did at these pivotal moments, that his life was nearing it's end, the handcuffs on his wrists harsh reminders of the inevitable fate that befell all mecha. In the back of his mind, he only wished that perhaps... David had fulfilled his purpose, and that he had helped the young mecha in his pursuit of the Blue Fairy. 

His own purpose was about to be forever extinguished. 

So Joe, also known as Gigolo Joe to the many patrons of the lover mecha, sat there, unblinking and resigned to the fact that he now knew, no matter how much he had tried to run, it would eventually catch up to him. He had escaped it once at the Flesh Fair, but fate did not slow down for mechas. It was always inching, crawling behind them, waiting to catch them and devour those who had dared to be created by man's hand. 

The door swung open, and his pristine face swiveled to look at who was entering, who would be the one to hand down his sentence (death) without a single ounce of pity or wherewithal to question the circumstances on which he had been condemned.  "And I am telling you, to release him into my custody. He's not the murderer - the police in Haddonfield have the right man locked up and with a full confession. I don't see what's so hard about this."

If he had the capacity, the desire to blink in surprise, he would have, but instead he simply cocked his head exactly nine degrees to the right, and stared blankly at the blonde-haired woman who was arguing with the police man, and despite her diminutive size was able to keep up with the burly man's steps. "Again, if you do NOT release this man-" "You mean mecha?" "...this MAN, into my custody, immediately, you are going to be so miserable with the amount of paperwork my firm's going to bury you in," she moved to stand between the officer and Joe, crossing her arms and tapping her heeled boots impatiently, and he could smell, drifting from her, the most delicious scent- and he could name the perfume instantly - Dior, he thought after briefly going through his list of common perfumes worn by women, before his eyes moved to her blonde hair. Had he not been handcuffed to the table, he swore he would have lifted a hand up to touch it gently. "Look lady, you want to be responsible for him? Fine. You're right, he hasn't murdered anyone. But he still stole-" "You'll find that my partner has already paid for the fines, next? Or can we stop this inane back and forth, and I can leave with him? Or is it your goal to be benched and investigated for gross incompetence?" The officer scoffed, looking away - disgust apparent on both his face and in his tone, "Oh begging your pardon, miss. Sorry we didn't do our due diligence over one fuckin' mecha," he moved swiftly, clearly done with the woman, taking out a set of keys and unlocking Joe's handcuffs roughly and pulling him out of the chair before pushing him over, "Here you are, one fuckbot at your service, keep him out of trouble, you mechafucker. " The police officer offered one last laugh as he left, "I'll let YOU explain to him what happened, not my fuckin problem anymore. Weirdo..."  The woman watched as he left, nostrils flared with clear annoyance, jaw clenched, clearly attempting to stop herself from saying anything incendiary to the cop. As soon as the door shut with a SLAM, she spun on her heels to face Joe - her face that once held fury and contempt for the officer, became one filled with an apologetic look, "Sorry about that, some of these guys can be real jackasses for no reason. Um-" her hand extended out to him, a shy smile crossing her face, "My names Alice Capulet, lawyer with Capulet Law Firms here in Rouge City." Joe tilted his head, taking the offered hand and shaking it, before bringing her hand to his lips to gently kiss the top of it as he maintained eye contact with the woman, "Why?" he asked simply, no other words or questions came up- just confusion settling in his wires as he was confronted with this Alice, who had just argued for his freedom so vehemently. He watched as the telltale sign of an emotional response to his hand kiss rose to her cheeks, blood coloring the skin as she flushed, pulling her hand away and rubbing it nervously with the other.  "Why what?" "Why did you save me?" he asked, "As the police offer so crudely put it, I am just... a simple 'fuckbot' though I admit, I would have preferred my actual name, and perhaps a more suitable moniker. Lover mecha, Sex worker. I am what I am, and I hold no shame... but-" he smiled, doing a small tap with his feet, and extending his hand out to her, "I am... the best at what I do, and none can take that from me. But I am... just a mecha. So, why?" A laugh was his response, as she shook her head, offering up a small smile, "...How about I answer as we get out of this place?" she asked, moving towards the door,  "You've been released into my custody, and you don't have to come with me... you're free to return to your work, if you'd like. But, if you'd like to... recharge so to speak, I've a free room in my apartment." She beckoned him forth - this Alice - holding out her hand which he took, gently into his as she led him out of the room and back out into the free world, as a free man.  Chapter One: Part I || Part II || Part III || Part IV

Masterpost

[dokidokitsuna]

I love the gone au so much!! If I may ask though- since we’ve seen Gooey, what happens to Kirby, Meta, and Dedede? (And also, where’s Galacta Knight in all of this? Is he Morpho’s body/host or is he still trapped?)

Oho, somebody finally asked~

Back in the beginning, I actually considered keeping one of these guys around for the Master Crown to take its anger out on. Like, I feel like that's the only purpose they might serve in its present-day story; to give it a moment like "ugh, everything's going wrong and I feel bad about myself...oh look; it's one of those 'heroes' from before who's supposed to be dead! Maybe if I go over and red-mist them it'll cheer me up~"

^Which was a fun thought, admittedly. ^^ But it'd be a little mean, even for me, and later on I came up with the more unique concept of having Gooey be the 'torch-bearer' for that whole character set, and I liked that better. Verdict: Dream Land's heroes are all long dead.

Dedede, MK: Brutally murdered; possibly tortured beforehand. I think the MC would notice the power hierarchy between these two and Kirby pretty early on, and decide to use the easier opponents' suffering to wear down the tougher opponent. ...Of course, I think trying something like this with Kirby would backfire pretty hard. ^^; Nevertheless, we know who came out the winner in the end, so...

Bandana Dee: I'm throwing him in as an honorable mention because he's technically one of the four protagonists, and I wanted to make it clear that no (relatively...) horrific fate befell Bestest Boy in particular. ◡_◡ I've decided that the other three bought time for him to escape the final fight before things got really bad, and he just ended up in the normal soul-draining mind-prison with all the other minor characters.

Kirby: ...I'm not entirely sure. He's definitely not alive anymore...but is he actually dead...? I feel like...it would make sense for the Master Crown to turn him into something. ^^ Like a sort of magic energy source, or 'appliance', for lack of a better word. Although he was defeated, the special Kirb-power that he holds continues to flow from his remains, like a dead body that never stops bleeding... Of course this begs the question, what would the MC do with this strange unlimited power source? Something disrespectful, I think. ^^; Like it'd shove it in the back of its evil dimension wizard closet and only bring it out when one of its evil dimension wizard remotes runs out of battery power; something like that. XD

Although, deep down, maybe in the far reaches of its subconscious where Magolor's old feelings reside, I think it would want to keep 'Unknown Kirby Remnant' around as a memento. Because I've always felt that Kirb and Mago have a special friendship, which I'm sure must transcend time and space. ❤

Galacta Knight: Because RtDL predates the point where Morpho absorbed him, anything could have happened. Maybe the Master Crown's victory created a butterfly effect (heh) that completely changed GK's fate...

...My suggestion is that he ended up in Star Dream's custody. ^^ I mean, SD's already able to summon him in Robobot, so it feels right to me. Maybe during its expanded conquest it gained the necessary skills to contain him successfully this time around, and even to use him as a research subject. Picture this: Mecha-lacta Knight! Or...Giga-lacta Knight? Whatever; you get it~

[crystallinestars]

Regarding your post mentioning Genshin burnout, recently I kind of felt it as well ! The only saving grace for me was Scara's banner, I finally managed to get him on Tuesday after pining for him during the past few months. So I guess I kind of have more motivation to play now? Esp to build him along w his team (Layla and Faruzan also popped up in my rolls :D). But after I've built them sufficiently, I might lose motivation again ...

And I saw you mention toxicity on online platforms, this is so real (for both Genshin and HSR) 😭 Like I was scrolling on Reddit yesterday and I saw a hella cute AvenPaz family artwork. It was then reposted on another subreddit (It's kinda meme-y community) and OMG they were being so rude ... Like they legit seemed so pressed seeing Aventurine in a non-BL ship. They were going "ohhh the str8s are at it again," (they used a more obscene term that I won't name) and I was thinking: so my bi self is apparently mega straight now just because I like NL stuff, huh 🤨🤨 I had to unsubscribe, like I loved seeing the funny edit pics from this subreddit but whenever they see a NL ship (or even a hint that a male playable character could be with girl) they just absolutely become so rude... I guess it could have been worse (like straight up brigading the artist) but the negativity was so so off-putting. Ofc we could all have our own preferences but whyyy feel the need to become so insulting when they see something they don't like.

Big big sorry for longggg negative vibes rant 😭 Ngl I'm also super tempted to go off about the treatment of a certain architect by the hands of both Mihoyo and a huge chunk of Genshin fandom, but if it is too uncomfy for you then I will refrain. ^^ I don't want to disrespect your blog !

Tbh though it is comforting to know that there are at least other Genshin likers (esp girls) who have similar sentiments regarding BL and our favorite architect ahahah...

Congrats on pulling Scara!!! He’s so much fun and a godsend in exploration. Seems you already have a good team for him (I use Layla and Faruzan with him too 😄)! May he grow big and strong haha.

If you lose motivation to play again, well… don’t play! Do something else you find fun! Life is too short to dedicate all your free time to a single game.

Honestly, the entirety of the Hoyoverse fandom is quite toxic. The only game that’s exempt from it, to my knowledge, is Tears of Themis.

Reddit is definitely up there with Twitter for being the most toxic platform in the fandom (I’m guessing TikTok and Instagram too, but I’ve never been on these sites). The BG/NL ship bashing is incredibly common, unfortunately. Really can’t enjoy anything NL on there. Really, why can’t they leave the things they don’t like alone and just move on? Why be so rude? 😔

I used to be a part of AlhaithamMains and things were mostly chill at first, but over time it became a haikaveh mains. Anyone who requested for there to be a separate sub for the ship was berated, and posts politely saying they didn’t see Kaveh and Alhaitham in a romantic light were rife with hateful and aggressive comments. I remember someone posted Kavehlumi art in KavehMains, and one person had the audacity to comment that Kaveh actually belongs to Alhaitham. And these types of comments were EVERYWHERE, under every NL ship post.

I took one peek into AventurineMains, saw the very first post talk about how Ratiorine is implied in the 2.0 quest, and noped out of there. Not surprised the same fate befell Aventurine 😔

So yes, Reddit is full of awful, loud people that ruin the fun for anyone who doesn’t ship the popular ship. You were right to leave. I left a long time ago and have been so much happier because of it. It’s unfortunate you have can’t enjoy a lot of things now, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to protect your mental health.

If you want to go off and rant about how Kaveh gets treated, please do! God knows I have my own gripes about it, so it’s really nice to know I’m not the only one troubled by it. Plus, I love it when people share their complaints with me, so don’t worry about being too negative.

Trust me, there are quite a few of us girls who love Kaveh but don’t care for BL. We just keep to ourselves and stay quiet to avoid trouble from the toxic shippers.