#and it's for something as insignificant and often disregarded as clothing

[worstloki]

Loki: Commonplace synthetic materials are not breathable, nor are they sustainable for your planet.

Steve, looking morosely at what is clearly a donned battle outfit: I want to agree with you, I really do.

I actually think it would be so funny if Thor adapted to Midgardian clothing and such, wearing t-shirts and jeans and after Asgardians start settling on Earth that's generally what has to happen. But Loki keeps wearing his complicated leathery Asgardian clothing for the apparent sole purpose of jump-scaring any visitors to New Asgard

[obutsuwrites]

devotion (douma x f!reader)

summary: His pet watched as the metal was heated. Douma held the poker like it was precious; watching in delight. Black steel turning dangerously red was quite the show. Certainly, his excitement was sweetened by… her. Even now, Douma was sure she regarded him with disinterest. She would learn this was to her benefit.

"Are you excited, little one?" Douma mused.

She simply nodded, words unable to form. Her savior finally saw her bare. Heat bloomed across her face. She wanted his hands to roam her body and learn every curve. Waiting for his touch left an ache in her chest. Her breathing came out in spurts. The room felt too hot -- too humid. 

warnings: blood and injury, mild gore, vaginal fingering, cults, public humiliation, branding, yandere elements, dismemberment, loss of fingers, smut, etc. etc.

word count: 3.3k

shoutout to @calslaundry for the beta read

a/n: hello friends, apologies for the lack of content! i haven't written in a while + this my first kny fic 😭

twitter | masterlist

She came to him in a miserable state -- her delicate body broken. Blood, like ribbons, flowed from her stomach. The wound was deep and hideous. Yet, the woman before him wore a serene expression, as if unaware of her current state. The sight brought amusement to Douma. His thin lips pulled into the phantom of a grin. Rainbow eyes dilated and focused on her pitiful form. 

Behind her bounded a man; his skin filthy and caked in dried crimson. He looked disheveled, as if the listless woman struggled. Sweat kept his hair slick across his forehead. In his hand, his shaky little human hand, was a butcher knife.  

"Stay out of this! She's…" The man trails off, waiting for the words to materialize, "My wife." The word sounds slimy, uncomfortable, coming from him. To punctuate his love, a calloused hand gripped the woman. 

No sound came from her. Perhaps, she was his wife. Douma continued to observe the dramatic affair; fingers laced together. His expression was nothing less than curious. A carnal morbidity he wanted to see through. 

Suddenly, the woman collapsed. Her skin lacked the rosy pigment so beloved by mortals. The man stumbled and instinctively cradled her wound. Disgust formed onto his features -- the man seemingly unaware of her state. 

Douma felt blood drumming in his ears. This tiny, injured woman came to him near death, but didn't utter a single grievance. She had remained stoic despite her hideous wound. "Leave her." 

Without a second thought, the man abandoned his would-be wife. His rapid footfalls echoed down the hall as Douma examined his pet. He noted how elegant her kimono was -- its silk now reddened and ruined. Douma believed the blood complimented her, and brought out her softness. Softness Douma wanted to destroy. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness slowly. The room was unlike her little hovel. Innate gold and rubies were encrusted within every aspect; nothing less of excess. A room fit for a god. Perhaps this was her afterlife. Delicate fingers prodded her stomach -- the flesh swollen and blemished. Her fingertips brushed against the barb of wire. Lifting the simple Yukata, the woman noticed how intricate the stitching was. Black wire woven into itself to mimic the intricate shape of a flower. 

"You're awake, my dear friend!" The voice was cheerful and deep. The sound not unlike the rumble in a summer storm. 

Silence marked their conversation. 

Floorboards creaked; a sign her mysterious caretaker was advancing. "Is my dear friend deaf?" This time, the man's voice held annoyance. A blatant disregard for his kind words left a rotten taste in the demon's mouth. 

"I apologize for the trouble I caused you," she confessed, head level with the floor. The newly stitched woman was bowing before him. Had she hoped to mimic his congregation? 

Unlike his devotees, her body didn't shake. No, her insignificant form stayed rigid. The slender curve of her back was straight, eyes still regarding the floor. Truthfully, Douma found himself savoring the view of this mortal. She seemed so obedient -- so unafraid of him. 

The damned sentence stumbled last Douma's lips, "Stay with us; with me." Suddenly, the woman sensed a large hand atop her head, "You need to heal, my friend." 

Tears began to foam at her eyes -- this man's kindness was unfamiliar. This rainbow eyed stranger not only stitched up her broken body, but offered sanctuary. 

"Thank you." Douma noted the monotonousness of her voice. Here this pitiful woman was, her briny tears reeking, and yet she remained stoic. The scent was pleasant; as if crushed roses and salt had been mixed. Douma had noticed her blood carried a similar scent. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

The days that followed were… familiar. Her days fell into structure. First, worship in the morning. Then, chores and her first meal followed by more chores. Finally, as dusk settled, her makeshift family gathered within the main hall for a special dinner. However, the dinner wasn't any fundamentally different. The menu still consisted of rich meats and exotic fruits, but their meal was special because of him. 

At the end of their long, gold flecked table sat the rainbow eyed Douma. His face carried his typical jubilant expression. A soft smile graced his face -- leaving his eyes bright and lively. He watched his flock with interest, his eyes all too often falling upon his wounded pet. 'Pet' seemed to fit this woman far more than any word; she was compliant. The woman finished every task created for her. Her devotion to him -- only him -- brought a budding flush to his cheeks. 

It was true the women of his cult would die for him. Their single-minded loyalty was stereotypical, expected. They chose to bleed for him, but once faced with their own mortality, his devotees lost steam. And yet this harpy had bled at his feet -- asked for his forgiveness. 

Douma watched as the woman carefully gripped her chopsticks. Her hands were slender, and as soft as blooming flowers. In another world, Douma would have described her as delicate, but all the demon could feel was disdain. There was something so innocent about her fingers. Douma's eyes continued to flick between her face and hands. Such soft things devoid of callouses -- devoid of humanity. 

His mind didn't typically race like this. Images of this woman seemed to plague him during dinner. She was a sickness that he couldn't shake. Her body had infiltrated him -- illustrating fantasies of him breaking her fingers and laughing as he ate them. Would she finally scream, finally allow herself emotion? Or would she succumb to him? 

Douma's thin lips curled into a grin. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

"I don't want to ruin the elaborate textiles, sir." It was a habit to call him sir as her eyes bore into the floor. The woman acted like she was… unworthy to even glance at the demon. She seemed to make herself scarce when Douma was around. But now, she was forced ⁸to meet his face. Forced to tailor his clothing, despite the woman having no seamstress experience.

Douma didn't mind if his clothes were ruined. He merely wanted to observe his pet create with her hands. 

A large hand rested atop her head, "Do not worry, my dear friend! I picked you for this. Do you not trust my judgement?" His question was more of a test than anything. He wanted to see more of her sickened devotion to him. 

"I trust you," the woman replied, her hands buried in rich fabric. His clothes made her hands itch. Yet, she hid any discomfort. This was a task bestowed upon her -- it was the least she could do. This man had saved her life. 

In the corner of his view, Douma saw it, the phantom of a smile. His emotionless pet still held humanity. However, the happiness stopped at her lips. Nothing seemed to reach her eyes. 

"That expression suits you," his breath tickled her ear, "little one." The sensation of him -- his warmth was enough to quicken her pulse. A blush rose to her cheeks. 

Before she could thank him, Douma vanished. She wanted to glance into his chromatic eyes. They held a light she hadn't noticed before. Something so spectacular and light. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

Darkness naturally crept into Douma's eyes. The demon couldn't pinpoint a moment of emotion. It was as if he was born void of humanity. Perhaps that was his reason for being so disgustingly soft upon this woman. 

She was in a tangled mess before him; eyes perpetually to the floor. The more he saw her like this -- the more Douma longed for her gaze. He was the only one worthy of her. 

"This little runt broke the vase, my lord." Beside his little pet stood a woman; one of his most devoted. Yet, her very voice annoyed him. 

Douma shifted in his throne, "What of it?" His face was contorted into happiness, but there was a callousness to him. A viper waiting in the grass. 

The woman's expression hardened.

"Shouldn't she be punished, my lord?" Her question wasn't more than a whisper. This was common for his most loyal of followers; cowardly mortals that were afraid of him. 

Douma leaned forward, his rainbow eyes lacking any compassion, "Are you telling me what to do?" 

"N-no! I'd never, my lord! Please -- please forgive me, Lord Douma!" Her pleas flowed like a river; excuse upon excuse. Douma used to take pleasure in a maiden's distress. Now, he simply felt bored -- empty. 

Certainly punishing his pet and maiming her would bring relief. Mortals were for his enjoyment, after all. 

"Stand up," Douma commanded. 

His voice sounded of the gods; nectar too sweet for human ears. His wounded pet felt heat rise to her cheeks. Gently, she assumed a knelt position, hands folded in her lap. They looked so delicate, so perfect for him. Saliva pooled in his mouth. His fantasy of her seemed unending. 

"Sit," the demon motioned to his feet. "You are to stay until I find a suitable punishment, my dear friend." Without hesitation, his pet assumed her position. Her hands were now clear in Douma's view, tiny things clasped together. 

As if satisfied, his devotee blended back into the crowd. 

Even his presence was warmth; she could feel his radiance. Lord Douma was the opposite of her husband -- his chromatic eyes held nothing but comfort. He had opened his home to her, and allowed her to join his congregation. He was the sun; bright and nourishing. 

His pet felt as if her heart would burst. Being this close to him -- to Lord Douma was almost overwhelming. He practically dwarfed her; his frame tall and muscular. Lord Douma's presence was suffocating above her. Lewd flashes of her savior played on loop. Silver hair slicked back, his bare chest on display, muscles flexing. 

Quickly, she looked away from the demon with a silent curse on her lips. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

Several days pass. Douma's pet had yet to leave his side. Her punishment was decided the second day she sat at his feet, but Douma found her presence… human. Slowly, she brought forth an emotion; serenity. Her very breathing seemed to lull him. In another life, she would have made a man very happy. 

The demon's eyes shifted to his maiden. Her face was stoic as ever. She looked… Miserable? The thought made Douma's blood burn; sitting between his feet was a privilege. No other woman of the cult had been so close to him before. 

Douma's thick brows knitted together in annoyance, "We should prepare for your punishment, shouldn't we?" Plastered on his face was the smile she yearned for. 

"Yes, my lord." 

Douma clapped his hands. Suddenly, his harem of women began to spill into the room. They looked to him like god; eyes wide and wanting. He cherished his cult for their devotion, something that would benefit him today. 

He tilted his head and pointed, "Strip her." Douma's instruction was materialized before him. Her body laid in the brood of his women. Bruises marked her body like bee stings; his most devoted had such vicious means. Her exquisite yukata was ruined. Shreds hung to her trembling form. 

She made him sick. 

"Hold her down, my dear friends~!" Douma's feigned happiness crinkled at his eyes. To any nonbeliever, he looked human, yet his followers knew better. They knew behind the facade was a monster; a man bent on misery. "Bring me the brand." 

His pet watched as the metal was heated. Douma held the poker like it was precious; watching in delight. Black steel turning dangerously red was quite the show. Certainly, his excitement was sweetened by… her. Even now, Douma was sure she regarded him with disinterest. She would learn this was to her benefit. 

"Are you excited, little one?" Douma mused. 

She simply nodded, words unable to form. Her savior finally saw her bare. Heat bloomed across her face. She wanted his hands to roam her body and learn every curve. Waiting for his touch left an ache in her chest. Her breathing came out in spurts. The room felt too hot -- too humid. 

The demon sauntered over to his pet, the brand now smoking. "Stay still," he murmured. It was her shred of justice before Douma plunged the brand between her breasts. First there was silence. Then came a cry unlike any before. Loud. Anguished. Heart wrenching. It was the sound of his pet bearing her soul. Something so private, meant only for him. 

He pressed the metal further into her flesh. Burnt skin reached his nostrils; her scent wasn't unlike roasted boar. Rich, gamey. His mind painted her nude and covered in sake. Underneath his regalia, Douma felt blood rush to his cock. Douma looked at her, waiting for another cry. Yet, she regained composure. Her skin was balmy and she trembled. 

Finally, her eyes met his. Douma sees the hint of relief -- as if she wanted this. "L-lord Douma," she slurred. His gaze shifted to her lips; anticipating her speech. Nothing left her except a heave. A soft little noise before she passed out, limp and vulnerable. Somehow, Douma felt sorry for her. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

The woman woke with a jolt; air burning her lungs. Gasping, she took inventory of the dimly lit room. The space was more of the caricature of a room. It was a bedroom, but looked almost unlived in. Everything was too perfect. The realization came as she touched her chest. This was Lord Douma's private quarters. A place reserved for his most devoted. 

...and here she was, laying in his bed. 

Her chest was tender. The skin was charred and bandaged. She wondered if Lord Douma himself had treated her. The fantasy brought a flush to her cheeks. She fingered the wound; gentle to trace its shape. Between her breasts was a delicate lotus; her body marked forever. 

"I can hear you, my dearest friend," his voice sounded like rainfall after a drought. "Come. Bring me more sake." 

Beside the futon was a gourd. The object was heavy; enough for two hands if not more. Truthfully, his pet struggled to lift it. The liquid inside sloshed around like the sea. It carried a sweet smell. Fruity. Radiant. The scent reminded the woman of Lord Douma. 

Soft humming filtered into the room, the source not far. Practically dragging the sake, his pet ventured towards the sound. Towards him. 

With the push of a door came humidity and steam. The atmosphere was sticky and too warm. Lord Douma had created a swamp instead of a bath. 

His booming tone shook the room, "Come closer, little one." The phrase sent goosebumps up her spine. 

She continued to drag the gourd across slick tile. His pet didn't want to make a fool of herself. However, with each step came unequal footing. She wobbled, trying to keep her grace and sake intact. One particularly heavy footfall was miscalculated. She fell onto the porous ground with a sharp bang; the gourd in pieces at her feet. 

"Clumsy, aren't we, little one?" His tone is lousy with arousal. The sentence vibrated from his chest. 

"I'm sor--"

Douma only uttered a simple phrase, "Join me, my pet." 

Her legs moved without authority. Douma had complete agency over her; bewitching his prey. It was the kindness she deserved, after all. She was his most devoted -- his most prized slab of meat. Partially, Douma believed she was plagued with bad luck. First the damned woman is stabbed, then she falls desperately into his lap. She was a fawn -- clumsy and aching for attention. 

Muscles were the first thing she noticed, followed shortly by ashen hair. Somehow, his chromatic eyes still shined within the haze. He had to be a deity -- someone special. 

Quickly, she averted her eyes. This sight wasn't meant for a mortal like her. Crimson hung to her cheeks like warpaint, the woman more blush than skin. His pet removed her yukata without ceremony. The elaborate fabric crumpled at her feet. Douma felt air pitch in his chest and blood rush to his cock. 

"Sit in my lap." 

His lover looked at him; her eyes curious and wanting and wide, pupils dilated. She shuffled into the bath, like a babe taking its first steps. Gingerly, she sat beside him. A hiss escaped her lips as the hot water meets her burn. Mortals -- as Douma knew -- were devoted to a fault. 

A cold arm encompassed her waist. Douma pulled the mortal closer, her smell mixing with the bath. Saliva dotted at the corners of his mouth. His polite aurora seemed to drop -- the predator now before her. "It's okay, little one," his breath tickled her neck, "you can relax. You're safe." 

Safe. He was safe. Her body untensed in his grip. The woman leaned into him, her bare back pressed into his chest. Her rapid heartbeat echoed into Douma; his body rang with her life force. It hurt to hold her like this. His instincts demanded he tear her apart, her blood diluting the water. Yet, he resisted. Instead, he took inventory of her hands. They were tender -- fragile. His broad hands engulfed hers as he rubbed circles into her palms. 

Douma -- with grace -- lifted her fore and middle finger into his mouth. His fawn exhaled a gasp. The sudden movement caused her to wobble atop his knee. A hand rubbed her stomach, as if to provide comfort. Slobber leaked down her hand. Lord Douma's saliva. She wanted to bring the spit covered hand to her chest -- to feel a part of him. Douma sucked at her fingers. His tongue rolled over her knuckles and savored her. 

"Lord Douma --"

Her words hung in muggy air. Only one sound penetrated through the room; a sob. The woman's blood mixed with unholy drool. In Douma's mouth were two delicate fingers -- her fingers. The sudden pang subsided, yet her heart continued to race. She was stuck; fear had collapsed in her veins. Her weak, mortal body shook. The sensation was uncontrollable. 

"Stay still, my pet," Douma mused, his voice obstructed by gore. He refused to relent; his tone still cheery. Her body demanded she move, but her mind screamed for him. Torn between heart and brain, she quaked in his lap. Her hand fell limp into the bath water. Red blossomed beside her. 

Douma's hands trailed down her body, as if to memorize her shape. His cockhead ached for stimulation -- for her. Without the air of a lord, Douma shifted his pet, her cunt now exposed to the heat. Carefully, he removed her disembodied fingers from his mouth. "Let me take care of you." His words were little more than a command -- no -- a threat. 

Harshly, the demon shoved a finger into her cunt; the very finger he bit off. Disgust and lust bubbled together in her stomach. Naive eyes looked down as Douma pumped into her. A bloodied chin rested on his pet's shoulder. His humming vibrated into her bones. Thunderous. Awful. 

Heat bloomed between her thighs. Lewd sounds of her core bounced off the walls. She bit her lip, stubborn and refusing to give into the demon. 

Rainbow eyes drifted to her face, "Are you not satisfied, little one?" His tone faltered before a second finger jams into her soaking cunt. The woman's mouth betrayed her. Out came a wanton moan. Loud and squealing. Douma's face contorted into a grin, his breath beating upon her. "What's that? You want me to go faster~?" His pace burst into an almost hellish speed. The fingers hit her walls, scissoring her entrance. Douma acted as if he knew her very body. Roughly, he tweaked her nipple. Another cry pierced the air; his reward for her devotion. 

"Come for me," Douma commanded, heavy humming now vibrating her jaw. "Show me your devotion." His voice wasn't more than a whisper, yet she felt the warmth between her thighs explode. The bundle in her stomach dissipated into bliss; eyes closed and breathing even. 

Douma rubbed her cheek. This was perhaps his only action of humanity -- of charity. As his most devoted, she was worthy.  

[yokelish]

Pall.

Sure, @sweet-cynical-writer​ I accepted the gauntlet. You ask who got the character better? Neither. And just because you call me Odasaku doesn’t mean i can write him nor do I think my style of writing suits his character. Nonetheless. Since there were no rules, you get this sort of response. 

✏ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Dazai Osamu, Oda Sakunosuke ✏ Word count: 1,317 ✏ Warnings: Self-Harm, Light Gore, Heavily mentions Suicide, Depression triggers, Dead body mentioned.   ✏ Zai.

Pall.

Oda Sakunosuke, the lowest ranking member of Port Mafia, was not having the best of days. Neither was it the worst. Of all the possibilities, it was just a long day without anything good happening. The job was easy and dirty in the best sense of the word. Perhaps he had to wonder around the landfill for a time, however, there was no timer to hurry him. In the end, he found what had to be found. A dead body. The sight was…exhausting. Nothing gruesome, nothing even as violent as Port Mafia. However, the constant reminder that he was, in fact, looking for a dead body was weighting on his mind. Nothing that could be done. There’s no dichotomy to death. And now he also couldn’t tell if the smell was weaved into his clothes. Not extremely repulsive, but he couldn’t tell if it was truly there or merely etched into his perception. Like a nagging memory. Like an exhausting yet persistent thought. Today would end eventually, and the reminders of today’s tasks would cease bothering him. The sky would remain high and blue, unbothered by sorrow or guilt or care, perfectly unreachable and indifferent. The smell would leave his senses, too.

Oda bowed to the man in mute respect. The report he had given about the job done would now climb the ladder — up and up it goes — till it reached the Boss. Nothing he could do there but leave. And perhaps have some curry on the way home. Port Mafia’s quarters was a place of little interest and even less of anything good. And Oda felt the need for something insignificant but good before the day was over. Have some curry, check on the kids, head home. Simple. That was the plan quickly constructed in his head. An acceptable and familiar way to end a day in a life.

Until he saw a boy sneak around in the shadows, past everyone, trying to hide. No, the kid was hidden already. Children in Port Mafia usually were born into this life or orphaned into the life of darkness and corruption. Either way, they were robbed of choice. But if a child was sneaking around headquarters, they must have been gifted and terribly so. He went after the child before a thought formed in his head to justify such actions. Adults hide from others for different reasons and not without malice. Children hide from adults for reasons often more distressing than that. That must have been it. That was how he explained it to no one but himself. Oda Sakunosuke maybe have been the lowest rank in the Mafia, but this was between a child and an adult.

It wasn’t hard, truthfully, too easy even. To follow the boy no one else took interest in. The small dark figure passed by ignored and unbothered. Perhaps it was overconfidence children often possessed regarding their ability to be unnoticeable, or belief that the following party would lose interest very soon. Perhaps this one didn’t care about being followed. But Oda continued to follow. Outside, past the guards, in the shadows or the dying light, all the way to the dumpster the boy settled beside.

It was just a kid sitting on a cold and mucky concrete beside a dumpster. Even from a distance Oda believed to be able to smell it. The thoughts of today’s job was following just as persistently as he was following the kid.

Something glistened in the dying light. An assassin would recognize a bright and steely gleam of a blade. And judging by the height, a child with a blade in his hand couldn’t be older than fifteen. Oda flinched. Hesitation stalled him from acting immediately. It wasn’t a question of stopping the boy or not, but a question of how to do it. The blade-wielding hand stalled for a moment as if the boy, too, was infected by a similar doubt. But it only lasted a moment. Oda stalked towards the child’s figure.

The blade was stained in blood. And ex-assassin shuddered watching the child draw blood, having to fight off the shudder running through his body. The blood wasn’t his, the blade wasn’t aimed at him. And yet, the sight was more gruesome than today’s dead body.

One of the rare instances Oda could thank his background for being able to catch the blade going down to cut the skin. It was a flawless act done in flash. Before a struggle could arise and without any surprising noises. Their eyes met for a moment. The boy’s were wide in surprise but quickly filling with irritation.

A reflex perfected with years kicked in first. Any assassin living this long could smell a knife fight just by the way a man holds one. Oda grabbed the blade knowing that could be used against him in more than just one way. “Shi—” Sakunosuke caught himself being just as startled as the kid as the warm blood touched his fingers. He saw it, he was aware, but the feel of it was staggering. He couldn’t even smell the blood. The bleeding had to be stopped. Seeking an option lasted only a moment as he decided on what could be used to stop the blood from staining the concrete further. The hand he was grabbing was covered in white bandages. There was white cotton on the kid’s head too. Unwrapping them was just a matter of physically overpowering a teen. But the child’s resistance was shallow as if stupefied. It probably was.

“Why are you doing this?” the boy asked. With surprising patience and acceptance, he endured when Oda pulled the white cloth off his head. There was no anger or shock behind the question either, posed with careful and controlled curiosity.

“Because,” the man replied through clenched teeth. He didn’t notice how anger crept all over him. The disregard for human life — one’s own life — was aggravating him. To add to that frustration, he wasn’t very expert in bandaging; it wasn’t often he got injured so seriously. With awkwardness and clumsiness untrained hands could offer, a tight knot was done to keep the bandages in place. Then, Oda properly met the gaze that was watching him all this time. It wasn’t a glace that lasted a second, but a sustained eye-contact. That was why it continued to frustrate him. When the strange fascination vanished from those dark eyes, there was nothing. The absence of remorse or regret. Even pain seemed to be unfelt or ignored. Dark eyes unbothered by regret or care or penitence, absolutely indifferent. The smell of the dumpster was getting worse, it seemed.

The boy tilted his head, boldly meeting the unspoken accusations. “I can do the same tomorrow.”

The man placed his hands on the child’s shoulders to give the young one a good shaking. As if the act itself could steer up some emotions. Unreachable yet that was what Sakunosuke wanted to get out of this lost young man. What childish talk. And this was, after all, just a boy abandoned in the darkness. Unclouded dark eyes were perceiving a world much emptier than the one Oda was seeing. He was given something not many are ever lucky enough to encounter in this corrupt world.

“Tomorrow you can do whatever you want,” Sakunosuke sighed, releasing the kid. When it came to further words, however, Oda himself was lost. Question were useless and meaningless, alienating and repulsive, unkind and even hostile. The words he could have said rang empty and hollow in his head. They would only be more laughable spoken out loud. He wiped the blood off his fingers on his trousers. Raising his head to the darkening sky up above, unreachable and with no cloud in sight.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Oda said. There was no accepting a refusal. “Something sweet, I think. Like ice-cream?”

[therealvagabird]

Some D&D characters!

I made this adventuring party a little while ago, inspired by the idea of an “all-monster” play on the traditional D&D party. Mainly just a fun exercise in character design. I even played as one of them solo.

I might write some excerpts of various adventures of this fictional band, but no promises. They do have something of a vague story-arc to them, though.

Name: Brute

Race: Bugbear

Class: Fighter

Appearance: Very large and burly bugbear, with almost ankle-length arms. Medium grey skin, thick black fur coat with prominent beard. Gold eyes. Features strong but weathered. Has many scars.

Usually wears a sturdy breastplate with simple, dark-colored underclothes in a soldiery style – sometimes with barbute helm. Attire is overall simple, crude, and military, favoring convenience over flair.

Specialties: Polearm defence, medium armor, military discipline, mercenary attitude.

Bio: It was after the landed Lord Francis of Aquila slew a tribe of feral bugbears on a hunting trip that he decided to take one orphaned youth as a personal slave, believing it would make for an intimidating warrior. Though given the sanctified name of “Barba Molossus” (or “Hairy Dog”) in accordance with religious rites, the bugbear was most often known as simply “Brute”. Brute was trained to be a loyal soldier and personal guard of the Aquilan noble family, and steadfastly served despite the constant derision directed at him. When Castle Aquila was ultimately overrun by a rival house, Brute fled into the wilds, eking out a living before coming across a large goblinoid tribe. Once again an outcast for his human rearing, Brute learned that ultimately his brutality would earn him the respect of most greenskins regardless.

Brute is a dour and bitter man, having been exposed to the worst aspects of many different environments and cultures. He has a reputation for savagery and ruthlessness that strikes fear into the hearts of many, even if they deride him as a simple dog. Despite this reputation, Brute is actually quite disciplined and reserved, only exposing his wrath when pushed, and being an otherwise very effective mercenary most of the time.

—

Name: Wu Jinn, “White-Eyes”, “The Clever”, “The Spider” (pejorative)

Race: Hobgoblin

Class: Wizard

Appearance: Shorter hobgoblin, long limbed but average build. Very dark, burgundy skin. Almost elven features, with blunted nose. Wavy black hair with white strands, close on sides but gathered up into long, braided nest on head to be wrapped in turban. Facial hair wispy – if left unshaved will grow slight Fu Manchu, goatee, and sideburns. Black irises.

Sharp-cut purple underclothes in Eastern style. Black, hooded over-robe. Beige leather lamellar armor offers simple protection with flexibility. Black, stiff mantle on shoulders. Pointed shoes. Tight, beige turban on head. Many pouches and arcane tools carefully sorted about person.

Specialties: Magical manipulation and lore, history and general knowledge. Carries enchanted whip and sword.

Bio: There was a time when the hobgoblin mage covens of the dark East were sought after fiercely by warchiefs looking to secure magical power and sage council. Now, the respect allotted to the goblin mages has severely diminished. Wu Jinn trained in the hidden arcanums, perused the libraries of many great kingdoms, and became a learned scholar at a very young age. Now, he is stuck as the disregarded councilor to an orc chief, usually relegated to distributing medicine and conjuring fireballs when he has the knowledge of the past and future at his disposal.

Wu Jinn is a highly analytical hobgoblin, but was drawn to magic over simple scholarship due to the inherent mystery of the arcane. All knowledge is of interest to him, though this has not come without cost. Wu Jinn is aware of what terrible forces are at work in the universe, and it only heightens his frustration with people. He’s not terribly concerned with issues of power or politics, and regards most beings, even himself, as very insignificant in a cosmic sense. Regardless, he can never understand why so many would-be governors concern themselves with such things if they could just listen to him and organize everything so much more conveniently.

—

Name: Mary, “Nightingale”

Race: Tiefling

Class: Sorcerer

Appearance: Tiefling woman with almost black skin and fiery red eyes. Hair is black, straight, and usually kept around jaw length, though held back by nomad-style bandana. Rather tall, lithe but with powerful stature if not slouching. Horns have been completely filed off and hidden with bandana. Facial features strong and very beautiful, though haggard. Fangs, claw-like nails, barbed tail, and forked tongue kept hidden.

Usually dresses in light leather garb with comfortable underclothes and many bandanas. Loose, dark blue linens with tattered black hooded longcoat. Outfit always arranged to disguise infernal features. Prefers as much jewelry as she can wear without being conspicuous.

Specialties: Shadow magic, deception, psychological attacks, stealth, theft, assassination

Bio: Mary was born as the result of a dark ritual by cultists of the Lower Planes, believing she would be the Agrat bat Mahlat, or “Gift of Desolation”, destined to lead a fiendish conquest of the world. An attack against the cult and secret rescue of Mary by a kindly cleric disrupted that plan, however. Mary was placed in an orphanage when the cleric could no longer guard her, and given her current name. A rough childhood and many caretakers later, Mary took to the streets to become a rogue known as “Nightingale”, an enemy of the cruel and powerful, all while running from the remaining members of the old cult that wished to return her to her destiny.

Mary has the misfortune that evil runs very strongly in her blood. Her magical power can only be used to bring pain, confusion, and destruction even when carefully applied. For this reason, she has made it her mission to only target evil and tyrannical enemies, taking them down either directly or with careful manipulation in the hopes that good might fill the void. Nightingale prefers to remain out of sight and out of mind, disguising her infernal heritage in public and attempting to get in and out without a trace when on a mission. She is naturally attracted to many vices, and may have sudden bouts of rage or bitterness, but most of the time tries to retain a peaceful attitude in the hopes that goodness might one day come naturally to her.

—

Name: Batul Grimhand, “Hacksaw”

Race: Half-Orc

Class: Cleric

Appearance: Tall female half-orc with dark olive-green skin. Older, with sturdy figure and many minor scars. Kinky hair shaved into short tight stripe. Broad features, dark brown eyes, prominent but well-kept tusks.

Outfit includes knee-length white undercoat and clothes tucked into sturdy boots, and long leather gloves. Dark blue pants. Solid breastplate covered in all manner of medical pouches protects torso. More accessories affixed to leather belt and faulds. Keeps white bandana around neck to cover face if needed. Will don long leather cloak for bad weather.

Specialties: Field medicine, general healing, shock stabilization, combat support

Bio: Though it has been many centuries since orcs and goblins were defined as lawless and endlessly cruel raiders, the reality of the greenskin strongholds can still be exceptionally brutal in the modern day. To be born a half-breed, and a rare female at that, lead to a tough upbringing for Batul. Service in the warhost and later as a mercenary soldier abroad gave discipline and protection for Batul when there was none. She trained as a medic, seeing the violent realities of the world and wanting to make a difference. However, her clerical training only did so much, and most of the time she was only allotted the time and resources to get the injured back on their feet so that they could die fighting. Trauma and bitterness soon seeped in, and by the time she was an experienced medic, she was also a surly and iron-hard orc. Now, Batul has the respect she always wanted, at the cost of her enthusiasm and optimism. Though there are still the occasional jeers, most know not to mess with Hacksaw if you know what’s good for you.

Batul carries a genuine desire to help people within her scarred and hardened exterior. She is often the voice of pessimism and caution, always expecting the worst and never much trusting in anyone but herself. Years of belittlement and wartime shock have given her a grim disposition that earned her few friends but also few enemies. Her strength is in getting severely injured people back in fighting shape in short order, though she can’t do much more. Given time and resources, she could perhaps do a great many things, heal people body and mind, but she doesn’t hope for such high ideals anymore. Despite her negativity, she is always ready to suggest that a situation might be more than it seems – that enemies might be misunderstood, that what others call “weakness” might not be so reprehensible, and that killing and death are not so noble. Of course, if it comes down to letting a patient die or taking up her axe, she will swiftly choose the latter.

—

Name: Tash, “Tashi”

Race: Goblin

Class: Monk

Appearance: Very thin goblin, shorter than average, with skinny face, impish features, large ears, and huge yellow-green cat eyes. Pale grey-green skin. Messy mop of warm black hair. Would almost be cute for a goblin if he wasn’t covered in all manner of injuries and other old maladies.

Ragged cream sleeveless gi, and dark blue pants, with dark over-cloak and a faded burgundy belt/sash. Wears dark jika-tabi style footwear. Hands and other parts of body usually wrapped in bandages. Has many satchels for trinkets, as goblins like to have.

Specialties: Sword-and-hand fighting, danger sense, survival, dodging.

Bio: Though the greenskin stronghold Tash was born into was far from the worst around, it is still a hard life to be one of the mine-dregs. Despite being very sickly, scrawny, and cowardly by goblin standards, Tash worked in the mines until he sustained enough injuries to earn him a discharge for menial work. The misfortunes heaped upon him would have crippled or driven other goblins mad, but somehow Tash survived. Eventually his survival rate earned him a place in the Dregs’ Union, the goblin racket that allowed successful menials a chance at higher privilege. Though he earned few friends for his paranoid and self-loathing demeanor, he was taken under the wing of Master Maka, an old goblin warrior. Maka was far past his prime, but recognized Tash as “lucky” and so gifted him with the secrets of his Sword and Fist style. The martial secrets were enough to put Tash on the path from survival to possible success.

Tash is an extremely paranoid and mentally degraded goblin. Oftentimes he feels as though he was born into the wrong species. Weak, sickly, and fearful of many things even goblins would have no problem with, Tash tends to underestimate his hidden fortitude. While often the voice of fear and worry, he has proven to be adept at surviving even when thrust into the middle of battle, his fight and flight instincts somehow giving him incredible speed and clarity when they balance out. He is also very intuitive, and while often derided as stupid he has a keen eye for detail. Tash’s greatest obstacle is overcoming the pain and fear of his life to realize just how noble he could be.

—

Name: Baako, “Bomber”, “Batty”, “Blossom”

Race: Goblin

Class: Ranger

Appearance: Hale and lanky goblin with forest green skin, fiery eyes, a wide grin, large batlike ears and a batlike nose. Wide face with sharp features, and long black dreadlocks usually kept back in a ponytail.

Wears tan, sleeveless tunic and baggy tan pants tucked into tall black boots. Black leather cuirass in the style of apron overalls. Black archer’s gloves. Tattered, dark ranger cloak. Green belt sash. Many leather straps and harnesses all over body holding component pouches.

Specialties: Subterfuge, traps, ranged combat, tracking

Bio: Baako is a highly eccentric goblin whose erratic behavior has earned him equal parts distain, fear, and camaraderie from his peers. Born into the foragers, his energetic nature saw him advance quickly before joining the Union and becoming a ranger. He now runs as a scout, warrior, and hunter, wielding numerous traps and diversions to protect his stronghold’s borders. Baako is also a big fan of pranks and debauchery, however, and his constant petty theft and disruptions to his comrades and superiors has earned him as many enemies as his outgoing and driven nature have earned him allies.

Nobody knows for sure if Baako is just theatrical or suffers from some sort of split personality. He will often slip into different “personas” depending on the task at hand or even just swings of his mood. Common nicknames for himself include “Bomber” when he’s hoping to cause mayhem, “Batty” when acting as a ranger, or “Blossom” when he wants to feel cute. Most just leave him be, as for all his oddities he’s proven to be a highly competent goblin. Focused and indefatigable so long as he’s kept occupied, it’s only when Baako gets bored that trouble starts.

[maddmuses]

Son Rin // Sunfury

(fc: Yang Xiao Long)(Help Finding Art Credit would be much appreciate)

Age: 18 (in main verse)

Aliases: Tanaka Rin, The Bursting Hero

Date of Birth: April 20th (Celebrated January 25th, that year's lunar New Year)

Species: Quirk-Mutated Human

Appearance Rin is a young woman standing 172.5 cm (roughly 5'8”) tall, with long blonde hair, and vibrant, violet, eyes. With pale skin and a light curl to her mane, one might assume her the fragile type, until they see the well-built physique of the young woman. Her sculpted muscularity comes from a combination of intense training, and the enhanced nature of her quirk's healing allowing for the most efficient, and effective, recovery from damage. Many often remark on her features as highly attractive, particularly accompanied with her fit nature, and well-endowed body shape.

Generally, for her hero outfit and equipment, Rin prefers comfortable clothing that allows her to move freely, with a habit of occasionally modifying her outfit based on the type of mission, to vary from the “cool and noticeable” looks while also having “comfortable and stealthy” outfits that either allow her to move in a crowd less detected, or otherwise act stealthily.

When dressed casually, Son will usually tie her hair up loosely, and wear a pair of sweat pants accompanied by a tank top.

Personality The heroic type through and through, Rin's always had a lot of motivation to be a hero. With an absent set of parents, she saw her foster family, as well as the older kids at the orphanages that she grew up in as true heroes, making Rin feel both the want and love that her progenitors never did. And as her foster siblings, and some of the older children from the orphanages, decided to become heroes, with some even achieving their dreams, Rin felt even more safe knowing that these people cared for her as a sister. Wanting to make everyone feel the same way, Rin began working with what was often considered a “Pyrrhic quirk” in order to become a hero that would make everyone feel loved, safe, and cared for, even at the cost of her own life.

Bright and eager to take on any situation, Rin sees herself as a combat specialist. So, in spite of herself, Rin will often challenge or take on powerful quirks and strong villains, or other students in appropriate situations, in order to test her own abilities. While not having a condescending attitude towards quirks that have insignificant drawbacks, or are powerful without much of a weakness, Rin does certainly respect those who sacrifice more of themselves as a hero than others, be it through what they do, or the mere use of their quirk.

Friendly and easy-going, she often will participate in school clubs and extracurriculars, wanting to be as involved with UA as she can, particularly during her third year, giving others the impression that Rin is an omnipresent force around the campus. Rin often attempts to make friends, which can come easily for her, unless others are put off by her abundant energy. However, even if others don't immediately take to this type of energy, Rin may still press them to befriend her.

Rin is fiercely protective of others, especially her juniors, and will quickly grow angry if they're endangered. While her quirk makes her become more fierce in these situations, it's often compensated by Rin becoming short-sighted, disregarding her strategies, personal safety, and even her own life.

Generally, Rin spends a lot of her time working out and playing video games, having a particular talent at games of all sorts, digital or not. The exercise being an endeavor to improve her already considerable physicality, she no longer abuses her regeneration to expedite the process of growth, due to her understanding of approaching the human limit.

Rin has a distaste for bullies, or people who take advantage of the weak in any way, but similarly may have an impatience for certain people she deems “weaklings” who have had time and ability to grow stronger, but simply haven't. Rin also dislikes the cold, and rarely goes out during the winter, or otherwise abuses her quirk to stay warm.

Biography Son Rin was originally born as Tanaka Rin. With little memory, or even documentation of her childhood prior to her enrollment into the Hothan Orphanage as a “throwaway child” for whom her parents didn't care. Her quirk assessment test was done at the age of six, as a late-bloomer, or so believed as there was no effective way to determine when Rin's quirk first appeared. Due to the fact that it was a regenerative power, and Rin had never been a particularly risk-taking child, it wasn't until she had recovered from a broken wrist in less than a day that her quirk was discovered. Through this testing it was determined that Rin had a very potent regenerative quirk, that she could turn on and off at her desire, but when healing her cells deteriorated as if the wound healed typically, unlike most regenerations do. This indicated that the use of her quirk could increase a cell's approach to a hayflick limit, thereby running the very real risk of reducing her life with each use, despite the fact that each instance of healing was always considered “optimal”, with her physical makeup becoming stronger each time.

Life in an orphanage is hard for any child, being rife with abuse and bullying, Rin was made tough by this lifestyle, developing a few strong bonds with other orphans from a variety of backgrounds, particularly a small group of older boys and girls who became her “older siblings” in a sense, due to them all having been in the system for such a long time. On her eleventh birthday, or what would become her birthday as no documentation existed of her true date of birth (April 20th), Rin would be adopted, and have her name formally changed by, the Sun (written in Japanese as Son) family. The Son family was composed of two mothers, and three other siblings, all also adopted but at different times, with an older brother and sister, as well as a younger sister.

Son Kari, one of Rin's adopted mothers, was at one point a sidekick to Endeavor, and was considered a very popular contender to become a top 10 hero as Whiplash, the Stopping Hero. However, Kari retired from hero work due to her quirk's physical toll causing her to become hospitalized frequently as the years went on, and her body deteriorated because of this use. This, naturally, caused her other adopted mother, Son Yuki, very critical of pro hero as a job. However, Kari was very encouraging of her children, all who wished to someday become what they believed to be a great hero, like their mother.

It was from Kari that Rin developed her perspective that the greatest heroes are those who give of themselves more than others, not those who simply defeat the greatest criminals with the most ease, or rescue the most civilians in a fire. What a hero loses in the process of their duty? That is the badge that they wear as proof of their greatness.

Despite her older brother ultimately dying in a blaze that consumed him and twenty five other people, and her older sister struggling to succeed in the bigger hero scene yet, Rin eagerly applied to U.A. And was able to enroll through recommendation, due to the connections she had through Kari, as well as her impressive performance in festivals and martial arts tournaments.

In her third year as a student of U.A. Rin is a student of 3-B, and consistently places high in the Sport's Festival, winning first in her second year, but withdrawing early in her third year due to injury, and deeming it unnecessary to risk excessive regeneration for something as ultimately unimportant to her.

Abilities and Skills -Tactical Analysis and Strategy: Rin has a strong acumen for tactics and combat, being able to very effectively read a situation and come to conclusions on what actions need be taken in order for a certain result to come about. While hardly anything of a genius, it serves to let Rin compensate for her generally un-quirked fighting style in some situations, as well as those that more effectively let her use her quirk when it becomes necessary.

-Martial Arts: Highly-skilled in hand-to-hand combat, Rin is effectively a mixed martial artist, with foundational skills in both Karate, Tae Kwon Do, and Jiujitsu. This, in tandem with her tactical acumen, allows Rin to outfight foes against whom martial arts are useful, as well as those less skilled at martial arts than herself.

-Games: Particularly video games and strategy games of all kinds, Rin spends a lot of free time in game lobbies. She often jokes about being a “gamer girl” archetype, and has a particular fondness for First-Person Shooters and Fighters.

Superhuman Powers and Abilities Quirk Name: Hyper-Metabolism -Activate-able Regeneration: Through the acceleration of her metabolism, Rin is able to quickly recover from battle damage and injuries. This quirk doesn't negate any sicknesses or diseases that she takes on. Whenever any wound, injury, or damage sustained from exercise, is healed by this quirk it's always healed as efficiently as possible, in the best way possible. Through this, Rin's physical abilities, are enhanced to near-peak, or rather highly above typical, for humans in the Boku no Hero universe. This regeneration allows Rin to regrow lost limbs and organs, although this degree of regeneration is extremely taxing. Rin's regeneration, and derivative powers, become far more efficient, “safe”, and powerful when her emotional state is elevated. Particularly emotions like rage, fury, and sorrow, will cause Rin's powers to dramatically increase. This comes at the loss of composure, in most cases. --Enhanced Physical State: In a fashion similar to that of Stain, Rin's ability to fight is greatly enhanced due to conditioning, and the greater efficiency of her healing thanks to said quirk. This, through a small amount of abuse for a time, allowed Rin to achieve a degree of physical excellence in less than a year that would take over a decade for other humans without a quirk. Thanks to this conditioning, Rin is able to compete with those who DO have quirks to such a degree that she places high in Sport's Festivals, even winning one in her second year. --Ambient Heat Generation: When activating her quirk, with with or without active injuries, Rin's body begins to produce an ambient heat that can cause the air around her, this allows Rin to generate a number of flame and explosion-based attacks.

(Special Attack) Perfect Body: Hyper-Healing – Through activating her regeneration, and forcing it to heal, despite no injuries being present, Rin can “overheal” for lack of a better term. While this attack is used, Rin is able to have downright superhuman strength and speed, with a compounding return on power for as long as she uses this technique. As no regeneration is actually occurring, Rin's cells suffer no deterioration, except for what healing is necessary to reach the minimum for this enhanced state. This attack can quickly and greatly exhaust Rin if used too long, or too eagerly. When this technique was first used, Rin couldn't maintain it for longer than five second bursts, which she would use to catch a foe off-guard, but by her third year, Rin's endurance allows her to maintain the technique for an entire minute in one go, for up to ten minutes over the course of a full day.

The enhancements granted by this attack are compensated appropriately, enabling Rin to not sustain injury after becoming too strong, or too fast. By the end of a minute, Rin's strength is often compared to that of All Might, although this is an estimate, is during his decline, and certainly not at full power.

(Special Attack) Perfect Body: Ultimate Fist – An accelerated use of Hyper-Healing, by bypassing healing her other injuries, and only focusing on those in one of her arms, Rin is able to rapidly focus roughly a minute of “overhealing” into a single arm for the purposes of one, powerful, punch. It's considered similar in magnitude to that of a Detroit Smash, but quickly tires Rin, consuming, as-stated, roughly a minute that could have been instead used for Hyper-Healing.

(Special Attack) Kinetic Storm – By using the Ambient Heat of her power, as well as sometimes thanks to some Hero Support Gear, Rin is able to channel gouts and bursts of flame that surround herself, giving her a defensive barrier, or offensive power. Through controlling and manipulating this fire, Rin is able to improvise a number of other attacks, although the flames, if not controlled properly, can injure her as well. The use of gear can also let her more precisely create other types of attacks.

Weaknesses and Limitations -Hayflick Drawback: The Hayflick limit is the number of times that a cell can divide before the resultant cells can no longer divide. The result after this limit is reached, is effectively cell death, resulting in a certain degree of deterioration. As only cells that are healed by the quirk suffer from this, Rin does not have to worry about dying altogether, but specialists have also theorized that the act of healing itself will generally bring Rin closer to death, meaning that more severe injuries that are regenerated can shorten Rin's lifespan drastically. The extent of Rin's current deterioration is estimated at roughly a year, reducing, what doctors have assumed, her lifespan to be by roughly 350 days total. The most severe flesh wounds take no more than three seconds in deterioration, while a lost thumb can become minutes, and regrowing an arm, or complex organ, may lose days. It's assumed that even if decapitated, if some sort of instinctive trigger to heal were to go off in Rin's brain stem, the resultant regeneration of an entire body would likely kill her then and there, or otherwise put her in a state of comatose until she eventually DID die not long after.

-Awareness and Activation: Rin is subject to actively using her quirk. This means that if she's caught unaware, or attacked in her sleep, she risks death.

Equipment and Support Gear -Costume: Generally, Rin will wear a fire-retardant costume that won't suffer much damage besides mild discoloration when fire passes over it. Rin has had several costumes made from this material. A bit of protective armoring is slipped into most of these designs to allow Rin protection beyond her quirk. --Chameleon Costume: This version of Rin's costume is designed for stealth operations. Made from a material that molds to light in a directed fashion, Rin can either program in a preset in order to better blend, or press against a surface to project it on the other side of her costume. This costume lacks the full degree of her primary one's flame resistance, and offers little in the way of protective armor.

-Power Gauntlets: A pair of bright golden bracers, mounted with flamethrowers and “shot-blasters”, Rin is able to generate or “start up” explosions and flames that her quirk's ambient heat can piggy-back off of, enhance, or use as a guide, to allow use easier. Shot-Blasters tend to have a large kick-back, and can risk injury if someone doesn't use them with some degree of discerning, or proper preparation. If the arm is improperly flexed, or otherwise used by someone who isn't strong enough, they can risk injury.

Logbook Stats

Power: 3/5 C (5/5 A at full power)

Speed: 4/5 B+ (6/5 A+ at full power)

Technique: 4/5 B+

Intelligence: 4/5 B-

Cooperativeness: 2/5 D+

[ohgoddard]

Storyteller.7.

Holly often wondered why they traveled where they did. Well, she knew why she traveled, but not why Armak did. He truly seemed to just be wandering the world as he has been for millennia upon millennia. There was no real purpose behind where he went, at least none that Holly could discern. Everywhere they went, no matter if it was some sleepy town on the border between Golrokh and the Concord or in the shadow of the Acropolis, Armak seemed to have a story about it. She wanted to think she was doing it for her, taking her to places that held interesting stories behind them that he had the graces to be at. Often though, his stories were benign. The real interesting parts were the details he omitted because he thought them ‘uninteresting’ or ‘unimportant’. Like how the Acropolis wasn’t always floating high in the air or how the dwarves far up north originally lived in small above-ground homes. She still doesn’t believe him fully on that last fact, it seems too unlikely, but regardless he held a wealth of knowledge that only he seemed to know and have a memory of. Even knowledge of Holly’s favorite era of the continent’s history: The Great Divide.

Holly has long been fascinated with the era of history, it is the only one her parents bothered to tell her about outside of the elven conclave. Several members of the conclave left to fight alongside the Kroven clan when that war was still happening, and they were even granted an appearance by the leader herself, Seoven! Holly had grown up with stories from her parents about The Bladed Rose of the East showing up to thank the elves for their expert trail making and ranger skills, and to promise them a seat at the table when the continent was united from Gukrag’s despotic and bloodthirsty reign. At least, that is what her parents told her. She often wondered why Seoven never came back to the conclave after that, or why her parents often went on cynical diatribes about the nation of Golrolkh and betrayal. She didn’t even know the Empire or Concord existed until she left the conclave in the dead of the night and eventually found herself mugged and robbed until Clermont, where all who are chewed up by the land are spit out to. She wanted to know more and wanted to record it all to boot. But the libraries are in the hands of those who won’t share, and those who would share have motives all too ulterior. It was refreshing when she came across the drunk immortal in the town falling to pieces, which she thought was a sad statement on her travels in the world.

She always asked questions, and when the old man was feeling it he would even answer some of them. She could tell he enjoyed her company, even if he had trouble showing it. This did not stifle her frustration with him, as she swore he made it a game to make her as mad as possible sometimes. He would always get away with it in the end, though. Usually by telling some long story about a random rock in the road that is actually the last remaining stone of a huge castle keep he once saw the assassination of some regional noble at. She always questioned where they were going, and always got the same answer: “We’ll know when we get there.” He tried so hard to sound wise, but she knew better. No matter his dour attitudes though, she knew Armak had his bearings straight and would lead them in the right direction.

Armak had no clue where he was.

When you live as long as he has, the lands no longer look the same as he once remembered them. Events he thought as no more than a decade ago were actually a thousand years prior. The oldest men and elves he encounters are children when compared to him. He always looks alien wherever he goes, yet he was once commonplace in these lands. How times change, and how slow he consistently is to change with them. Armak is also not so prideful to admit he is a small amount stubborn as well and is not willing to buy new maps. Armak has been here before, things cannot change that quick. Sure, a few hundred years have passed. But mountains do not appear or disappear in that time. Forests may grow, rivers may change route, but the largest of landmarks must stay.

Armak tells himself this, trying so hard to disregard the extreme world-shaping the Yaldor did which eternally messed with his internal compass. Because those damned Gith, those gods damned mindflayer fuckers, took it upon themselves to do exactly what no one asked for. Ruined so much in terms of natural beauty. And so much more, but Armak is trying to maintain a happy attitude. Especially for Holly. Recently, the stories that surface the way to the top of his memory have been rather morbid ones. Night raids with Seoven, usurping regional rulers through violent coups, tales of arriving at border towns just minutes after the Scartooths’ Warband arrived first. War was not a pretty time, nor were there many happy stories he could tell that he could fill up Holly’s notebook with. There were bound to be fun stories, the war lasted for-gods-damned-ever. It technically ended only a hundred-ish years ago. The veterans of the war are already old men, and there are generations of people who have never known conflict on the scale that used to be commonplace. He hopes it stays that way.

He has been trying to go to places with happier memories. Armak doesn’t know when or even if he will leave this world behind him finally, but he wants his legacy to be better. The years he spent as a spymaster of terror, whose name was spoken among the Scartooths with the same tremor of terror when they spoke of Gukrag. His accomplishments are wide and greatly unknown to even himself. Mostly, he was just there to observe what happened. His involvement is negligible at best, but that does not mean his influence is insignificant. Bloodlines have ended because of him, magical items lost forever, borders changed. He does not want to be remembered for that. He wants to be a folk story people tell. The wise and older than the trees or field they sit near who comes in with stories and advice.

Of course, he’d have to actually talk to people to do that and he abhors conversation on a deep base level of his personality. So, he’d settle with telling his story to Holly. She has more or less forced herself into his life, and he wasn’t going to make any great effort to remove her. He forgot how nice it was to talk to someone. And she has helped him regain some semblance of happiness in his life, so he’s trying to give her some great stories to record in her book.

Now, if only he could find where the hell it was he was moving towards. The desert is a lot bigger than when he was last there some...300-ish years ago. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Armak, I know I ask this a lot, but where exactly are we going?”

Nighttime in the desert was always paradoxically cold. When someone walks through the dunes in the sunlight it feels like the heat walks within you and is twice as intense as your willpower to go on. Yet, when the sun finally leaves you at the crest of night, the cold seeps into your body with the absence of the heat. The two travelers sit close to each other, huddled around the dancing fire Armak summoned on the sands. Armak doesn’t hear Holly the first time she spoke, instead being lost in the stars above him.

She gives him an elbow into his ribs. The serenity of the night has now been shaken from his eyes.

“Armak, please tell me how long we’re going to be in this desert. I hate wearing all these face wraps and heavy clothes. It makes me sweat like a hobgoblin!” Holly was covered head to toe in clothes obviously not designed for her, as they hung off her body in great amounts. Armak snickered, bringing a hand to cover his beak as he looked at her. When he told her they were venturing into the desert, she was initially thankful for the change of scenery. So far, all they have traveled was repeating grassland and cold, snowy mountains. Yet, when the grass began to appear less and less and the air begins to turn arid and hot, she had worry she never thought she would have. Intense dehydration and sunburn.

So, with Holly being unprepared for the situation, Armak gave her a spare set of clothes and wraps he had to protect her from the harsh sandstorms and intense temperatures.

“Oh Holly, you look so ridiculous in that get-up. My goodness, who let you dress like that?” Holly tiredly punches him in the arm for that comment, causing another laugh from the Immortal. “It's not like you can talk,” she mumbled through the wraps on her face,” Mr. ‘I forgot my winter time gloves in Byhurst’. And how about the other times where I've had to give you spare jackets and spare hats and -”

Armak groaned.

“Say what you will about Elf development, your sense of humor matures at a much slower rate. Holly, I mean no harsh feelings towards you. It was a joke.”

The elf glares at him. “I’ll have you know, Elf humor is very refined and hilarious. You just need to know all the prerequisite history and references to understand the hilarity ingrained into every word. Like, ‘Why did the Despoiler of the Elven Faith crack the God Crystal?’ ‘To ascend into the higher realm of being!’”

The desert was quiet, and not a creature moved or made a sound.

“Holly, I have been to most of those events you reference in your jokes and stories. I ‘get’ the elf humor. Sometimes it is funny. I just think that...maybe... You should stick to writing stories instead of jokes.”

If looks could kill, this one would do it via guilt. Holly’s death gaze was further accented by a flush face, something Armak didn’t know to chalk up to embarrassment or anger or the heat. Detecting that a change in topic was needed to avoid conversation in uncomfortable territory, Armak thought quickly.

“This place, Holly, hasn’t changed much since I’ve last been here. At least, in any great amount. The rocks are in the right places, the skeletons of the cities still stand where I once shopped and slept. It's the least changed place in this whole world, Holly.” He stared up into the sky again. Holly’s gaze softened, though she still said nothing.

“Change has been hard for me. It's hard for any long-lived man but on me, it has taken a toll. People whom I have made friends with live their whole lives and give birth to children who will introduce me to their children, ad infinitum. I am friends of families, not people. No one can stay with me. The artificial, even, eventually wither away from damages not even the best artificer can fix. The few who can be in my company I’d rather not be among. They are all evil men or beasts with no morals, with only a desire to consume to keep living. Liches, Demons, lords of dark realms. None are good house guests.” His gaze falls from the stars and into the fire, where he stares.

“I have witnessed much, you know that. I have seen and been through so much change and I remain remarkably the same throughout. Whole forests grew where once was a field. Towns have been founded, expanded, and wiped from history before me. The oceans have risen and sunk, and here I am all the same. Only here, Holly, only here in this desert can I be the thing that changes. A desert doesn’t have to change, it knows it is the end state of all. It is patient. It doesn’t have to see the change to know it will happen.”

Holly looked into the fire with him. Traveling with Armak was...difficult. He has spent centuries on his own, interacting with him was like talking to an elf raised by the wolves. His feelings were not complex ones, but the reason why he felt the way he did was unique. Sure, some may feel life rushes past them, and they are worried that they do not change with the world and have fears of being left behind. Armak was left behind, and no matter how much can try the world will change before he has caught up. He will always be chasing what people who are born and killed in his lifetime will experience threefold. Plus, when he was depressed Holly felt sad too. Holly needed a way to make him happy and fast, otherwise, she’d feel bad about this the entire night and she needed her sleep lest she becomes an actual feral elf in the morning.

“Not all change is bad, you know. There is a good chance you must have seen that has made the stay on this lovely eroding rock of world pleasant. C’mon, I bet if you think about it you can find some good ones.”

Armak chuckled, still looking into the fire.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Holly. I get it, I do. But that isn’t what the problem is. The problem is -”

“Yeah yeah, you’re old and seen a lot. I’m not going to let you dwell on this any longer. You’re going to think some happy thoughts right now or else.” She stood up, crossing her arms at him. His feathered head turned to face her, a quizzical look upon it.

“Oh? And, pray tell, what you might do if I refuse to be the happy boy you want me to be?” “I’ll stop making the strawberry shortcake you like.”

She means business, Armak thought. He better start thinking happy or one of the tastiest things he has ever eaten in his thousand years of life will be taken from him much quicker than he would have liked.

“Well,” he said while dragging on the last ‘L’,” I do remember being in this absolute hellscape some odd hundreds of years ago. The ground was up-heaved, the trees and grass were in flames, the sky itself was red and black from the flame and smoke. It was torn apart by a large Warband that devoured itself a few months later. I remember thinking it was such a waste, the whole land benign devastated over some petty squabble. They’re always petty. I come back to that same spot only seventy years later and it is the most beautiful spot I have ever witnessed. The greenest of fields and most bountiful of game. Trees that gave sweet fruit and not a Warband in sight.”

Holly smiled, laying flat down next to him and propping her head upon her arms with her usual happy listening look.

“Then, I was in this very same desert. Remember the story I told you about the djinni and the sphinxes? I found that very same nomadic tribe, the one of which I have saved the princess from. Turns out, she had united the tribes under her banner through masterful politics and marriage. She also said she had an immortal whose magic and cunning could defeat even that of a djinni. I was made into a story people told around campfires, Holly. Children spoke of me as if I were some saint who watched over them. Mothers used me as a threat to make sure they didn’t go wandering either. It brought about a small era of peace to her spot in the desert. It was a good change. That good can happen, even preceding bad, makes change worth it sometimes.”

Armak raised his head from looking into the fire, glancing over at Holly. A smirked snaked its way onto his face.

“Another positive change I saw was the princess of Fresonia, a long-gone nation. She changed very well. First, she took off her dress, then -”

Holly’s frown and disapproving look was all he needed, causing Armak to go into a small laughing fit. And try as she did to stay looking grumpy at him, she couldn’t completely hold back her smile. After the laughing from Armak died down with a cough, he looked amused with himself. But Holly wasn’t going to let a happy Armak go just yet.

“What do you think was the biggest, positive change you’ve seen?”

Armak raised his hand to face in a pensive manner, holding his beak and stroking it as if it were a wise man's beard. His eyes look into a far-off place, but a smile soon grew on him.

“I have one. Though it may not start all that positive, it has a happy ending. Well actually the story itself is pretty damn dramatic, but it has a happy end overall. Technically.”

This piqued Holly’s curiosity. She righted herself from laying down, brushing the sand off her clothes and hurriedly throwing things out of her bag for her journal. This little panic she did every time Armak was about to go on some long tale always amused him. Reminded him of a time when was a professor at some university somewhere. Eventually, Holly found her ever disappearing notebook and broke out her nifty invention she started leaving in every town they came across; the pencil. She looked up to him, eyes wide with eagerness. “Well? Are you gonna tell it or not?”

He smiled. “Alright. By the way, this story may be of interest to you some. It has some big names in it.”

He cleared his throat, glancing at Holly and knowing that she was racing to try and remember what she considers big compared to what Armak does.

“It all started in the war court of Seoven when the news that Oshphim, the Great Wizard Exarch, died.”

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When one imagines the celebration of a coronation, there is a certain amount of fanfare one expects. Parades, people cheering in the streets  The Exarch is gone, long live the Exarch!, and a grand event any and all can attend and witness. They are events that many do not get to see, as those in power often live lavious and long lives compared to the common people. It was a time of celebration of the new ruler, yet always clashed with the grieving of the old. How someone deals with that delicate balance of emotion is critical to the beginning of their reign.

It would have taken a god themself to drum up any excitement in the royal hall of the great Southern Holdings. For the monarch they lost was beloved by all. Exarch Oshphim was a wise and gentle ruler. His knowledge knew no bounds, and he used it to create a shining jewel in a land where people still separated themselves up by tribes and fought wars by destroying whole peoples. He created cities, his skills in planning were unparalleled. He knew what was needed where and when. And his knowledge was not limited to the functions of the mortal realm, either. He was a wizard of great renown, being able to shape the very earth to his liking on a scale not matched until the Unakran Invasion. He diverted rivers to feed the farms and create fertile land to grow food. He raised the flood walls so buildings and the economy could prosper. He made sure no natural disaster happened unless he wanted it to. And since he never felt ill of those he ruled, it never happened. He fed the hungry, housed the homeless. All worked a decent day and were content under the Exarch. You know, he’s related to that princess I told you about? Wild, isn’t it?

Anyways, the Exarch was beloved by his people. His children on the other hand? Much different story. His children have often been a matter of discussion. They are not wholly Yuan-ti, like their father. In fact, when they were born out of wedlock the country was in upheaval. Such births often caused great succession crises. Hell, the kids didn’t even look that much like the guy. I remember merchants fleeing the main city en masse. However, through his expert statesmanship, he convinced the country that his children were no signs of the end times but an omen of prosperity. For you see, the children were half-celestial. The Exarch, in his wisdom and apparent powerful charisma, found love in a full-blown celestial. The children were, by definition, Aasimar and Immortal.

Now, ignoring the problems of having an Immortal ruler for deep discussions on politics later, the problem the people had with the coronation was with who was ascending to the throne after Oshphim died. His two children could not have been more different in every aspect. To start with, they were born wildly different.  The Celestial who divided her body into two was a being of the stars, and as such had a part in the changing from night to day. One of her children was born with the powers of the sun and the daylight, able to influence the sun’s rays and use them to her whim. The other child was born with the powers of the moon, controlling the tides and able to influence the thoughts and minds of those who dreamt. Though, she never did.

The sun child was dubbed by her father “Solaris”. Her stature was staggering, ahead of long dark auburn hair and eyes of pure glowing gold. She walked with authority yet spoke with a voice that reminded you of those sunny days. She inherited most of her father’s physical traits, her face having sharp angles and a hard brow yet a welcoming smile that literally glowed. Her soft and pale skin always glowed strikingly in her ever-present warm radiant light. Yet, she never shied from the heritage of her mother. She always had these wings of orange and yellow, striking like an angel, furled on her back. We’ll get back to Solaris, as I can assure you Holly you have the wrong idea about her.

The moon child was named “Tungi”. A name from Oshphim’s culture that simply meant ‘moon’. The Exarch was not a creative man, but the names were apt. Tungi was not quite as tall as Solaris and nowhere near as outwardly imposing. Her hair was dark shades of purple which seemed to shift and change into other colors of the night sky. Her skin, like her mother’s, was a dark brown. Her eyes were swirls of stars and splashes of comets, mesmerizing to look into and incredibly hard to have a conversation with her because of it. She spoke with a shy voice, but one that was deep and soothing. Her aura was one of tranquility, one always felt calmer when they stood close to her. However, she liked to blend into the crowd. Despite having most of her mother’s traits, she rarely ever showed her wings. Instead, she often just passed herself off as a human member of the court. She was also amazing at chess.

Tungi was the Exarch’s favored daughter. She looked the most like her mother and carried much the same personality. She would always assist her father in his studies, catch onto magic quickly, and devoured books at the most astounding rate. However, unlike her father, she loathed talking to people if she had to. Not due to any hermit-like personality, or some deep antisocial tendency. No, she was just so incredibly awkward and shy that a conversation with her was next to impossible. This isn’t to say talking to her was hard by any means. She was incredibly charming in her own way. She could talk for hours and hours about the most interesting things she’s read or seen. Or a magic scroll she wrote which could yield greater-sized crops. She never kept on topic. A great scholar, magician, alchemist, city planner, but Tungi could not hold a consistent conversation to save her life. Which, sadly, is what ended up happening at the coronation.

It was no secret Tungi was the Exarch’s favored daughter. It was also no secret that it was Solaris who would ascend the throne. Both children being born at the same time down to the second, it was a matter of private discussion among themselves who should rise to the throne. Tungi put up no fight for it. She knew her limitations but also held no desire to rule. She would be content to live in the castle forever researching magic and being a loyal desire to her sister. Her sister. Now there was the problem, Holly. Solaris rising to power was something no one wanted. Despite being a creature of the light, Solaris was a backroom and dark political monster. Her favorite game growing up in the castle was to find and blackmail members of the court into robbing the kitchen for her. She made deals with foreign dignitaries that ended wars before they even began. Her wit so wicked and her tongue so sharp it was no wonder she rose to have great political control of the court. Every noble, whether they wished to or not, supported her. And this was not limited to her lands either. Exarch Oshphim swore fealty to a higher monarch: Seoven. When the Great Divide happened, he sent his daughters in his place to the War Court to assist in the war.

In the war court, it was very much the same story. I remember when they arrived, Seoven paid them no mind. Solaris went for the attack, trying to butter Seoven up about some victory or another to gain her favor. I swear, the cold shoulder she gave Solaris extinguished her flame a great deal. However, that changed when Tungi approached the map Seoven was surveying. She pointed out several flaws in the supply lines, which when fixed saved hundreds of lives. Tungi quickly became the favored daughter over Solaris once more. This was the last straw, in Solaris’s mind. At least, this is my theory. I could feel something inside her break when she was quite literally passed over by the only other authority figure she has met in her life for her sister.

Solaris was declared heir on the deathbed of Oshphim, the man was that hesitant to name her the monarch. Solaris cultivated a public opinion of herself to the lands like she was the one who brought them their food, their happy memories. The public was in her hand. Yet, those who knew even a little bit of courtroom gossip understood that Tungi would be the better leader if only she could talk to a damn person. As such, the coronation was a dour mood. No one in the room wanted to see Solaris sit upon the throne. It was just the practicality of the situation that she arose to power. Cunning, deceitful, she would be an excellent monarch.

Or a tax collector.

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Holly lets out a loud and humorous snort on that last joke, still hurriedly writing.

“Armak, I appreciate the backstory a lot here and all. And your jokes are top-notch in this story, really. Yet you’ve told me nothing about the actual coronation?”

“Well, Holly, to understand the importance of the change I'm talking about here you’re going to need some ample background information. I’m leaving a lot out too because I know you’re a tired elf right now. And when you’re a tired elf at night, you are often an angry elf in the morning.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘elf’ like that?”

“Like what?”

Holly rolled her eyes.

“Nevermind. What are you leaving out? Make it short, though. My hands are getting tired.”

“Well, first off: their father died when they were out at the war court. It was a very awkward cart ride back. Not just atmosphere-wise either, Seoven was quite large. The sisters also had a huge schism between them. Solaris was always jealous of Tungi’s preference and it was obvious to any observant man. Tungi would never say anything about it. She was optimistic that way. Oh! Solaris was also only kept on Seoven’s war court because she was one of the best generals she ever had. It was almost scary how great a strategic master she was. Tungi was the master logistician, fueling the army her sister led. As well as the rest of the Kroven clan. They were useful in their ways to Seoven.”

The sounds of lead drawing across the paper at speeds never recorded filled the night as he waited for Holly to catch up to his dictation. Armak stared at the sky, smiling. He liked talking of Tungi. She was a good friend of Armak, being the only one who could talk about old events as if they just happened. Mostly due to her studies. He always liked her excited attitude when she got invested in something she loved. A very dedicated woman to whatever craft she wanted to become a master of. Armak glanced at Holly and could remember Tungi doing the same thing on the floor of a tent in War Court.

 As much as things change, some things just stay the same.

“Alright,” Holly said, putting down her pencil momentarily to stretch her hand. “I’ve caught up. Now, I love the backstory. And I will be sure to ask you about it later when I flesh out all these notes I'm taking. However, can we get to the big event itself already? It is getting late after all.”

Armak chuckled. “I forget others don’t have all the time in the world.” Holly made a face at him, motioning with her hands to continue the story.

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Right, the coronation itself despite its dour moods was set in an extravagantly decorated throne room. Red banners depicting the sun rising were hung from the rafters, a not so subtle indication of a new age rising in the land. And also the sun ascending the throne. Solaris was never a subtle person if she could help. Not that she couldn’t sneak, she just preferred to get away with it in open daylight. I remember I was standing with Seoven near the throne, a simple wooden chair by any other name. She wore an elegant dress of her minotaur people, something you won’t see anywhere else. A beautiful purple and gold accent thing. I wore rags compared to it. I think I wore actual rags… Regardless. I was there with Seoven because this was an important event. Not because of the coronation itself, but for the war effort. Sure, while the Southern Holdings had the manpower to supply to the war effort, it wasn’t what made them useful to Seoven. It was the high concentration of magic users. The country was the only one with a magical war college and had the best war casters in the Kroven Clan. Gukrag’s spellcasters consisted no more of a few souls who could create small bumps in the road. With this advantage, the Kroven Clan was advancing towards victory closer and closer. Seoven said to me,” I would rather Gukrag take this kingdom than watch her rise to the throne, but if it means I never have to hear that orc’s despicable name I will swallow my opinions.”

She had such a way with words.

I remember eyeing up the feast table to my right when the doors to the royal hall finally opened. Walking down the aisle was Solaris, tailed by four priests of the Celestial Faith (a very new change made towards the end of Oshphim’s life. One that was controversially thought to be not one made entirely of sound mind or outside influence if you catch my drift here Holly). Dressed in a trailing white gown, adorned with gold accents that reflected her radiant light, and her wings were fully unfurled. It was a spectacle show, one which Seoven visibly did not care for. Coming in, the last of the procession following Solaris, was her sister Tungi. She dressed for her father’s mourning, a simple black gown. A more striking statement could not have been made to the public. As Solaris walked up the steps to the throne and sat in it, I could feel the room tense. It was an uncanny feeling. It felt like the split second you saw someone’s fist before it collides with your nose.

The shoe had been raised and was now waiting to drop.

The priests walk up the steps to Solaris, two of them carrying a small box of obsidian and marble in their hands. The two priests carrying nothing turn to the crowd in the room, nobles and common folk alike. They said, “A new monarch sits upon the throne. The Exarch is dead, a new one rises like the sun. A phoenix from the ashes. Do those of the land’s holdings swear fealty to the ultimate, the one?”

A cry of,” For the Land, we swear fealty” echoes from the crowd. However, I could not forget that Seoven and Tungi remained quiet. For that matter, so did I. But in my defense, I had no idea that was going to happen. Seoven of course did not speak for she was above Solaris. The Empress was not about to swear fealty to a petty queen. But Tungi, she remained silent. A pained smile was on her face.

The two priests with the box opened it, removing a large and spiked golden crown from its interior. They raised it slowly above Solaris’s head and lowered it onto her head. The previous two priests turned to face Solaris and said aloud, “Solaris, daughter of Oshphim, by which power do you swear to keep the lands safe and prosperous? To lead us and keep our lands that shining beacon atop the hill?” Solaris raised one hand and simply laid it against her heart, speaking not a word. She didn’t need to. Murmurs among the crowd spoke for her. By her own divine powers, she declares in her movement, her reign is ordained. With the gesture understood by all, the priests bow their heads to Solaris before turning to the crowd once more.

“The lands have entered a new era! Praise be to the Celestials, who have granted us so much! Praise be to Exarch Solaris!” And as the people cheered, I suspect in fear of what would happen if they didn’t, Solaris rose from her throne. Her wings unfurled and spread wide, beams of light shining bright. The stained glass of the hall cast colors onto every surface, and the bells of the churches in the village below rang in immaculate chorus. The hall all knelt before their new ruler. Except for Seoven and me.

And Tungi.

And I could feel the shoe begin to lower.

“Rise, my loyal subjects. Rise and see your ruler speak to you.” Her voice carried through the very wind, sounding austere and serene. “These are confusing times, I know you all have your worries. My father was a great man, and deserved the praise and love you all gave him. I can only hope to do but a quarter of what he did for you all.” Her speech flowed like a creek in the fall, snaking its way into every ear. This is why she sat atop the throne.

“However, I am troubled that I am to bring more strife into your life.”

And like that, the show dropped.

I looked to Seoven, whose face shaped into one of concern and confusion. This was not how things should be happening. I looked at Tungi across the room and saw a similar look. I began to piece things together in my mind.

“There have been attacks on our lands recently, many of you are aware. We thought it to be the wretched Scartooths, those who broke through our brave soldiers’ front lines to pillage our people. However, I learn of a darker truth. There has been espionage among us! A traitor to us all has allowed bandits and worse to wreak havoc on our homes and farms! One who betrayed not only the people of our fair land but her father.”

The realization hits Seoven first, then I saw it shoot to Tungi across the room. I saw two guards, decked in white and gold armor, shut the mighty doors to the throne room hall. I stopped Seoven’s hand from reaching for her great ax at her hip. I knew what was happening, but if Seoven did what I thought she was going to do it was all for naught. We had to watch it happen. We were powerless.

“Tungi! How could you do this? Betray us all? How could you betray our father? The one who taught you all you knew and more? I know what you did! I know during our missions on the field of the war you would disappear for days only to return without a reason. Now I know the reason why! You were paying off Scartooth bandits to raid us! You sabotaged the supply lines and for what? I’ll tell you why she did it, my people.”

Tungi was shaking, her hands shooting to her mouth in shock. She was backing away from the approaching guards, their halberds drawn. The crowd was dead silent, not daring to make a sound. Tungi was being pushed closer and closer to her sister. I can remember the look of terror in her eyes as she approached me. I can remember the shaking rage of Seoven. The smug, sadistic look upon Solaris’s face.

“Dear sister is a Scartooth traitor!”

It took no great deal of magic to subdue Seoven’s rage. I could feel her anger at Solaris for these baseless accusations. But I knew that action here would only cause more harm. We could not afford a Civil War. So I could only watch in pain and regret the events play out. My entire being was spent trying to keep Seoven was bursting into a rage.

“Well? Have you nothing to say in your defense? Would you merely stand here before me and accept what I say as truth?”

A dirty trick and she knew it. Tungi was in shock, not a word would escape her. You could have put the quickest politician in her spot and not a word would be uttered. She trapped her. Everyone knew this was a ploy, Tungi would never. There was no ground for Solaris to do this. But she was the ruler. She was the law. And if they wanted to keep their heads, they would play along. Such is the game of politics.

As Tungi stood there silent, Solaris laughed.

“Just as I thought. The guilty would never own up to their failures.” Solaris stepped down the steps, standing over her sister with her incredible height. “You will pay for the terror you have put upon our people, and It will be harsh. You will rot in the dungeons for as long as I rule above.” Solaris smiled. “It is what the ruler would prefer happen.” Solaris then mentioned for the white and gold guards to take her sister, turning to walk back up the steps to the throne.

But the guards would never get Tungi.

A shockwave emanates from the Moon princess, sending onlookers and the guards back several feet. Even Solaris was shoved into the steps. Glorious wings of white and soft blue unfurled from Tungi as she rose into the air, arms stretched before her. The stained glass windows all shattered, and the great doors to the throne room were thrown off their hinges. The candles in the room all snuffed, and the sun outside was masked by rolling clouds of rain. I saw Solaris turn in shock and fear, such a look was never before seen on her face. And I felt it genuine.

Tungi as she floated in the air looked powerful, yet I saw on her face were tears. In a voice never before heard from her, it echoed deep and powerful. “Sister, why do you betray me so?! Why do you lie to our people as your first act as ruler? Do you truly hate me this much? Have I been this bad to you that you would banish and imprison me than talk? That you would make a power grab when no one dare opposes you?!” Another shockwave, sending cracks into the stonework of the castle. “Solaris! We are sisters! We are of these people! Why act like you’re above them! I do not see a throne of gold, but one of wood like any other might sit on. You rule a kingdom of wax, and I fear the day you burn too bright and watch it all melt!”

Tungi flew to open doors of the great hall and faced the crowd and her sister.

“I will return!” As she spoke, her voice cracked in a sob. “I-I will be back! I will reclaim this land from you! For I have no ambition of power, only ever wanting to serve my people. Yet I would rather be a reluctant ruler than one who would turn it to ruin. A traitor you call me? Then a traitor I shall become!”

With that last line, she looked forlornly down to me and Seoven, mouthed a word of sorrow and apology, and flew out the door. Never to be seen again in the realm.

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“The cart ride back to the war court was awful, let me tell you. It was just me and Seoven, Solaris staying behind to ‘serve’ her kingdom. I had to endure hours of yelling on betrayal, how it was all horsepiss that Tungi would even think to betray, that Solaris would be killed on sight if she ever saw here again and so much more. She also socked me for magically subduing her, but she understood why. We had a fun relationship like that.”

Holly looked up at Armak, shocked. Pencil unmoving.

“But what happened with Solaris after all of that?” “Oh, Seoven tried to ignore her as much as possible. Stave her influence off the war court as much as possible. However, Solaris had a chokehold on the most valuable resource ever; war casters. Plus, when news got out the Scartooths had an all-power Archmage it was only a matter of time before Seoven brought in Solaris’s magic again. Not that Solaris ever left the Southern Lands after that, she was afraid of Seoven, and rightfully so.”

“Who was the Scartooth’s new mage?” Armak grinned. “Who do you think?”

Holly’s face exploded in surprise. “TUNGI?! But I thought you said it was a lie that she was a traitor?”

“And it was. However, with nowhere else to turn in hope of regaining her throne, she went to Gukrag. It's funny, though. You are aware of Gukrag, right?”

Holly nodded. “Yes, the Warboss of the Scartooths. Big orc.”

“Exactly. When Tungi approached him, the story goes, he yelled into the sky ‘FUCKING FINALLY’ then proceeded to make her in charge of his nation.”

Holly blinked. “Wait what?”

“Well, not in charge of his nation per se. It took a while for Tungi to gain his trust. He saw her amazing magical skill. He saw that she could puppet hundreds of people, disintegrate whole armies, flood battlefields, and win things without a fight at all. This was incredibly boring to Gukrag. But, he was convinced of her loyalty to him in as far as reclaiming her old land. Gukrag then did perhaps the smartest thing he ever did. He put in her charge of making his country better. Holly, this orc could not run a major nation to save his life. The whole country was held together by fear of them disobeying Gukrag. She built schools, paved roads, healing buildings, made living spaces, she transformed that rough collection of tribes into a nation that is revered and respected to this very day. All according to Gukrag’s plan. He’s not an idiot, he is insanely clever and smart in ways outside of books. He knew he was no expert in nation-building, only in combat and battles. But the preferred daughter of the great nation builder Oshphim? You don’t have to be a genius, Holly.”

Holly sat there, speechless.

“This..this changes everything I thought I knew. But Armak, I’m confused. How is this a positive change? The rightful and good Monarch was usurped by the evil! Everything in that story was bad!” “Ah, but you think in the past. Think of the now. Ever heard of the Lunavla Empire?”

“You’re not saying..”

“I am. The most prosperous nation, the best place to live hands down. Accepting of all, turning away none. The noblest of places. I’d say that is a good change, wouldn’t you?” Armak stood laid back in the sand, getting comfortable. Holly, still scribbling away in her notepad, leaning against his long and gangly legs. “Armak, this..this is so interesting. I wish I could speak to another person there that day.” “Oh, you can.” Holly gave Armak a look of doubt. “I don’t want to use necromancy again, it makes me feel sick.” “No, silly girl. They are still alive. Two of them. I am good friends with one.”

Holly was growing tired of getting shocked. “Who? How old are they?” “Oh, she would not appreciate it if you asked her that. But I’m surprised you can’t piece it together.” “You don’t mean Tungi is still alive?” “Do you actually listen to my stories? Remember, she is half celestial.”

Holly closed her book and threw it in her bag, exhausted. She stretched out before returning to laying on Armak’s legs.

“You owe me an audience with a monarch.” “I owe no such thing.” But it didn’t matter, she was fast asleep. And as Armak looked up into the starry sky, he smiled.

A positive change indeed.

[ygeniuslab]

the anthology of yoongi and jimin

or: forty times that jimin spoke and yoongi’s entire world narrowed down to a single voice

— ( part ii. )

9. things you said when you were crying

soft -- a little too soft. too quiet. words jumbling together, syllables mixing up, muffled against yoongi’s shoulder covered by the thick cotton fabric of his black hoodie. yoongi asks him to speak up, to repeat -- once, twice, thrice. but he doesn’t and yoongi eventually gives up, arm wrapping around jimin’s slight frame a little tighter, fingers sliding into jimin’s soft hair a little deeper. the younger continues babbling, some weird mantra that’s being drowned by his gentle crying, and yoongi just accepts it for what it is -- a moment of weakness that is impossible to be put into proper words.

in any other situation, yoongi would be upset -- absolutely angry at himself for not being able to hear him, understand him, help him, even if blaming himself is completely ridiculous because it takes two people to communicate properly. but a little later, when the worst wave of jimin’s anxiety passes, the chocking sobs no more and breathing regular, yet he still doesn’t pick up onto whatever it was that he had mumbled earlier, yoongi just -- calms down. he sits still, letting the pressure of jimin’s cheek lay comfortably on his shoulder, weight leaning into him for the much needed support -- and it seems to be enough to jimin: the presence, the silent aid, the nimble fingers playing with his hair. 

and if it’s enough to jimin -- it’s enough to yoongi, too.

10. things you said that made me feel like shit

it’s a small thing -- something insignificant, said in a passing, situation that nobody would’ve paid too much attention to. not even yoongi. except that he did, in that moment, because when it comes to jimin, all the details are important: every expression, every word, every situation. so when jimin smiles, waves a hand at yoongi, says something along the lines of, “don’t bother hyung, you wouldn’t be interested anyway,” and then proceeds to drag enthusiastic looking jungkook away and out to do whatever (the whatever that he doesn’t want to share with you, yoongi’s mind offers), yoongi feels--well, he feels like shit.

he’s not sure what feels worse: being cast aside like that, in favor of jungkook, of all people, (it’s not that he doesn’t like jungkook or blames him for it -- but jungkook is just too good, at everything, and while he usually feels nothing but pride and awe at everything their maknae does, sometimes yoongi just can’t help but be annoyed at him for simply existing), or the mere idea that, for some unknown reason, jimin thinks that there are things about him that yoongi wouldn’t be interested in. which is ridiculous, right? because yoongi would never ever disregard anything that is important to jimin, no matter how grumpy he feels that day, how much pressure work puts on his shoulders, how little sleep he got the previous night. 

he has always thought that they understood this about each other, that jimin is aware that yoongi’s eyes are always on him, for him, looking out for everything he does, everything he says.

but maybe -- maybe it isn’t quite as obvious. maybe jimin thinks that, after all, yoongi isn’t fit for every part of jimin’s life. and that’s okay, yoongi reasons with himself some time later, trying to shake off that feeling, they’re two very different people and yoongi -- yoongi has never been all that good at expressing himself outside of his studio, half of the things he means lost somewhere in the translation between his heart and tongue.

(when they come back and jimin seeks his daily dose of evening company and conversation with yoongi, yoongi pretends to be too tired, not quite up for directly facing the source of his disappointment just yet. but the next day, when a new sun rises, he allows it to sink in and lets himself get used to it, accepting it as just another part of his life.)

11. things you said when you were drunk

yoongi laughs at him -- laughs loud and carefree and how he rarely laughs in any other setting: and the more he laughs, the more offended jimin looks. his face is tinted with warm hues, the alcohol and annoyance both at fault, thick eyebrows drawn together angrily and soft lips pursing and twisting as he tries to fight yoongi and his blatant tipsy disrespect off. it’s not working very well, truthfully -- they’re in a bit too good of a mood for this to be taken seriously, jimin’s expressions a little too exaggerated and yoongi’s laughter a notch too pleasant.

“stop--stop laughing at me, i mean it. i could so--so outdrink you, hyung,” jimin sputters, barely squeezing his voice in between bouts of yoongi’s laughter, and all the glass and cheap porcelain clink gently but cuttingly when one of his only half-controlled limbs knock against the table’s leg.

“mmh,” yoongi just hums in response around a piece of grilled meat (that’s right, you stuff that mouth with food and stop laughing, jimin thinks--probably), because technically, he knows jimin is right and it’s best for him to not get too ahead of himself. they’ve had quite a few years to find out that the two of them can handle their liquor the best out of the entire group, (”how come the smallest can drink the most?” seokjin complains on more than one occasion, watching the two of them wistfully. “not everything is about the size, hyung,” yoongi tells him in his most philosophical manner, downing another glass of flavored soju with ease.), in more or less the same fashion, and it’s only pure chance, luck and current physical and mental condition that can swing their ability this or that way. so he doesn’t make any bold assumptions, doesn’t brag too much -- but doesn’t hold back from teasing jimin either, because jimin--tipsy jimin, especially--is just too easy and entertaining when he gets challenged like this.

“i’ll show you. you and me, one for one, yoongi hyung. loser wakes up tomorrow first and brings coffee and breakfast to the winner’s bed.”

(the next day, a very hungover and generally unhappy yoongi throws together the laziest breakfast possible and nearly trips over his own feet while placing the tray on jimin’s bed. he’s already dozing off by the time jimin is halfway through the food, gladly finding comfort in the younger’s still-warm pillow while he laughs into his mug over something that he’s watching on his phone.)

12. things you said when you thought i was asleep

“i feel really lonely, yoongi,”

he says, and it shows right away that he’s sure that yoongi can’t hear him, that nobody can, because jimin never skips on calling his hyungs hyung. but now -- now, under the dark veil of midnight and silence of the room and warmth of the blankets, calling yoongi simply by his name brings jimin indescribable amounts of comfort, a sense of even closer proximity that he feels so starved for that night. so he allows himself it, just for a moment.

“even when you stay with me like this--after you go, i feel twice as lonely as i did before,”

he’s sad, sounds sad, so very sad -- not because something in particular happened to put him in that mood, but because he just doesn’t understand, because his mind can’t wrap around this concept,

“and i don’t know why.”

but i do, yoongi thinks to himself, because he feels the exact same way, sometimes -- and it’s been quite a while since he figured it out, since he realized that once you find something that somehow manages to satisfy your needs--whatever they may be--you find yourself missing it the second your connection with it breaks.

and he wants to move, to speak up, to let jimin know -- but at the same time, he knows all too well how much discomfort this may bring, yoongi unintentionally fooling him into baring himself like that. he knows that sometimes, you just need these moments of weakness, without witnesses, without the fear of being judged.

so he just listens, the calm, continuous rise-and-fall of his chest a silent presence in the dark.

(you’re not alone.)

13. things you said at the kitchen table

yoongi had a feeling that cooking together might not be that much of a good idea, but he never expected it to go this bad.

“aside from the fact that there’s barely anything left to eat,” it’s amazing just how much emotion  a few words can hold, how expressive someone can be -- yoongi, often sounding bland and disinterested without meaning to, has always envied this ability of jimin, “it’s really really good.”

yoongi is watching him very closely over his own sad little plate of what can only be called leftovers, watching how jimin presses the pad of his index finger to his plate and swipes, gathering the sauce that’s still left there on it and then lifting it to his mouth. he makes a little, pleased sound, sucking the salty mushroom taste off his skin, and flashing a brilliant smile after he’s done -- one of those that reach every little nook and cranny of his face, eyes forming crescents and nose scrunching just a bit.

and yoongi would be okay with this, he really would, if not for the next thing jimin says, “i guess it’s the right choice of a helper that really makes the cook shine, mm?”

it’s with the most perfect straight face that yoongi deadpans next, pushing the mostly empty plate away from himself, “you’re paying for the take-out. double serving for me,” and leaves the kitchen, suddenly really needing to change out from his embarrassingly dirty clothes. 

he is so going to make jimin do both of their laundry, too.

14. things you said after you kissed me

yoongi isn’t sure what jimin means.

for a moment, he thinks he’s drunk -- but there’s barely any alcohol in his breath. (something sweet, a hint of spiciness, the memory of a passing day.) he weights the possibility of an overwhelming emotion ruling over the other’s mind in that moment: the greatest pit of sadness and desperation, or an ecstatic sense of happiness -- but he looks neither very down or very euphoric, just somewhere in the middle. (memories of seeing both so many times vivid, real, having him learned it all by heart by now.) he suspects he might be high, some artificial rush streaming through his veins -- but he knows him better than to assume that. (they get high on the same things, beautiful things, so far from illegal.)

it’s just -- soft, warm, the confusion and suddenness lost somewhere in the midst of the entire ocean of comfort that encircles him whole.

and he looks at him -- quick, passing and dazed, and says, “i’m glad, hyung,” right before fleeing, rejoining the loud and happy voices outside the door. and yoongi still doesn’t know what he means, but despite everything he’s a little -- lighter. calmer. better.

they don’t talk about it.

(yoongi thinks about it a lot.)

15. things you said with too many miles between us

“what if i just disappeared, hyung? just--went out one day, let the dorm’s door close behind, and didn’t come back?”

“what are you talking about now, jimin-ah?”

silence.

“i’m just--.”

the sentence is cut off, as if with the sharpest knife, and if it wasn’t for the clearly audible breathing on the other end of the line, yoongi would’ve thought jimin had hung up on him.

“are you okay? do i need to pack up and come back? i’ll do it, hold on, let me check the trains--.”

“no, hyung. no--calm down. i’m sorry. i’m okay, it’s okay. i’ve just been thinking.”

“well, your thinking,” the accent on the word is dripping with sarcasm and annoyance, which is the universally understood yoongish for concern, “is worrying me. stop it.”

there’s a breath of gentle laughter in jimin’s voice when he speaks up next,

“you worry too much, hyung.”

*

the next day, jimin wakes up to lots of noise coming from the hallway. his eyes are still half-closed when he wanders out of his room, bare feet padding on the heated floor and sweatshirt’s long sleeves pulled over his hands as he reaches up to rub his face. he feels yoongi before he sees him, a paper bag with sweetly aromatic contents hitting his chest and only luck--because surely not his morning reflexes--helping him catch and save it from hitting the ground. when he looks down at it, he recognizes the logo printed on the paper immediately, hazy mind precisely connecting it to the bakery near the dongdaegu train station and a fond memory of them enjoying confectionery together before departing for seoul once.

he doesn’t manage to ask before yoongi speaks up, voice a little gruff, footsteps already shuffling in the kitchen’s direction -- aiming straight for the coffee-maker, no doubt.

“i’m going to worry less when i have my eye on you.”

and jimin -- jimin just smiles and pulls the paper bag open, inhaling the scent of icing and fruit jam.

16. things you said with no space between us

it’s much much later, long after they have settled down on that rooftop (”a field of freshly mowed grass, hyung”), watching the stars over their heads, losing the track of time. it’s gotten much colder, their warm clothes not quite warm enough, and their heat-starved bodies gravitating close, closer, until there’s no more spaces left between their arms, sides, legs. it’s still too little, not enough -- but good nonetheless. and somewhere between the silences and monologues, in the midst of yoongi’s discourse on the vastness of the world and the minority of humans inhabiting it, no doubt inspired by the immensity of the skies above them, their hands found each other and linked together in the most natural, almost too practiced way.

“you start sounding like namjoon hyung, all wise and philosophical,” jimin ushers quietly at some point, trying to bite back a soft chortle, because he knows what yoongi’s reaction will be even before he says anything.

“no, i’m--no,” yoongi grumbles in response, short and decisive; makes a point by pulling on jimin’s little finger gently. jimin makes a high-toned sound and fights yoongi’s way of showing displeasure -- squeezes his hand a bit tighter, presses it a little more into the soft warm of the side of his thigh. as soon as the fight has started, it calms down, the brief argument settled in their usual way.

“i don’t mind, hyung,” he says, throwing him a short, passing look -- yoongi’s profile barely visible in the dark and yet still so familiar -- before looking back up, “keep going.”

[guessmonsta]

semi general hcs? show me watchu got

- He’s a rocker at heart. His casual clothes consist of bandanas, leather jackets, frayed jeans and mud caked combat boots. Personally, Semi thinks he looks pretty metal, but still gets picked on by Tendou. Tendou though, wears anime t-shirts and sweatpants, so Semi’s always quick to call him out for being quite the hypocrite. - Semi, in general, is pretty self conscious on how he looks. He’s always preening with his hair, adjusting his collar and checking himself in mirrors. To anyone who doesn’t know him, it might come off as vanity, but he’s always on edge on whether or not he looks presentable. - He has a soft spot for small dogs. He found himself sitting in his neighbor's driveway for thirty minutes cuddling with their elderly Shih Tzu one summer. He scared himself once he realized exactly what he was doing, but to his luck, nobody caught him in the act. - Him and Ushijima have an inside joke where, anytime someone on the team does something either, obnoxious, pretentious or ridiculous, they’ll stare up at a lonesome volleyball lodged in the gym ceiling. They refer to it is as the “Office Camera”, based off of an American sitcom they both like. - Every month or so, he’ll recolor his dip-dye. Black is his most reliable color, but every so often he’ll dye it dark blue or purple. Sometimes, if he’s in a good mood, he’ll let his s/o pick out the color dye. Nine times out of ten, it’s usually something obscure, like pink or mint green, so his s/o’s opinion is disregarded anyways. - He’s always wanted to date a pastel. He likes the way their aesthetic would contrast against his. - He’s existential to the point where it’s obnoxious. Heaven forbid he ever utter the words “oblivion” or “death”, because from there, he just spirals downwards. Sometimes he finds himself writing poetry at one in the morning, thinking it’s the deepest, most profound thing his mind has ever conjured up, but wakes up the next morning to read it and find that it’s complete and utter garbage. - Foreign rock from the 80’s is Semi’s go-to. He has no idea what any of them are saying, but he finds Queen, Guns n’ Roses, Bon Jovi and Black Sabbath to be incredible. One time, he hit his head against his desk whilst headbanging and gave himself a nosebleed to “We Will Rock You”. Whoops. - His masculinity is either hyper or non existent, and nowhere in between. He refuses to drink Fiji water because it has a flower on the bottle, but has taken up more than several dares to wear lingerie or a skirt… or both. - He always seems to be putting himself down in one way or another. Every since Shirabu replaced him as Shiratorizawa’s official setter, his inferiority complex started kicking in. At this point, every time he messes up on something, even if it’s the most insignificant thing in the world, he finds himself saying something along the lines of, “figures I can’t do this right… just like everything else.” He always sees himself lesser than everyone, and needs to figure out that even if he isn’t the best person, he needs to be the best Semi he can be.- He’s the type of person who never gets cold. He once walked outside in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans in °15 F weather, and wound up being fine. Tendou, however, gets very cold very easily, and finds himself dying inside every time he catches Semi outside in summer clothes during the winter. - He’s tried to pick up an instrument in the past, but never found himself understanding any of the concepts. Although, he’s pretty decent on the drums. - He got into Shiratorizawa due to a sports scholarship, and if it werent for that, he wouldn’t be in Shiratorizawa at all. He’s realized at this point that he’s not all that smart, but he doesn't really let that get him down. Shiratorizawa is insanely strict, and being in class one at Shiratorizawa is the equivalent to being in class three or four in any other school. Lucky for him, though, he has a few good friends in class five who always help him out in exchange for access to watch their volleyball practices. (Not everyone's allowed to come and watch them, the gym doors are always locked. Although, the coach is rather indifferent if one of the boys brings along a couple of friends to watch them practice. As long as they're quiet, that is.)- He puts so much salt on his food to the point where it’s definitely not healthy. His mother used to nag to him about high blood pressure all the time, but now that he lives in a dorm he ignores it. - He’s good at keeping everyone in line, but himself. When it comes to his friends, he knows exactly what to say to get them out of a slump, or encourage them. Although, when Semi finds himself in any negative situation, he just thinks, “Oh well. Time to die now.” and books.

[taewcn-blog]

ah, okay, hello! it’s alli here, aka. jeaki’s terrible mother, with another muse that i will probably hurt WAY too often ( but you have to love me anyway, it’s a rule ). i’d really love it if i could get some plots going for this child ! he’s quite different from ki, so, i’m quite excited to explore him as a muse and see where he ends up ! if you want to know more about him, just carrying on reading ! and i’ll probably try and get a message sent to you at some point ( feel free to try and beat me to it, okay ).

tw: drug mention, illness, violence.

Taewon is known for being the recondite, which, basically means that he is my little enigmatic prince — the type of boy that doesn’t tend to share all that much when it comes to personal affairs. He’s a person who is a little more on the reserved side, when it comes to talking, sometimes in fear of saying a little too much about himself ( talking about himself is something that he despises ), opting to take the listening side when it comes to conversations. However, this being said, he’s in no way shy — he’s very much comfortable with social interaction and can happily participate for long periods of time, it’s just that words come in few. His distaste for sharing personal information is the biggest factor for this, it’s at an extent that he doesn’t like to tell others if he prefers television over films or what colour he considers his favourite — he sees it as exposing small weaknesses and he doesn’t like feeling weak. He’s very much shut off from himself and exploring the aspects of himself, so, that’s also the same approach he takes when it comes to others.

He’s not really a golden child, though, he can’t be considered a bad guy either — he just hovers on the in between line, sometimes slipping into the other sides for periods of time. He’s a person who does care for others, but, his priorities lie for caring for himself and his baby sister ( who is only two years of age and he is pretty much the sole carer for ) and if that means disregarding anothers feeling, he will. Taewon has learnt mistakes from letting others influence his decisions and he is really wary of allowing that happen again. It’s never something he actively pursues, though, it shouldn’t be seen as that way — it’s more something he does if it dwindles down to it and he sees no other choice. He can be manipulative and he can be cruel and ruthless and getting on the wrong side of him is a place that most would not want to be in. But, he can also be genuine and caring and protective, especially over those he sees to be weaker characters ( you can’t have your own back? Don’t worry, I’ve got it for you ), and if you win his trust you will have it until he sees a fit reason to take it away. 

He’s trapped in his own head, sometimes, which can only add to his more subdued exterior — he has a lot of thoughts that tend to bug at him and they are usually just little, insignificant, aspects of his ( or others ) life. He doesn’t really make it a noticeable factor of his personality, though. Taewon has just endured a lot in his time and to drown out the big things, he overthinks the little — if you were to take a slight tone with him, he’s the person that would analyse it ten times over and come to the conclusion that was so far from the real reason behind it ( typically, blame being pinned on himself, is the end result ). It’s these little paranoia’s that can drive him a little bit insane — he convinces himself that the use of drugs eases them, when really it makes them so much worse? Try and tell him that though and he’ll probably laugh in your face or punch you ( dependant on who was telling him ). He sees the world as being a big, scary place and if you don’t have your wits about you, that’s when you get hurt, so that kind of explains why he overthinks so much? He’s just always trying to look after himself, because he doesn’t really think that anyone else can or will.

He can have a little bit of a short temper, which is worsened when he has had a drink or has been taking drugs, so he can be quick to get into arguments with others and he has no fear in getting into scraps? But, he won’t really ever start anything serious, unless he sees a fit reason — he might be furious and ready to attack, but logic will always overpower it. If he thinks you’re an idiot and deserve it, however, he won’t hesitate. The only time his temper won’t really sway is when he is with someone he sees as being weak? He will never talk to someone who he knows could get upset or scared by his words in such a way — and the only time he would do it in front of them would be if it was to protect them. It’s his biggest soft spot and his biggest weakness, really ( and, as much as he kind of wishes he could combat it, he can’t ).

One of the things he participates in most is underground fighting, because it’s a good way to unleash all his pent up energy and to release the little annoyances that have been on his mind all day. He’s been doing it since he was eleven and has gained quite a reputation since — he might not have the biggest arms, but he’s definitely extremely tough. He has genuine skills, so, whenever fighting, he’s not just throwing careless punches, he knows how to control his strength and how to use others strengths against them — he’s extremely smart and can think about things in such a logical sense, that it really works in his favour. Don’t be surprised when you see him with a beat up face, though? He’s always testing himself in those leagues above. It’s this sport that really helps keep his drug habit in control — because, for the most part, he’s over it ( it’s just the occasional relapse, when things go too wrong for him to effectively deal with ).

Taewon has a lot to deal with in his life, as his mother is critically ill and father has been ‘missing’ not long after the birth of his, now two year old, sister. So, he’s basically a full time carer of his sister and might as well be classed as her father at this point, because his mother can’t really do anything ( he doesn’t blame her in the slightest, of course ). He’s so protective over his family and doesn’t openly talk about the fact that they exist, so there’s a high chance you won’t know he is raising his sister or that his mother lives in the hospital ( unless we have plotted otherwise ). He’s battling with his own fights all at the same time as trying to support everything — trying to keep his job going and burying the secrets of his father ( that only he is aware of ), whilst dealing with ongoing addictions and such. SO, yeah.

backstory tw: illness, death, violence, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, abuse.

Okay, so, I’m going to summarise this as much as I can, because I rambled so much about Taewon’s personality and I don’t want to bore you all too much!

Taewon was born into quite a wealthy household and it was this really idyllic type of home situation to be in, with his parents being more than happy together and even happier to have a child in their lives. Taewon was what they called a miracle child, after they had been trying for years for his mother to become pregnant.

For the first few years of his life, things were rather average — or at least that’s how they seemed. Taewon never really picked up on the little signs, not for a long time.

He was always a really intellectual child ( achieving the highest grades in all the subjects he took and he was constantly praised from the computing department as his school — known for being a tech whiz ), but he sometimes lacked in identifying social behaviour. ??

He didn’t pick up on how it was suspicious that his mother spent more time away from home than she did in it and that he’s always smell of aftershave that wasn’t what his father would wear. He always would dismiss it and happily allow his mother to cradle him in her arms.

He was blind to the fact that his mother wasn’t happy with his father. And that his father, might not even be his father.

When the truth unravelled, life crumbled for Taewon — he felt betrayed by his mother, questions of how she could have lied to him ate him up inside, because, above everyone, didn’t he deserve to know the truth? And it all turned out that his father was a man that he could only recognize as a stranger.

It was planned for a while that Taewon was to leave with who he had believed to be his real father, but it didn’t work out that way, Taewon’s mother ( though she was initially willing ) put an end to it. And there was nothing they could do.

Taewon was forced to move in with his biological father, their new home nowhere near the state of luxury he’d once occupied and he’d never felt as much of a stranger in his own home before. All he wanted was the man he could actually trust, but, now, he was nowhere to be seen.

Life went on for Taewon, he became rather rebellious against his mother and biological ‘father’ ( though, he would never call him father ) and his life spiralled at quite a rapid pace. He got involved with drugs and the crimes soon followed after, all making his ‘family’ become more and more fed up with him. They didn’t mean for this to happen, is what was said on more than one occasion, and neither did Taewon.

Taewon’s biological father took Tae’s actions seriously, perhaps more so than required, as whenever the smell of weed lingered on clothing or pupils were dilated, Taewon could expect for his neck to be gripped at and pinned against the wall. The bruises would develop over time, becoming more serious as time progressed and the abuse only made Taewon worse. The drugs were his escape.

News of his mothers pregnancy is what changed Taewon, as he began to think about all of the things that this new child could be forced to deal with, considering the nature of his biological father. And he had never found a better reason to try and clear himself up.

Skip ahead and Taewon was blessed with a little sister and the instant he saw the small body, he was in love and he was protective.

Several days later, Taewon’s biological father ‘disappeared’ and left their family abandoned, without so much as an explanation. It was Taewon’s doing — he’d sorted it.

It was at this stage, the male had half expected life to improve — sure, he held a grudge against his mother for tearing their home apart, but he still couldn’t fade the love he had for the woman and now, now they were back to being their own little family ( albeit the man Tae still calls his father, perhaps, but this wasn’t to be helped ).

But the sun never shines in Taewon’s days, as the news that his mother had cancer was dropped on his being like a ton of bricks. The pessimism of life was now at its peak, to say the least.

Her condition is now critical and days are numbered, so she is spending her last weeks comfortable in the hospital ( she, surprisingly, likes it there ) and Taewon is a regular around the parts. He moved into his own apartment, with his baby sister in tow ( who is now two ), and is just kind of living.

He’s using his tech skills to his advantage, working as a programmer ( which has flexible hours ) and providing for his family the best he can.

I know his biography is hella dramatic, but, you know what? I’m dramatic and this is how it is going to be. xoxo. Please love me.

[ecampbellsoup]

Outlander Moments of Impact: On Your Horse, Soldier

For many lovers, they cannot articulate the specific moment of no return. There is not a singular interaction that sealed the deal of their affection. Rather, it is a culmination of a thousand moments.

Jane Austen puts it perfectly, “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” Pride and Prejudice

However, for others, there is an exact second of explosive collision. A moment of magnetic attraction that irrevocably joins you with another forever.

James Fraser has such a moment with Claire in 1x1 “Sassenach” where he falls into the deep well of her affection and never seeks the surface again.

Let’s break down the scene for some context, shall we?

The highlanders are making the journey through the night back to castle Leoch. They set a gruelling pace to separate themselves as far away from the redcoats as they can.

After silently suffering a bullet wound from an ambush, Jamie’s body finally begins to go into shock.

Feeling his body being to fall, Claire, sharing the seat with him, frantically calls out, “Stop! Help, he’s going over!”

Jamie collapses onto the ground unconscious. Claire quickly jumps off the horse. Kneeling over him, she swiftly searches his person for a wound

Murtagh (PRECIOUS SWEET LAMB) is the only man that stays by Jamie’s side; he helplessly looks to Claire for guidance.

She finds the injury, “Gunshot wound. The idiot could’ve said something.”

Exasperated with Jamie’s quiet carelessness, Claire realizes she needs to tend to him now. Commanding a presence of ownership, she asks the men for something to disinfect the injury with.

(LOL. Claire: look at these men. Do they look like they know what a bar of soap is much less germs or iodine? That would be a no)

However, the men do understand what alcohol is and supply her with some whiskey to clean Jamie’s neck.

As soon as she splashes the liquid on his skin, Jamie surges back to consciousness. 

Immediately brushing off the severe gash in his flesh, Jamie acts as if all is well. But Claire is not amused.

Claire furiously cleans the wound.

While Claire reprimands him for his foolish disregard for his own welfare, Jamie looks like a deer caught in the headlights. He is completely stunned by her. Words cannot even escape his mouth. 

His gaze is fixated on her captivating face.

Seeking something to bandage the wound, Claire asks the men for a piece of cloth. Utterly useless to help her, Claire then rips off a strip of her own dress in order to care for Jamie.

Then, Murtagh and Claire gently sit Jamie up. 

Once again, the only two who are actively seeking to restore Jamie are Claire and Murtagh. The rest merely stand by and watch, offering as little help as possible.

While she is wrapping and securing his dressing, Claire growls, “And if you move so much as a single muscle while I'm tying this bandage, I will bloody throttle you.” The majority might not care about Jamie’s welfare, but Claire does.

Attempting to lighten the mood, he teases, “Oh, threats is it? And after I shared my drink wi’ ye?”

Meanwhile, Dougal, who isn’t even trying to hide his apathy for Jamie’s restoration and says they must leave now. Not standing for that one bit, Claire rises, contradicts Dougal insisting that Jamie needs rest. And then Jamie says one name, “Randall.” Claire’s head snaps back at her name.

Assuming her ignorance to the man, Jamie further explains, “The officer you encountered. He won’t give up so easily.”

Walking back over to him, Claire feigns indifference despite hanging on Jamie’s every word. She does not want to let on too much for her own protection. 

“He commands the redcoats here about. He’ll have sent patrols out in every direction by now. I canna stay here long...” He bears his soul to her. Feeling the shift, Claire looks at him. Suddenly, his youth, vulnerability are obvious, hidden from her no longer.

Innocently asking, yet not knowing the cost to this question, she inquires, “You know Randall? Black Jack Randall that is.”

In a soft whisper, “Aye.” That cost him something. And he offers no further detail. 

Claire, catching the pain in his voice, listens, “I won’t risk you or anyone else being taken prisoner by that man.” Selflessly, he states he would rather be deserted, left with a pistol, than put anyone else in danger. Claire is visibly astonished at his sacrificial words.

Hoping to alleviate the severity of the moment, Claire states, “Might’ve well told me you were shot before you fell off the horse.” Jamie explains, “Didna hurt much at the time.” Like steel, Claire questions, “Does it hurt now?” Choosing honesty again, “Aye.” And his eyes pierce hers. 

Refusing to let him off the hook, Claire retorts, “Good.” Delighted by her sass, Jamie chuckles. 

After a pause, Claire confesses, “That’s about all I can do; the rest is up to you.” She stands up leaving him on the ground. Then, to his surprised, Claire extends her hand to Jamie. She offers her strength to pull him to his feet

A Scotsman and a Sassenach link arms in communion.

When they both are standing before one another, there is a silence that rings in the air.

Overcome with gratitude and adoration, Jamie thanks Claire, “Thank you, Sassenach. Truly.” The first time he calls her sassenach. The beginning. 

Claire looks into Jamie’s eyes and becomes flustered. Then finally she says, “Alright. Well. On your horse solider.” Metaphorically this line is brilliant because it holds literally and proverbial truth for these two humans. How often does Jamie fall and Claire pick him back up?

Look away, unsure of how to proceed, Jamie nods. And walks ahead.

And Claire just stands there briefly unable to move.

This seemingly insignificant interaction is the spark that sets off the undying flame of love in Jamie’s heart for Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

Here is a solider who has been injured in battle. As he suffers from his efforts, who comes to his aid aside from his godfather?

His uncle?

His comrads?

His brethren?

His countrymen?

No.

A sassenach. An Englishwoman. A stranger. 

While the men have rather blasé sentiments towards Jamie’s well being, this woman, who does not even know his real name, is completely undone by his pain.

She rushes to his side to help him.

She takes from her own garment to heal his wound.

She holds nothing back from him: her frustration, her care, the very clothes off her back. She gives them all to HIM.

And as she does this…all we see peering through the darkness are a pair of piercing blue eyes transfixed on a woman: a woman who this man just realized he wants more than anything this world can offer him.

When Jamie thanks Claire and calls her Sassenach, he blesses her with that name. Despite the fact that she is an outsider to others, she is set-apart to him.

She carries the same burning passion.

She bears the same burdens for others.

She holds the same empathetic heart.

She possesses the same stubborn sensibilities.

She is his equal.

But in Claire: Jamie has not only met his equal, he has met his match.

[lisamhayes]

The First Rule of Relationships

A few weeks ago my kiddo was staying with my sister. Every time we pick him up when he spends the weekend away I always hold my breath a little when I get the “behavior report” for the weekend. You just never know how that’s going to go. Kids will do the darndest things when they are staying with Aunties who spoil them rotten.

This particular weekend the behavior report was quite disturbing because my dear, sweet, innocent child had punched a kid in the nose. He’d been playing with a group of older kids he didn’t know when one of them started making fun of him.

So, like any rational seven-year-old would, he punched the kid who was making him feel bad.

When I got this news, I looked him straight in the eye and said, “You could have seriously hurt him. Were you trying to hurt him?”

His answer was swift. “No. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, but I knew I might.”

And there you have it. Seven-year-old logic. Someone makes me feel bad, and in order to feel better, I’m going to lash out. It’s probably going to hurt them, but I don’t care, because I’m going to feel better. Seven-year-old boys think that way. Unfortunately, as wrong as it is, it’s developmentally appropriate. However, if you’re still thinking that way when you’re seventeen, you’re likely to end up in jail. ______________________________________________________

Someone recently asked me in an interview if there was something I wish I could say to couples, but rarely do. I had to think about it a little because I’m not one to bite my tongue, but if I had to come up with something, it would be this:

Stop hurting each other and pretending like you didn’t notice you were doing it.

The one thing a couple cannot ever overcome is when someone is hurting the other person, maybe not purposefully, but knowingly, and continues to do it, while justifying the reason they are doing it is compelling enough.

You cannot be in a relationship where any one person or even both people treat each other’s hearts and feelings with disregard. No matter how small or insignificant it might seem, if you are knowingly hurting your partner, you are making them unimportant for some reason, and there is no reason that’s good enough to make that ok.

If whatever someone did or is doing is really so egregious you can’t help yourself, then you need to leave. Otherwise, if you plan to stay, you can’t keep pretending like your partner’s feelings don’t matter.

The reasons a person will disregard their partner’s feelings are numerous.

To name just a few:

“I’m shutting you out, even though I know it hurts you, because I was abused as a child.”

“I’m nagging you, even though I know it hurts you, because you don’t listen.”

“I’m yelling at you, even though I know it hurts you, because I’m angry.”

“I’m withholding love and intimacy, even though I know it hurts you, because I’m tired.”

“I’m chatting with my ex online, even though I know it hurts you, because you ignore me.”

“I’m spending money behind your back, even though I know it hurts you, because I’m bored.”

“I’m undermining you with the kids, even though I know it hurts you, because I don’t trust your parenting.”

“I’m snapping at you, even though I know it hurts you, because I’m stressed to the max.

I’ve heard all of those and about a thousand more just like them. When I hear something like that my heart sinks,

because I know, this couple is in serious trouble.

There is usually truth in the excuses so the excuses can seem really valid.

“I was abused as a child” – truth.

“I feel like you don’t listen.” – truth.

“I’m angry,” – truth.

“I’m tired.” – truth.

“I feel like ignore me.” – truth.

“I’m bored.” – truth

“I don’t trust your parenting.” – truth.

“I’m stressed to the max.” – truth

Those things are very important. Those things need fixing.

But these things are breaking the relationship:

>Shutting someone out.

>Nagging

>Yelling

>Withholding love and intimacy

>Chatting with an ex

>Spending too much money

>Undermining someone’s parenting

>Being stressed to the max

Nothing gives you a free pass to knowingly hurt someone you’re in a relationship with.

I get it. It’s not easy. I live with a seven-year-old – you know the one, the boxer. Here is a breakdown of an exchange I had with his just this morning. I was frustrated, with good reason. Heaven knows this child can avoid following instructions for literally hours at a time. Usually at the heart of his procrastination is a pile of legos that are squared in opposition of my very tight schedule. Anyone who knows me, or probably eighty percent of the other mothers on the planet, knows the morning routine is often a source of conflict. He wants to build a lego city. I want him to get ready for school and take care of the chickens.

“Please get your clothes on and go take care of the chickens without me having to repeat myself a dozen more times. I don’t want to start the day yelling at you to get things done. Please don’t make me lose my temper.”

Sounds reasonable, right?

Except, of course, it’s not.

This, as if him not getting dressed and getting the chickens taken care of would somehow hijack my otherwise calm attitude and absolutely force me to lose my shit and become a raving lunatic possessed by some demon over which I have no control. We all know that’s not true. For sure my kid knows it isn’t true. This doesn’t mean he should be excused for not following directions. However, if I lose my patients and yell, I know that hurts him, and that’s on me.

If you ever want to have a relationship that is about possibility, you can’t knowingly engage in behavior that harms. The first rule of relationship is, do no harm. When you allow any justification to override that rule, you aren’t in a relationship any more. Even if for a moment, relating has ceased.

The challenge is a lot of people are breaking the do no harm rule a lot of the time, again, maybe not intentionally for the specific purpose of causing hurt, but none the less, knowing it will cause hurt. This causes relating to be suspended over and over again, and intimacy breaks down. A lot of people are living in relationships where intimacy is a ghost of days gone by and hardly even notice it.

If you want to take your relationship to a higher level, if you want to feel the light in places you thought were forever dark, you have to be willing to fix the things you’ve been making your excuses for not showing up.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Sharing is sexy. If you liked this article, share, comment, or pass it on.

Lisa Hayes, The Love Whisperer, is an LOA Relationship Coach. She helps clients leverage Law of Attraction to get the relationships they dream about and build the lives they want. Lisa is the author of the newly released hit book, Score Your Soulmate and How to Escape from Relationship Hell and The Passion Plan.

[ecotone99]

[RO]

Portrait of a Portrait

https://medium.com/@mr.cat.computer/portrait-of-a-portrait-629b0a57b9c4

https://mr.cat.computer/2017/02/28/portrait-of-a-portrait/

His hair was long and oily, curling slightly upwards at their ends in an open rebellion against gravity which mirrored the expression that had been etched into his face over years of defying what others condoned as common sense. His choice in clothing indicated a preference of holding onto comfortable, well-worn items: his faded olive green jacket which showed its age through its broken zipper, tattered velcro wrist-straps, and easily-missed burn-holes from back when he still smoked. If you held it against your nose and breathed deeply, you could still smell the smoke from all those years ago. It illustrated the side of him I liked the most: that endearing loyalty to things which had endured the good-and-bad with him.

His wristwatch might have been the only item that glimmered a hint of the richness beneath the rags: but even that, on closer examination, had scratched up steel-straps where his hands had rested on desks as he’d worked long hours toiling over computer programs, or those rarer occasion when he’d chanced to bump into something through one of his deft, practiced movements.

Usually, he bumped into me. Then he’d come back and caress the spot, like that was going to make it any better; he did it with a sensuality that made it pleasant, forgivable, and altogether familiar.

Much of his behavior conveyed an open disregard for aspects that might have bothered other people: how he went out with me to fashionable places in those same faded clothes with a two-day shadow upon his jaw and chin which he would stroke almost proudly, how he enunciated the grooves his glasses had left upon the bridge of his nose by taking his spectacles off only to massage those very darkened spots.

It was only when you looked into his razor eyes that you could see how effortlessly he could remedy any of these visual artifacts, if only he found a compelling reason to do so. I gave him none for I had accepted him as he was, and as if I was his only reason for doing anything, he thus did nothing.

We didn’t talk much. He didn’t coddle our relationship by decorating it with words or telling me how he felt each day or what work had been like. There was the occasional outburst when he just had to rant on about something completely technical, and I could only help by interrupting him with trivial questions that he always answered with the greatest attention — so much so, he’d often completely forget what he’d been rambling on about in the first place. Then I’d have to gently remind him with a sparkle of humor. I loved moments like that, moments of knowing I was the only one privy to this aspect of him.

I held a keen awareness of the fact that he relied on me the same way he relied on his pencils to draw those sketches that bordered on artistic; relied on his dusty mechanical keyboard to write stories that fell short of being literary; and relied upon his aged electric guitar and tube-amp to produce those sounds that seemed to thrill him as being musical where others would have criticized it as meaningless noise.

In just the same way, he relied completely and wholeheartedly upon me to be his anchor to humanity, else he would certainly have careened away in any breeze that happened by.

It was in this unspoken reliance and attachment to me that our love existed: he loved me, and I loved that he needed me. His dependence was so juvenile, he would go so far as to regularly point out jewelry and clothing on other women and then say, “darling, wouldn’t that look so much more stunning on you?”

In similarly naive manner, he occasioned to fashion love poems he’d leave hanging on the refrigerator, saying such things as “thine beauty hath chained my soul; without thee I shalt never be whole… be back late” to indicate another restless night of wandering the streets, struggling to draw upon that tenuous river of inspiration that flowed within him.

I asked him once, “what compels you to write, to draw, to make music when no one cares to read, to look, to listen?”

He smiled in a mysterious way. “You do.”

I blushed. It was true; I couldn’t help but listen and look and read and see that all his art, every last bit of it, even those scribbles and vague sketches: all of it was devoted entirely to me.

“I sometimes wish I had more to give to the world… but immortalizing my love for you is all I have to gift.”

I both loved and hated that he said that. I adored that he could not help but express his love for me in so many ways. I hated that he belittled it as though it were something so small when to me, it was more valuable than the world itself.

Can’t you see your own worth as a man?

I knew he was blind to that. No one had ever told it to him — not even me, for I secretly feared if he understood the true magnitude of who he was, he wouldn’t care to have anything to do with me, not when there were so many more selfless and beautiful women out there.

Selfishly, I despised myself for hoarding his magnanimity. In a certain word, I’d always believed that it was the woman who makes the man. Our marriage had cemented that belief, but in so doing, I began to feel an inexplicable burden of guilt for transforming an otherwise talented and ambitious human into one not so different from myself: comfortable with the status quo, content with a life of quiet insignificance. I wondered what more he could have become that he chose not to. His passion for me was what I loved; it was also what I hated most.

Often, he would come home and I’d be occupied in the kitchen, and he’d constrict his arms in a manner tighter than a hug, so I couldn’t move or escape if I wanted to. I rarely felt anything when he did things like that, at best I found it a nuisance and loathed it.

Except that it was the loving sort of loathing one gets after hating something for so long, one can’t help but feel comfortable with the familiarity and fall in love with it.

Of course it was more than that — some deeper part of me felt satisfied in an inexplicable way, because it was his gesture to communicate: “I’ve been thinking about you dear, and all the things you have to deal with when it comes to me, everything you take care of without my asking…”

I knew that was how he meant it because as soon as I’d stilled myself and stopped what I was doing, rolling my eyes with a faux pas frown he was forced to notice, he’d caress my fingers, seeking out callouses and imperfections, rubbing and enunciating them. Then he’d begin kissing my cheeks, particularly the beauty marks and all the speckled imperfections that he would often touch in gentle reminder. “Perfection in imperfection,” he’d wink.

Those were his ways of saying “I love every inch and last detail, the good and bad, the beautiful and ugly.”

He was so dependent. So very dependent. And I so very much needed that dependence, I almost despised myself for my addiction to it. I was his opiate and he was my liquor.

Sometimes, out of boredom, I’d say something arbitrary like, “I hear there are some beautiful beaches in Bali.”

Then ten months later, out of nowhere, he’d rouse me one morning with his lips against my neck, his arms in an uncomfortable embrace. We’d get up for breakfast, and he’d present me with an already-packed bag, and we’d be off. Except we wouldn’t go to Bali, we’d end up somewhere quite the opposite, like Finland. I would feign boredom and irritation as he’d incessantly take snapshots of me with his semi-professional camera and small set of lenses. When I would try and reverse the situation to capture a snap of him, he’d playfully dodge, leaving it blurred, or with one of his sardonic expressions that yelped “no you don’t!”

“Look, photos are to remember things that are important to you. You’re important to me. Me? I couldn’t give a hoot about myself. Why would I want to remember myself?”

“You idiot,” I’d scold him, shaking my head. “Do you even realize how juvenile your logic is? You sound like a three-year old. I’m not taking photos for you to remember yourself, I’m taking photos for me.”

He’d shrug with the most worthless comeback. “Unlike men, I’m pretty sure women have perfect memories and remember everything. I mean, how else do they remember the most useless things to hang over their husband’s heads?”

“Like knowing all the places you forget your keys? Remembering what foods you like?”

“Buttered toast is not my favorite food.” Then, without giving me time to riposte, he’d steamroll: “To my point, men need photos to remember that things are even important and worth remembering. For women, photos are a luxury, because they already remember the things that are important.”

I actually couldn’t argue with him about that. In this way, he amassed a myriad photos of me, while I had almost none of him. I had more photos of him as a child and a young man than after our marriage. Actually, I had more photos of us during our honeymoon than in the ten years following.

When we’d return to the airport for our flight back, he’d fake a puzzled expression and say, “strange, I seem to have booked the wrong tickets…” and then we’d end up in Bali, just like I’d wanted, me in a bikini and strangely self-conscious of the slight weight I’d gained with age while he would squeeze just those aspects of me in a way that stated, “I love that, too.”

He didn’t just do this sort of thing once. This was a stunt he repeated on a semi-annual basis. In the same way that I hated how tightly he would hug me at times, ever vacation had to start with going somewhere that I definitely did not want to go.

As part of the almost cat-and-mouse nature of our marriage, there were certain things he hid from me. He was secretive in logic-defying ways, freely acting as though he were having an affair with another woman, purposefully locking files away in encrypted drives with cryptic names that suggested it was someone other than me. I knew that possibly couldn’t be true and found the way that he toyed with my insecurities and paranoia frustrating. Some days he would just… not come home until one AM, claiming he was in the office writing or working on a personal project. (To wit, I had actually installed a miniature GPS tracker in the shoes he always wore, so I knew he wasn’t lying)

He would drive me mad with such behaviour, which would invariably lead me to playing my trump card to squeeze the truth out of him by seducing him in the ways I only knew how.

Even then, his mockery seemingly never ceased. It was only through the years that I began to realize this was his strategy for openly addressing the unspoken fear of infidelity that is on everyone’s minds, but rarely discussed in a healthy way. As someone who had been in more than a few such relationships, I began to appreciate the thought behind his actions, even if I detested the actions themselves.

In spite of it all, there was one thing he never yielded on: he would never let me actually view the contents of his caches of supposedly illicit media. The thought of not knowing burned at me for a bit, but then I realized it was okay to let him have a few secrets. So long as I knew that there were secrets and how to get to them, that is. It was the secret secrets, the unknown secrets, that were truly frightening.

When I got the call about the accident, the first thing, the only thing, that I could think was: “Now I’ll never know.”

Later, I would think of myself as a terrible human being for thinking something so trivial in the light of such tragedy. It was my counselor who gently described to how our minds, not knowing how to deal with trauma, often thinks of the stupidest things as a means to cope, to distract from the true immensity of what has transpired.

After the funeral, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to our home, to see anything that reminded me of him. I went to stay with my parents during that time, embroiled in a state of constant shell-shock and symptomatic PTSD. The days following the funeral seemed like years. I spent those years laying in bed, tormented by my memories of him, by things I expected to be there. His being gone was like a missing appendage, more valuable than a leg or an arm. Some unspeakable part of me had gone missing, and my mind echoed ghost pains every waking moment.

Sleep was my makeshift cure for my permanent affliction. I did everything I could to fend off consciousness: the constant pain of being awake was unbearable; it would ebb and flow between just barely tolerable to mind-warping.

When I was awake, I found food and drink wholly unappealing and unsatisfying. It was as if my ability to enjoy anything had been almost utterly and completely evaporated. I felt desiccated, a husk whose juices had been dried out, leaving just enough to form a walking corpse, a zombie. My mind lost touch with reality for nary a month, until one morning, my mother forced me out to meet with his lawyer and review his will.

As my mind glazed past the details of the assets I’d inherited, I could only think how little any of it was worth, how thoroughly hurtful any reminder of him would be, and how everything I got felt like blood money. In too many ways to count, I felt like what I was receiving was a curse, things that would torment me which I could not bring myself to be rid of.

Then, at the end of our meeting, something unexpected happened. His lawyer gave me a letter of personal instructions. I didn’t want to read it then, but I was instructed that, as the executor of his will, I had a legal obligation to review his personal instructions in the presence of a notary, so the transfer of assets could proceed.

My heart ached and I could hardly breathe for the stone in my throat. In the end, my mother opened the letter for me, gently wiping the tears occluding my vision so I could see what was written.

It was a handwritten note, his slanted scrawling slashing through my heart. I suddenly felt glad that I didn’t have that many pictures of him, and then I felt horrible for thinking that.

See you on the other side. Don’t let me be the weight pulling you down.

Bet you’re glad you don’t have so many pictures of me now, eh?

43e79df7555120987cab222697258fe0

I’d let the lawyer and notary review the note, then I crumpled it in illogical fury, keen to toss it and just barely able to restrain myself into pocketing it. I was angry at him, his tone, the way he seemed to know what would go through my mind before I did. Most of all, I was livid at him for leaving me here alone, with so little, with so few words. This is all he could find to say, after all we’d been through? Even in death, he continued to mock me sardonically, playing those same games as if he were still around.

It was that anger that jolted me out of what I was going through.

In the days following, as I began to throw myself back into life with a frightening aggression, it began to dawn on me just how much one person has to love another to know the right words to say for something like this. How much a single person had to have thought about another person and what they would go through. Somehow, in the way I loved and hated, he’d left me feeling inadequate yet complete.

His nonchalance, machismo, and gentle affection were so tersely conveyed in those simple words — See you on the other side. It was a phrase he’d used often enough, before work, before going to sleep, before any time we parted. In all of these circumstances, it was obvious that we would see each other again. But now that it no longer was, now that such certainty had been buried in permanence, he chose the words he would have said as if… nothing had happened at all. It was that stupidly reassuring and endearing absoluteness, that idiotically absolute faith, that comforted me the most. It made life feel… like I would be without him but a single day.

When I finally got back to my apartment after spending another month with my parents, I saw his computer and something in my mind clicked. I remembered the note. I hadn’t thought about what the random string was, but in that moment, I knew.

I booted his machine up and logged in. I began to decrypt his folders. I began to gain some semblance of what he was always up to at his office.

I had always assumed he showed me all his artistic creations. I began to realize I was grossly mistaken. There were photographs of me, often when I wasn’t looking, capturing some aspect of my expression in the most natural ways. Notes about how my face looked in different light, poetry about my hair and hands, countless practice recordings of his songs that illustrated the countless hours and attempts he poured into them, and… perhaps what struck me most of all were the things he’d never shown me. Short stories he’d written about our relationship. Digital paintings of me based on photographs. There were even complete fictional novels centered around stories I’d told him from my childhood, or discussions we’d had.

Everything he had ever shown me and said to me was hardly the tip of the iceberg to the vast volumes of art he’d made about me. In his works, I began to see how much more to him there really was, how little I really knew about the person I’d married. I knew his behaviorisms, how to tell when he was lying, how to manipulate him to do what I wanted. I knew his likes and dislikes, his birthday; his past, his hopes, his dreams. I knew his tendencies, his moral strengths and shortcomings, his philosophies. I knew his focus, his almost cold-hearted look when thought through problems. These were things I had always equated to knowing a person, but they suddenly seemed inconsequentially superficial. All the nuanced complexity and shades of his soul, the unspoken and incommunicable aspects that made up his depth as a human… the core of his being, that manifested as the person I knew: this was something I had no idea about.

I began to realize how much of him was still here.

submitted by /u/MisterCatComputer [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2q2PQpa

[swanyaofficial-blog]

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Clothing Care 101: Small Things You Do that Destroy Your Clothes Faster

“Care for your clothes like the good friends that they are.”-Joan Crawford

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To ensure that this does not happen to you, we have listed some of them in this article for you to avoid them in the future or address them appropriately.

  1.)    Using wire hangers instead of felt

 More often than not, even something as insignificant as hangers would already contribute to how long your clothes will eventually last. Wire hangers do not have enough support for heavier fabrics and would tend to ruin the integrity of your clothing’s shape over time. Felt hangers, while more expensive, would not leave little marks in the shoulder area like wire hangers do. Furthermore, they have enough grip to hang silky and thin fabrics. Plus, they are a lot thinner than plastic so you can fit more in your closet.

 2.)    You fail to empty your pockets before you put your clothes in the wash

 Before putting your clothes in the wash, check your pockets for items first. Anything from pens, coins, and lipstick can leave streaks, marks and stains on your clothes. At other times, it might even cause tears on your clothes. So, on your next laundry day, be sure that your pockets are all empty before loading them up.

 3.)    You over dry your clothes in the dryer

 No doubt, one of the things that causes the most damage is the machine dryer. Overdrying your clothes tends to result in shrinkage and warped elastics. To address this, the best way to dry your clothes is to put all your garments in the dryer at low temperature. Be sure not to include the line-dried delicates in the dryer! However, if your laundry is not dried in a single drying cycle, line dry it or lay them out the drying rack. Do not forget to clean the lint trap after every cycle!

 4.)    You fail to follow the instructions on your laundry detergents

 Detergents contain strong chemicals and ingredients designed to remove stains. However, the soil is still kept in the water in the wash which means that if you use too little detergent, then the quantity of the same chemicals and ingredients would be too small resulting in laundry that is not as clean or as white than it would have been if you used enough. On the other hand, if you use it too liberally, you are not only being wasteful but it may result in insufficient rinsing which would leave detergent residues on clothing fabrics.

  5.)    You rub on spills instead of blotting

 Sometimes, we inevitably spill something on our clothing garments when we are out. However, instead of rubbing on it in an attempt to get it off, blot it out. Blot it gently and carefully without rubbing it. Furthermore, never use hot water in blotting it.

 6.)    You let stains sit overnight

 Be quick to act on spills and stains on your clothes as you have a better chance in blotting and cleaning them off the fabric. The longer they sit, the deeper they will set into the fabric which would resultantly make it a lot more difficult for you to take them off the fibers.

  7.)    Fail to read care labels

 Remember, not all clothing items wash the same so be sure to always read the care label of your clothing. When it comes to clothing care, knowing how to care for your clothes is the first step to ensuring its longevity. Failure to read the care labels or disregarding the suggested care from the manufacturers themselves altogether would result in damaged clothes.  

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Easy Fitness - Swimming - A Whole Body Workout

How about we manage the weight reduction issue appropriate off, on the grounds that on the off chance that we don't, you may sidestep one of the best activities around.

Swimming, convention has it, is not a decent approach to get thinner - a continuing bit of falsehood that honestly isn't dissipated by daily paper photographs of Hindenburg-measure marathon swimmers lurching from some cold sea.

Genuine, when you swim, your body is upheld by water, and on the grounds that you aren't compelled to battle gravity, there can be less calorie consume. It is additionally genuine that some marathon swimmers won't be demonstrating clothing at any point in the near future (really, it profits marathon swimmers to convey some fat as important protection against sub zero water). What's more, it's actual that a 150-pound man swimming at a comfortable pace consumes around 6 calories every moment. He could consume almost double the calories running at a passerby 12-minute-mile pace.

Be that as it may, before you play Judas on the pool, consider this. That same 150-pounder can twofold his calorie consume by swimming quicker. Swimming butterfly (the most troublesome of swimming's four strokes) consumes around 14 calories every moment - a superior caloric consume than tennis, squash, or football (soccer). What we're discussing here is power, and that clarifies why Olympic swimmers (not at all like marathon swimmers) have the kind of body that gets the part of Tarzan.

Swimming offers others different advantages that can't be disregarded. Since you are bolstered by water, it's a low-affect game and therefore for all intents and purposes damage free. For a similar reason it's additionally an awesome exercise in case you're overweight, since it saves your joints the beating experienced in gravity-bound games like running.

The fluctuated strokes utilized as a part of swimming take your joints through a full scope of movement that can enhance adaptability. Most vital, few activities give you the go to toe muscle exercise that swimming does.

You are utilizing all the real muscle gatherings of the body. the legs, hips, abs, chest, shoulders, and upper back - these muscles are working. You can likewise get colossal incitement to the heart and respiratory framework. To the extent general wellbeing goes, swimming is an incredible conditioner.

Beginning

Here's a possible situation: Excited by the possibility of every one of these advantages, man goes to the pool. Man wears suit and goggles. Man pushes off the divider and makes for the flip side. Man gives self and lifeguard a genuine alarm.

Swimming, it should be stated, is not a game that comes easily. Witness recreational pools, which are normally loaded with people who seem as though they're more intrigued by self-conservation than work out. Will demonstrate to you proper methodologies to make that move from whipping wheezer to smooth swimmer and how to enhance regardless of the possibility that you're as of now at home in the water.

Get Qualified Instruction - Learning to swim may appear to be something for preschoolers in water wings. In any case, regardless of the possibility that you can effectively explore from one end of the pool to the next, legitimate system is not something that you can learn all alone.

Be Patient - We hope to lift things up rapidly. Swimming won't be one of them. Learning legitimate stroke methods requires some serious energy, and that takes tolerance. Individuals need comes about immediately, yet swimming is greatly specialized, which is truly disappointing for many people. Taking in swimming's four strokes - free-form, backstroke, breaststroke, and butterfly is not troublesome, but rather it is basic that you figure out how to do them appropriately on the off chance that you need to get the most out of swimming.

Unwind In The Water - When you're figuring out how to swim, unwinding is the most vital thing that you can do - and the most troublesome. At the point when individuals are figuring out how to swim, they get apprehensive and they worry. What's more, when they do that, they wind up sinking, and it's quite recently that substantially harder. You have to unwind and remain free. On the off chance that you happen to be one of those individuals whose muscles bolt into a state taking after meticulousness mortis at whatever point you go close to the pool, you might need to get a couple of swim balances. They make your kick all the more effective, which implies that they will keep you up and planing over the surface, notwithstanding when you're tense and tight.

Get The Right Equipment - There's not a considerable measure that you need to purchase, only a suit and swimming goggles. The decision of suit is yours. Hustling suits are light and agreeable. More essential, they offer for all intents and purposes no drag in the water. Swimming goggles are an absolute necessity. Shielding the pool from turning into an infection gathering requires liberal utilization of chemicals and a large number of these chemicals are difficult for the eyes. Every so often, you'll see swimmers wearing nose attachments or earplugs. Spare your cash. Unless you're especially inclined to swommer's ear, the human body is intended to withstand dampness in these specific openings. In any occasion, earplugs tend to drop out while you're swimming, and nose plugs make it difficult to inhale - and when you're swimming hard, you need to be sucking in all the oxygen you can.

Swimming For Fitness

Swimming looks simple, particularly when you watch experienced swimmers skim through the water. Be that as it may, swimming is a to a great degree requesting sport; for novices it can be a battle just to get to the next end of the pool.

To accomplish strong fundamental wellness, have a go at swimming three to four times each week, logging in the vicinity of 2,000 and 3,000 yards (around 1.5 to 2 miles) every exercise. Most swimmers can get that sort of separation in around 60 minutes.

In case you're genuinely fit however new to swimming, specialists prescribe swimming in the vicinity of 500 and 1,000 yards every exercise. At that point manufacture gradually from that point. Swimming is an enthusiastic action. You'll be utilizing new muscles, and it's anything but difficult to push them. Shoulder wounds are particularly regular among overeager newcomers.

Begin With A Warm Up - Swimming might be an easy-going game, however regardless you need to release up before diving into a high-bore exercise. Specialists encourage swimmers to warm up with a 400 yard swim - 200 yards free-form, 100 yards of backstroke, and 100 yards of breaststroke - stirring up the strokes to bring every one of the muscles into play.

Work Up To Intervals - Although you can get an amazing exercise by swimming straight time, doing likewise stroke at a similar pace for 30 minutes or something like that, you'll consume generously more calories by doing an interim exercise. This is simply a progression of swims isolated by a particular measure of rest (the interim). For instance, you may do ten 50-yard free-form swims, leaving the divider consistently. Or, then again you may do five 100-yard free-form swims leaving the divider like clockwork. A run of the mill swimming exercise comprises of a few sets, with approximately 10 to 30 second interims between each swim of the set, at that point a few minutes rest between each set. The imperative point is not to permit excessively rest amid the set, you would prefer not to completely recoup between swims.

Blend Your Speeds - many people simply condition themselves to swim at one speed since they do a similar sort of exercise constantly. In the event that you need to enhance, you have to figure out how to swim quick. It isn't so much that each swim should be a dash. The thought is to blend things up. As opposed to swimming a similar half-mile person on foot trudge each day, for instance, do interims. What's more, make no less than one of those interim sets include quick swimming. Swimming quick brings more muscle filaments into play, assesses the heart and lungs more, and consumes as much as double the calories. Obviously, when you're swimming quick, you'll have to rest longer between each swim so you can truly attempt. For instance, while doing ten 50-yard swims, you might need to leave the divider like clockwork rather than the 1 minute prescribed for a slower pace. You're resting all the more, yet I promise you will be beat. An extra point: It's dependably a smart thought to do your dashes set ahead of schedule in the exercise while you're still new.

Blend Your Strokes - Many swimmers swim only free-form. In case you're one of them, you're passing up a great opportunity. Hurling swimming's different strokes into your exercise will enable you to hit more muscles and enhance your adaptability by bringing distinctive movements into play.

Set Your Arms And Legs to Work - Pulling (swimming utilizing only your arms) and kicking (utilizing only your legs) are great increments to any swimming exercise. Pulling is an awesome abdominal area conditioner. Kicking hits your legs; include a couple of blades, and you'll build lower leg adaptability, making your legs work much harder. Also, on the grounds that they include huge muscles, kicking and pulling hoist your heart rate nearly as much as swimming the total stroke. When kicking, don't utilize a kick-board. Clutching the plastic froth board raises your abdominal area and drops your hips and legs down. Great swimming means adjusting the hips and head close to the surface of the water; having your legs calculating down like grapples doesn't finish that.

Get A Fast Burn - If you're searching for an intense exercise that you can do in insignificant time, here's a testing alternative. The way to this workoutisn't speed, however lessening your rest periods to without a doubt the base. Utilizing your preferred stroke, keep the exertion genuinely simple, say 60 percent of your most extreme heart rate. However, keep the rest time frame between swims short, close to 7 to 15 seconds, contingent upon the separation you're swimming. For instance, in case you're doing a progression of short swims (say, 50 yards), you might need to rest around 7 seconds between every one. For longer swims of 200 yards, for example, take 15 seconds between every one. Keeping the rest time frames short permits no time for recuperation. This keeps your heart rate up and slamming, giving you a spectacular exercise in a generally brief time. You're preparing your heart to be significantly more effective. Also, it doesn't mean additional time in the pool. It implies swimming more laps in the given time. You can get in an awesome exercise in a hour meal break.

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Swimming - whole body workout

How about we manage the weight reduction issue appropriate off, in light of the fact that on the off chance that we don't, you may sidestep one of the best activities around.

Swimming, custom has it, is not a decent approach to get in shape - a continuing bit of deception that honestly isn't dissipated by daily paper photographs of Hindenburg-measure marathon swimmers staggering from some bone chilling sea.

Genuine, when you swim, your body is bolstered by water, and on the grounds that you aren't compelled to battle gravity, there can be less calorie consume. It is likewise genuine that some marathon swimmers won't be demonstrating clothing at any point in the near future (really, it profits marathon swimmers to convey some fat as important protection against sub zero water). Also, it's actual that a 150-pound man swimming at a lackadaisical pace consumes about 6 calories per minute. He could consume about double the calories running at a person on foot 12-minute-mile pace.

Be that as it may, before you fail the pool, consider this. That same 150-pounder can twofold his calorie consume by swimming quicker. Swimming butterfly (the most troublesome of swimming's four strokes) consumes about 14 calories every moment - a superior caloric consume than tennis, squash, or football (soccer). What we're discussing here is force, and that clarifies why Olympic swimmers (not at all like marathon swimmers) have the kind of body that gets the part of Tarzan.

Swimming offers others different advantages that can't be disregarded. Since you are upheld by water, it's a low-affect game and along these lines for all intents and purposes damage free. For a similar reason it's additionally an awesome exercise in case you're overweight, since it saves your joints the beating experienced in gravity-bound games like running.

The shifted strokes utilized as a part of swimming take your joints through a full scope of movement that can enhance adaptability. Most critical, few activities give you the go to toe muscle exercise that swimming does.

You are utilizing all the real muscle gatherings of the body. the legs, hips, abs, trunk, shoulders, and upper back - these muscles are working. You can likewise get huge incitement to the heart and respiratory framework. To the extent general wellbeing goes, swimming is a fantastic conditioner.

Beginning

Here's a feasible situation: Excited by the possibility of every one of these advantages, man goes to the pool. Man wears suit and goggles. Man pushes off the divider and makes for the flip side. Man gives self and lifeguard a genuine terrify.

Swimming, it should be stated, is not a game that comes easily. Witness recreational pools, which are ordinarily loaded with people who appear as though they're more keen on self-safeguarding than work out. Will demonstrate to you generally accepted methods to make that move from whipping wheezer to smooth swimmer and how to enhance regardless of the possibility that you're now at home in the water.

Get Qualified Instruction - Learning to swim may appear to be something for preschoolers in water wings. Yet, regardless of the possibility that you can effectively explore from one end of the pool to the next, legitimate system is not something that you can learn all alone.

Be Patient - We hope to lift things up rapidly. Swimming won't be one of them. Learning appropriate stroke systems requires some serious energy, and that takes tolerance. Individuals need comes about immediately, yet swimming is to a great degree specialized, which is truly disappointing for many people. Taking in swimming's four strokes - free-form, backstroke, breaststroke, and butterfly is not troublesome, but rather it is basic that you figure out how to do them appropriately on the off chance that you need to get the most out of swimming.

Unwind In The Water - When you're figuring out how to swim, unwinding is the most essential thing that you can do - and the most troublesome. At the point when individuals are figuring out how to swim, they get anxious and they worry. Furthermore, when they do that, they wind up sinking, and it's quite recently that substantially harder. You have to unwind and remain free. In the event that you happen to be one of those individuals whose muscles bolt into a state looking like thoroughness mortis at whatever point you go close to the pool, you might need to get a couple of swim blades. They make your kick all the more effective, which implies that they will keep you up and planing over the surface, notwithstanding when you're tense and tight.

Get The Right Equipment - There's not a considerable measure that you need to purchase, only a suit and swimming goggles. The decision of suit is yours. Dashing suits are light and agreeable. More essential, they offer basically no drag in the water. Swimming goggles are an absolute necessity. Shielding the pool from turning into an infection gathering requires liberal utilization of chemicals and a large portion of these chemicals are difficult for the eyes. Every so often, you'll see swimmers wearing nose attachments or earplugs. Spare your cash. Unless you're especially inclined to swommer's ear, the human body is intended to withstand dampness in these specific holes. In any occasion, earplugs tend to drop out while you're swimming, and nose plugs make it difficult to inhale - and when you're swimming hard, you need to be sucking in all the oxygen you can.

Swimming For Fitness

Swimming looks simple, particularly when you watch experienced swimmers skim through the water. In any case, swimming is a to a great degree requesting sport; for apprentices it can be a battle just to get to the next end of the pool.

To accomplish strong essential wellness, have a go at swimming three to four times each week, logging in the vicinity of 2,000 and 3,000 yards (about 1.5 to 2 miles) every exercise. Most swimmers can get that sort of separation in around 60 minutes.

In case you're genuinely fit yet new to swimming, specialists prescribe swimming in the vicinity of 500 and 1,000 yards every exercise. At that point assemble gradually from that point. Swimming is a lively action. You'll be utilizing new muscles, and it's anything but difficult to stretch them. Shoulder wounds are particularly basic among exuberant newcomers.

Begin With A Warm Up - Swimming might be an easy-going game, yet despite everything you need to extricate up before diving into a high-bore exercise. Specialists encourage swimmers to warm up with a 400 yard swim - 200 yards free-form, 100 yards of backstroke, and 100 yards of breaststroke - stirring up the strokes to bring every one of the muscles into play.

Work Up To Intervals - Although you can get a brilliant exercise by swimming straight time, doing likewise stroke at a similar pace for 30 minutes or somewhere in the vicinity, you'll consume significantly more calories by doing an interim exercise. This is just a progression of swims isolated by a particular measure of rest (the interim). For instance, you may do ten 50-yard free-form swims, leaving the divider consistently. Or, then again you may do five 100-yard free-form swims leaving the divider like clockwork. A run of the mill swimming exercise comprises of a few sets, with about 10 to 30 second interims between each swim of the set, at that point a few minutes rest between each set. The essential point is not to permit excessively rest amid the set, you would prefer not to completely recuperate between swims.

Blend Your Speeds - many people simply condition themselves to swim at one speed since they do a similar sort of exercise constantly. On the off chance that you need to enhance, you have to figure out how to swim quick. It isn't so much that each swim should be a dash. The thought is to blend things up. As opposed to swimming a similar half-mile passerby trudge each day, for instance, do interims. Furthermore, make no less than one of those interim sets include quick swimming. Swimming quick brings more muscle filaments into play, assesses the heart and lungs more, and consumes as much as double the calories. Obviously, when you're swimming quick, you'll have to rest longer between each swim so you can truly attempt. For instance, while doing ten 50-yard swims, you might need to leave the divider at regular intervals rather than the 1 minute prescribed for a slower pace. You're resting all the more, however I promise you will be beat. An extra point: It's dependably a smart thought to do your runs set ahead of schedule in the exercise while you're still new.

Blend Your Strokes - Many swimmers swim only free-form. In case you're one of them, you're passing up a major opportunity. Hurling swimming's different strokes into your exercise will enable you to hit more muscles and enhance your adaptability by bringing distinctive movements into play.

Set Your Arms And Legs to Work - Pulling (swimming utilizing only your arms) and kicking (utilizing only your legs) are great increases to any swimming exercise. Pulling is an awesome abdominal area conditioner. Kicking hits your legs; include a couple of balances, and you'll expand lower leg adaptability, making your legs work considerably harder. What's more, since they include vast muscles, kicking and pulling raise your heart rate nearly as much as swimming the total stroke. When kicking, don't utilize a kick-board. Clutching the plastic froth board raises your abdominal area and drops your hips and legs down. Great swimming means adjusting the hips and head close to the surface of the water; having your legs calculating down like stays doesn't fulfill that.

Get A Fast Burn - If you're searching for an extreme exercise that you can do in insignificant time, here's a testing choice. The way to this workoutisn't speed, yet lessening your rest periods to without a doubt the base. Utilizing your preferred stroke, keep the exertion genuinely simple, say 60 percent of your most extreme heart rate. Be that as it may, keep the rest time frame between swims short, close to 7 to 15 seconds, contingent upon the separation you're swimming. For instance, in case you're doing a progression of short swims (say, 50 yards), you might need to rest around 7 seconds between every one. For longer swims of 200 yards, for example, take 15 seconds between every one. Keeping the rest time frames short permits no time for recuperation. This keeps your heart rate up and slamming, giving you a fantastic exercise in a moderately brief time. You're preparing your heart to be significantly more productive. What's more, it doesn't mean additional time in the pool. It implies swimming more laps in the given time. You can get in an awesome exercise in a hour meal break.