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mardereads19 · 3 years ago

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Elriel Month 🌸🦇

Day 25:

Continuation of Day 8: Invisible String.

Cassian followed Elain as she circled in silent feet the camp along the shore of Koschei’s lake. They kept hidden behind the trees, but shadows surrounded both of them, blocking out any other noise that might escape by mistake while also keeping them out of sight.

Earlier today, when Elain had exited the tent after her vision, and had done as the shadow had bade her to do —follow— Elain discovered that there was more than one of them waiting for her. Shadows began to appear without notice, and Elain could not tell if they were Azriel’s shadows escaping from wherever Koschei was holding them captive or if they were new shadows coming over to help her. What she did know, however, was that she could communicate with them, and that they followed her lead.

Azriel, one of them whispered in her ear and Elain came to a stop, crouching low to look over a fallen tree trunk at the conglomeration of tents.

Cassian’s brows had been furrowed in grim determination and fury ever since Amren had confirmed there had been fear in Azriel’s tent, but now he scanned the dark glade, lifting an eyebrow. “Koschei has gathered forces since we last saw him.”

The Inner Circle had barely wasted an hour back at their glade to come up with a plan to rescue Azriel. They had expected a few other males to fight aside the death-lord, but this many soldiers? It was riskier than any of them had anticipated. It also did not help at all that it was the dead of night with no moon to help them see. There were only a few lamps every several feet and a bonfire by the center of this camp.

“Shit,” Cassian whispered, a slight quiver in his voice. Elain looked at him and by his expression she gathered that it was fear that had made his voice shake. Elain’s shoulder sagged. What could possibly make a determined Cassian blanch in fear? He swallowed and pointed ahead. Elain glanced to where he was pointing expecting the worst, but she saw nothing urgent. Only a flag she did not know waving in the soft breeze in a quiet tent. “Rask.”

Elain understood, then. One of the three countries they had feared could join with Hybern during the war was already allied with Koschei. It would be a matter of time before the other two also joined in.

“This must only be a small fraction of its army,” Cassian murmured, shaking his head. “Shit.”

Elain dispelled the worry that entered her mind at the new knowledge and instead focused on the task at hand. Azriel. There would be time to worry after he was safely in her arms.

When Elain had been in Hybern and her sister and shadowsinger had come to save her, Feyre had been able to shift into that priestess that she had known well. But neither Cassian nor Elain could shift and neither of them knew anyone here to use as leverage. Going in and out of this camp was a work meant for stealth. Meant for spies.

Meant for shadows.

I have need of you, she whispered to her friends. The ones surrounding her stilled, listening. She relaid her plan to them, wondering if the shadows would approve —if Azriel would approve— but they made no comment before Elain observed as a few of them slipped away and into the camp, staying close to the ground and hidden in the darkness.

Cassian stopped looking at the Rask flag and glanced between the retreating shadows and Elain. She knew he had questions, just like the rest of the inner circle had. None had said them out loud, but the time would come for them to do so. What would Elain answer? She didn’t know how she had gained the power to understand the shadows. The only thing she did know was that she was the only one who could help Azriel and that the shadows had sensed this. They had winnowed her and Cassian here.

Other than that, she was just as confused as her friends and family were.

A few murmurs made their way over to them, the conversation not quite discernible, but she strained to hear it. Two males, by the sound of it. She heard their steps —twigs snapping under the soles of their boots— and the sound of a heartbeat began to register in her mind.

She turned to Cassian. “Can you hear those males speaking?”

He frowned, tilting his head. “I don’t pick up anything.” He blinked at her, eyes contemplative. “Can you?”

Elain nodded. It was her hearing then, it was sharpening like it did almost every night. Those males must be on the other side of the camp if Cassian could not hear them. Other soft noises began to become clear for her —snoring, pacing, tossing and turning.

The heartbeat.

Her own heart responded to that one heartbeat.

She focused on that, trying to remember Nuala and Cerridwen’s instructions on how to concentrate on a sound and fade the others into the background. It was difficult and Elain hadn’t practiced much, since she had those ear plugs to block out noice back at the river house.

Movement caught her eye, and Elain saw a shadow approach them.

Follow, it whispered.

And Elain meant to do so as her surroundings went black.

***

Azriel had been left chained to the roof of the tent, a sturdy pole holding the structure to ensure he couldn’t collapse the whole thing.

Except, he couldn’t even try. Whatever hold of Azriel Koschei had seized remained. He could not move, could not speak. The only thing he could do was breathe and blink. He felt as useless as he had when he had been locked in that gods forsaken cell.

He wasn’t alone here either. His shadows had been left with him, but he had noticed how some had vanished. Azriel could not tell whether they were doing it out of their own free will or if Koschei was commanding them through his control over Azriel.

If the shadows were leaving out of their own free will, what did that mean? Azriel had seen them do things without his approval lately. They would follow Elain, or bring her flowers, or guard her door. They had begun acting without directions. But did that mean that they’d abandon him now at last?

Azriel pushed the worry away.

***

“Is this where they are keeping Azriel?” Cassian asked as he followed after Elain. His wings shifted, as if it were difficult to hold back the urge to burst into the sky and take a better look at the camp. But the sound of wings flapping would give them away.

They both followed the instructions the shadows gave her. Sometimes they commanded them to stop, telling Elain a soldier was turning a corner, and sometimes they changed directions entirely to avoid colliding with anyone. Elain listened to them and did as was told, the shadows blocking out the sounds of their steps, even though Elain applied every lesson by Azriel and her friends to her every move.

“Not exactly,” she answered Cassian as they neared a big white tent. Elain could hear Azriel’s heart beating a steady rhythm, but it was fading behind her instead of getting louder. She hoped she was not making a mistake in trusting her instinct and the vision she had just seen.

A box of black stone. She had seen that before. This time, she had seen where it was.

This tent.

Two males stood guarding the entry and the shadows stopped Elain and Cassian some feet away, hidden behind another smaller tent —snores coming from within.

“What do you mean not exactly?”

Elain ignored the slight angry tone with which Cassian spoke. “I just need to get something first.” He grumbled and she turned around. “Just— Trust me. Please.”

Cassian’s eyes softened and he nodded, but Elain saw his hesitancy. She understood. She also wondered whether she was losing precious time.

***

Azriel kept pushing against the leash that controlled him. Slamming his hands against the wall that now held him captive in his own mind. But it was powerful, ancient magic and he could not break free. He wasn’t sure if even Rhysand’s powers could find a way around this mind control. Could Helion break this wall?

His shadows slithered around the ground, but none lifted up to his ear, none spoke to him. Where they quiet because of Koschei or in spite of Koschei? Azriel didn’t want to find out if Koschei could hear everything Azriel listened to. If the shadows revealed anything about his family’s knowledge...

He was losing his mind in this silence. The only thing that surrounded him was darkness with the exception of the thin line of light that came in through the tiny gap between flaps of the tent.

It was like being back in his cell, except worse.

He didn’t know where Elain was or if she was safe.

Had Koschei ordered more of his lackeys to go back for her? To apprehend her and his family, his friends?

My boss knows who you are. And now, he knows what makes you weak, too.

Azriel had done this, it had been his fault, because he could not control his emotions, he could not see Elain was playing a part. He had showed his hand, he had revealed their plan. He deserved to be held captive. He deserved to be abused this way, because it had been his—

The tent’s flap opened and a shadow gazed into the room before leaving again.

Strange. But not strange at all. Koschei was using his shadows then, spying on Azriel through his own shadows. Using them for whatever reason.

The ones that were still in the tent filtered out after the one that visited and Azriel’s heart began to thunder against his chest. Now he was truly alone. Alone in this darkness. And Elain?

He had been taken away from the light once more.

The flap moved again and Azriel prepared to meet koschei. To suffer whatever torture he would implement to Azriel by making him do his bidding.

But the scent that hit him was known to him, familiar and lovely and it woke up his most visceral impulses. To protect, to guard, to touch, to kiss, to—

Elain hurried over to him, a sob coming out of her mouth. A pair of wings with a talon at their apexes almost cut the tent’s material overhead, and Cassian cursed under his breath, his eyes shining with relief.

Something in him lit up with curiosity, watching.

Azriel’s heart was a drum as Elain lifted her hands to his face, her thumb brushing his cheek.

“Azriel.” Her voice was a melody in his ear, a caress against that wall around his mind.

Azriel felt a tear slip down his cheek as he took in her beautiful face, her warm brown eyes, glowing with tears of her own. Her lips twisted up slightly.

Her gaze dropped to his torso, exactly where he had been stabbed. She frowned as she touched the fixed skin, but her shoulders relaxed. She met his eyes again.

“Are you hurt?” She removed the gag from his mouth, but he could not move. Could not speak the words that were in his heart.

You came for me.

But she saw it in his eyes and she dipped her chin in a small nod. Cassian stared as she lifted herself on her tiptoes and kissed Azriel’s lips, with enough pressure to reassure herself and him that they were both here, that it was real.

His light had come for him.

But he couldn’t kiss her back.

Cassian cleared his throat, his expression full of confusion and shock. “We should hurry.” Red flared from his Siphons.

Elain stepped away and began inspecting his chains. Azriel was trying his best to break free from Koschei’s hold on him, but he could not move. Cassian noticed.

“Shit,” Cassian said, approaching Azriel and waving a hand before his eyes. “Koschei has a hold on him.”

Elain stepped before Azriel again, cupping his face. “Azriel, can you hear me?” He beat and beat against the wall, roaring her name over and over, but he could do nothing but watch her as her shoulders stiffened in anger. She went back to working on the chains. “We’re going to get you out of here, Azriel. Don’t worry.”

Cassian shook his head, pain distorting his face. “If we take him like this, he’ll stay this way.”

Elain whirled on him. “I am not leaving him here!”

“Of course not,” Cassian said fiercely. “But we have to find a way to break Koschei’s control over him.”

Shadows burst into the tent, every one of them twirling with a sense of urgency. Azriel heard their warning just as Koschei stepped into the tent, a cruel smile on his face.

“How do you plan to do that?”

#elrielmonth #elrielmonth21 #elain archeron #Elain #Azriel #elriel #elriel endgame #pro elriel #elriel fanfic #elriel oneshot #my writing

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littlesparklight · 4 years ago

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Water Lilies and Narcissi

There’s multiple counts of character death in here, both by murder and suicide, but none of it graphic.

***

Once there was a pair of twins born to the river god Kephisos and the nymph Liriope, pretty as the buds on flowers. As they grew, they bloomed, and more beautiful yet became. The girl, wielding bow and arrow as cleverly as she could weave or pluck flowers, blossomed under the attention her flowering beauty drew. She was charming and sweet, and sweetly charming to her suitors, and Nymphaia's father made sure that those who approached her in potential hope of more would treat her right. So her sweet disposition and her sweetness grew more fair, but not a single one of her suitors could distract her should her brother want to hunt, for she went with him always.

A potential worry to any parents, perhaps, except that their love was innocent; Nymphaia doting on her brother, and Narkissos would only see her smile, whether it was in the success of a hunt or for a gift from one of her hopeful suitors. He did not understand what charm she found in the play, or the promise of a future marriage. He did not understand why beauty should draw attention at all, and was uncomprehending not just in the face of his sister's suitors, but his own. For Narkissos felt not the sting of either love or lust, no matter the hopeful girl or boy or man, and in his lack of understanding he was thoughtlessly cruel in his rejections.

It might have mattered little, except for the string of broken hearts he left behind himself as he went to hunt, like a careless child attempting to mimick mother or sisters and eagerly yanking on flowers and herbs, breaking some, leaving others pulled out by the roots, yet more with drooping heads left to nod painfully in the wind.

Echo, spying the twins, tried to join them in their hunt to hopefully gain Narkissos' favour - unfortunately her lack of conversation left Nymphaia confused and, when a misunderstanding left her to attempt to embrace Narkissos, Echo was furiously spurned. Left behind was only a voice in the wind, but one of Nymphaia's suitors had spied the altercation, and already suspicious and laid to jealousy, he confronted Nymphaia alone, away from her father's riverbanks.

"You shameless, terrible girl, stringing us all along, when you only have eyes for your brother! It would behoove you to reject us - me - with some grace and honesty, but you can't, can you? Not when you need to hide such shameless lust."

The young man was furious, and uglier for both fury and jealousy, misaimed as it was.

"Love my--- Of course I love my brother! But not like that, what claim you? Have some shame! I already told you I wasn't interested, and Father has told you to go, so go!" Nymphaia cried, furious herself and humiliated besides. And, for the light in that former suitor's eyes, scared. He knew no reason any more and threw herself at her.

Her cry for father, for mother, for her dearest brother, was lost to the shaded pool they had been standing by as she was shoved underwater. The terror of the girl's struggle made the plane trees ringing the banks drop all their leaves.

The body sank to the bottom, and in her place lovely, death-white blooms grew from the leaves floating on top of the water.

The young man fled the scene, and said nothing of what he'd done, leaving Narkissos and his parents to search in vain for the lost daughter. But though he had no knowledge to accuse anyone in particular, Narkissos looked between all her suitors and accused them all with silent stares and harsher words, blaming their love, if not actions, for his sister's disappearance.

Narkissos' thoughtless cruelty in rejecting what he did neither understand nor feel from others became pointed. Became ugly and malicious as he blamed love - and truly so, however blindly! - for his sister's death. Unfortunately, though fewer and fewer approached him, one, unfortunately, so did. Even before Nymphaia's disappearance, Narkissos' tendency to be shallowly thoughtless would have hurt such a sweet-minded, gentle boy. Now, it was worse than that.

"Love?" Narkissos sneered, all flashing blue eyes and long, dark hair to frame that comely face as he stared at the hopeful suitor. "You might as well take your sword there at your side and kill yourself here and now, that would be quicker since that's where all love leads! And I want nothing to do with you, Ameinias. Take that love of yours and go."

The door was slammed shut, and not even Liriope's sad-eyed, frowning disappointment in her son would urge him to open it and be kinder in his rejection.

Perhaps if he had, if he'd not been hurting and nursing his annoyed confusion for all the attention aimed at him, matters might have ended differently. But poor, gentle Ameinias spent the day in tears, sunk into a blackness of mind from whence desperate action comes. Narkissos' cruel spurn echoed in his head again and again, until it had become a demand in the dark of the night, until Ameinias stole out from his comfortable bed and sturdy home, sword in hand, and walked the empty streets until he came to the right door.

"Nemesis! Furious, gentle goddess, who avenges those wrongly harmed, hear me!" Ameinias was sobbing as he drew his sword, hands shaking but his grip determined, eyes fever-bright and locked in a desperate stare at the door. "Narkissos, son of Kephisos, has no kindness in his heart, has no regard for others but himself. So let him love only that which he can't reach, when he's spurned all other love besides. Let him not go out of this unharmed, meanly injuring others with no thought!"

The sword cut true, despite the boy's upset, and Nemesis, her dark wings spread in guarding sympathy as the body fell down onto the threshold, fulfilled Ameinias' last, aching words.

In the morning, Liriope, going to fetch water, was the one who first found the body. Her scream roused Narkissos who, in wild-eyed, guilty upset, fled the house.

He had not, for all his cruel words, actually meant them. Amneinias dead there on their doorstep was a shock.

The young man ran through the streets of Thespiai, and out into the surrounding wilderness. Down paths he'd taken with his sister, laughing ease to her steps as they pursued a deer, paths he had been avoiding in his grief.

Now, they took him to a little lake in the forest, surrounded by denuded plane trees, their leaves thick on the lake's shores and the air shimmering with fear and grief. Narkissos, tired as he was, sunk down there to drink. Nemesis, having followed, made sure he paused too long as he bent over the water. Paused just long enough to catch sight of his reflection, which he had avoided in any surface that might show it to him since Nymphaia disappeared.

Arrested now, Narkissos stared, and ached for the accusing similarity he could see in his reflection. His sister was still here, and yet untouchable, and he missed her. She might have been able to stop him from being so cruel, and now two people were dead.

Three.

"Nymphaia, where did you go?" Narkissos cried, striking the water, but though it shattered the beloved image he couldn't made himself move. Instead he sat rooted, all the more desperate for the image to return whole and still to him, for he was aching with loss and the love of what was only a mockery of what had been. He was his sister, but his sister wasn't here, and she had died - he was sure one of her suitors was the reason, had she perhaps been suffering from heartache? Had someone killed her? It didn't matter. She was gone, and he was here, and he missed her.

And in missing her, he had caused a boy who had only been suffering from what Narkissos himself didn't understand in any way than as what he felt for his sister to kill himself. And though he had had no desire, still didn't, couldn't ever have seen himself to kiss her for that love, would he have killed himself for it?

It had been a guilty thought, but his parents' grief had stopped him. Now... Now his heart ached as much for guilt as longing.

"My words have caused death, our beauty has caused your death and I cannot live without you. Nymphaia, Nymphaia, I miss you, I miss your face, but seeing it in my own reflection only makes it hurt so much more. Mother and Father are glad to see me, both for myself and for the reminder that some part of you are still here, but you aren't and I hate myself as much as I love you!"

And he couldn't move.

He had feared it, had feared he wouldn't have been able to look away once he spied himself, but Nemesis had ensured he had looked and now kept poor Narkissos rooted. Not even clawing at his face made him able to move, and instead he was reduced to tearful regret of marring the face that was his sister's, too.

Finally, unable to stand the sight of himself but unable to look away, Narkissos tossed himself at his reflection, reaching for what couldn't be touched.

The lake swallowed up the youth, and Nemesis, in solemn understanding, let flowers bloom at the spot the Narkissos had sat, unable to look away from his reflection. In death, the twins would be together, his flowers on the bank of the lake, her flowers growing on the surface of it.

*** Myth check: I’ve combined different versions of the Narcissus story into one. The one that involves Narcissus having a sister is incestuous, but as I’ve always liked how Narcissus can easily be read as aro-ace in the other versions, here there’s no incest, only platonic sibling love in service of the tragedy and to flesh the relationships out. In the incestuous version the cause of his sister’s death (she has no name) is unknown, so I went with something that seemed to suit the situation and also pulled in the incest angle, if only as a wilful misunderstanding of Nymphaia and Narkissos’ relationship.

#greek mythology #narcissus #lightart

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anindecisivespirit · 4 years ago

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Mary’s Song

This is just a short little thing I wrote a while ago because I was bored. I figure, why not post it? I’m bored again, after all.

Words: about 1840

Warnings: uh... Mention of burns, scars, and the attempted murder of a child. Other than that there’s not really anything?

--------------------------------------------------

There was once a young girl, whose name hasn't been important for a very long time, but for the sake of this story we will simply call Mary.

Mary had a childhood that she called ordinary, but most would call odd. But to her, but the frequent shivers of people walking over her future grave only meant that when she was buried, she'd have a lot of company. Others said she looked sick, shivering as she did. She didn't mind.

And many thought it strange, how crows and rats and cats swarmed around her home. She thought they liked the berries in her yard, and the pies she left on the windowsill.

But there were things she couldn't explain. The way shadows moved with nothing to cast them. Messes cleaned themselves, as long as she wasn't watching. She didn't understand these things, but that didn't really bother her.

But one night, Mary was woken up. A song rang through the house, a song her mother often sang. And that couldn't be right, because her mother had been dead for years. She had died when Mary was eight.

She slipped into the living room, and there stood a shadow of a man. His skin and hair were black as night, his robes somehow darker. So dark they warped the air around them. His eyes gleamed, bright green and white, nearly glowing against the black of his face.

And he smiled when he saw her, the song cutting off. He'd been the one singing, she realized, though his voice was indistinct. Soft and warm as a mother's lullaby, and hard and strained as a scream.

"Mary," he said softly, "it's good to see you again."

"Well," Mary said slowly, not very frightened for this man felt kind. "I've never seen you. So I suppose it's good to see you for the first time."

And he frowned.

"Are you certain?" he asked, worried and perhaps even slightly scared. "Are you sure you've never seen me, not even once?"

"Yes," she said. She felt she would recall this shadow, had she seen him before. "But when have you seen me? Do you know my mother?"

"I think you meant did I," The man said. He crouched down, until he was her height. He was tall enough standing that he'd have to duck under the doorways, and even at twelve Mary was short.

"Alright. Then did you know her?" Mary tried again. The man nodded.

"I did, but I met her only once. If she'd been alive still, I wouldn't be here. Not in the house, or the yard- not even the street."

"Then," Mary began, "she didn't like you?"

"No," he said. "Though I never liked her much either."

"Then why are you here?" she asked. The man's roundabout talking was rather annoying. This was Mary's house. He should speak clearly. "You can't know me. Did you know my father too?"

The man shook his head.

"You never had a father," he said. "Even your mother was never truly yours. And I do know you. I have, since the day you were born."

"No," Mary said. "No, that can't be right."

"Can't it?" he asked, tilting his head. "Have you never wondered why the beasts sing when you greet them? Why the moon shines all the brighter when it sees you? Why the birds circle above your head- Or, perhaps, how you got that scar?"

She looked down at her hand, where a raised pink scar disappeared beneath her sleeve, stretching across her arm to her chest.

"It was a camping accident," she said quietly. "I fell into the fire."

The man shook his head, looking slightly desperate now.

"Your mother told you things that you must learn to let go," he said gently. "Likewise, she hid things from you. Did she ever tell you of the Wildwood, where goblins and ghouls roam free? Where dragons lurk among the trees, where shades dance and specters sing? The witches and warlocks, who've power over night and day?

"Have you heard of the pixies and of their cousins the fae? The way the branches twist, dance, and sway?"

Mary shook her head. She'd never heard of such things. But she could remember, now, a glen. A green garden of a forest, with shadows that danced with nothing to cast them. Of the light refracting in translucent wings. Of scales so vibrant, they nearly glowed. Music, and laughter, and life.

But she had never seen a forest like that. She'd only seen the sad, small trees of the woods in the park.

"Please," Mary said, though she was very nearly begging. "Tell me what's going on. Why do I remember that? I've never seen it!"

The man drew back, half a pained surprise, and half a strained knowledge.

"Oh, how I wish, little one," he said softly. "That I could take all your troubles away."

"Please," she repeated. He smiled softly.

"There was a time you knew us- all of us," he said. "When the wind whispered in your ears, and the goblins crafted you crowns of gold. When you pulled the shades from the earth into being, and conversed with ghouls. All the fae would speak to you, and you knew all their names."

Mary felt tears falling down her face, of love and loss and heartbreak, and everything underneath.

"I don't know what you mean," she said desperately. She wanted so badly for him to stop, but she needed to hear him say more. She could remember. She could remember the ghosts that would smile only at her, the way the trees bowed as she passed. She remembered pulling shades from the ground, so that they could more easily dance and find their voices and sing. But she had never done it. She can't have.

"And the creatures of the earth, and the moon, the stars, even the ground itself," he continued, "saw you. Saw this child and saw everything. Their ward, their heir, their friend... All but one.

"And the creatures were silent. Silent. Waiting for a gasp or scream. The oil burned like fire, but cold and dark as ire. And the child was only quiet. She fell to the earth without even a sigh. And the Wildwood, it felt it, and the witch was struck down in a second.

"But the oil - so tainted the wicked would stay their blades for fear of it - had done too much by then. Burning and corrupting, tearing at body and mind," his voice was so quiet now. As if speaking any louder would shatter the very air itself. "The earth would have enveloped her, kept her safe til the magic of the Wildwood healed her. But it froze at the presence of a stranger.

"A mortal woman," he said. Mary knew, without a doubt, that it was her mother who had stumbled into the glade then. "The stranger didn't see the spirits, and the fae and pixies had hid. But she saw the child covered in burns, saw the shadows cast all around her, and the man made of darkness-" his voice gained a touch of bitterness at that, "-standing at her side."

"Oh," Mary said, because she could tell how this ended. Why this shadow of a man - or, actually, this shade that had been pulled from the earth and forced to remain - was telling her this.

"The woman acted without thought," he said. "She took the child and cared for her. But she had the cause of the damage wrong. It hadn't been the Wildwood, nor a shade or dragon or goblin. But the one foolish witch, who acted on malice and greed.

"To keep everyone away, the woman learned and cast spells. None of us could reach you, Mary. None save the brownies and shades," he smiled slightly, though he seemed sad, "The ones still tied to the earth, at least. They helped you. Made certain you weren't alone, that you were cared for, and the house was clean. But any attention you gave them would only make the wards stronger. "

Mary thinks she might have known that. Thinks that maybe that's why she never gave the shadows and moving objects much thought. She knew that they were kind, and she didn't want them to leave.

Tears threatened her again. Pain, loss, and fear.

She wanted to say she didn't remember. But she did. The glade, the trees, the earth. The animals and creatures of the wood. The names of fae, who knew what she could do with them and gave them anyway, who never asked her name even then, for worry of earning her fear. She even recalled pulling this specific shade from the earth. Remembered how he sang and danced with his brothers and sisters. How she had lowered them each back save for him, because that's when the witch came.

"How did you know?" she found herself whispering, having no other words that would come. "Where I was?"

He smiled, standing to his full height.

"The birds kept an eye on you, and the cats listened. The rats watched and the serpents looked for ways the brownies could slip through," he said. "The Wildwood, I'm sure you can remember, has roots in every corner of the earth. As such, the animals all hear its wants, and they ensured your safety where the shades could not."

"So then- then my mother-"

"She loved you," he interrupted. "Very much. But she didn't know who you were, and made assumptions of us we couldn't dissuade. But she did love you."

Mary believed it. Her memory only stretched back to the age of six, and her mother died in her eighth year, but she believed it.

Without even a thought, she flung herself into the shade's arms. He caught her easily. She knew he would. Just as she knew that he would never hurt her. That the moment he ever did would be the moment he burned himself away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He hesitated, before wrapping his arms around her. He was cold, but in a comforting sort of way.

"Oh, Mary... What are you talking about?"

"I never- never let you back into the earth with your family. They can't talk to you like this," she said. He paused.

"Do- do you remember, then?" he asked quietly. "Remember me? Remember them?"

"A little bit. Not much," she said. "Not much of anything."

"That's alright," he said. "You've only a hundred years to remember. When you return to the Wildwood, you'll have a few hundred more to figure it all out."

He let her go then, frowning.

"If... If you want to return?" he asked. She nodded.

"I... I need to see it again," she said. He smiled

"Then let's go see it."

And together, they went home, to the very heart of the wood. And the girl we simply call Mary - for her name has not been heard by any mortal ear for thousands of years - returned, and remembered, and the very world seemed to thrive.

#writing #my writing #original story #not sure what else to tag this with

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kihyunswrath · 5 years ago

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To everyone wanting to join the kpop industry: kpop is not a genre of music

For real sometimes it feels like people have literally no idea of what kpop means or where it stems from or why it exists, so for the 100th time, here is the reminder again:

Kpop is not a genre. It’s not something you can imitate, or adopt into your own music style. It’s not something you can steal, copy or appropriate. Musically, kpop is just different genres of popular music that have been invented by different groups of people (most often black people, but not always), in different cultures, in different times. Popular music as it is today, cannot be claimed by any singular group because it has been influenced by too many communities and new songs are created literally everywhere on this planet every second of the day, but it has clear historical roots within black communities (and obviously too many entertainment industries fail to acknowledge that fact). Therefore Koreans cannot claim they own the pop part of kpop, nor have they done so. There is also no reason for any of us to claim that kpop is a style of music we can start practicing, or that we deserve to see representation within kpop as non-Koreans.

Again, kpop is not a genre, it is literally simply an industry that promotes Korean people.

That’s about the depth of it. Kpop exists because Korean people wanted to find a tool to have influence over their region, aka they wanted to invest into their soft power. They wanted to find a voice within a global community that didn’t have anything for them in the first place. No one knew anything about Korean people, their history or their culture before the 2000′s. People were dismissive, ignorant and racist toward Koreans (and we still are). Nothing about them was cool, interesting or worth investing in, because people saw them as a third world country. Kpop became one of their tools they used to gain attention from international audiences.

And that’s why it was critical that they used music styles created specifically in America. Not because they were thinking of appropriating black cultures, or because they were necessarily even remotely aware of those racial dynamics and a history of discrimination within America, but because for decades they were told that American audiences and cultural concepts were the only truly modernized, futuristic platforms worth imitating, following and investing in. That is common knowledge among any non-American people. Even today, people living outside of the USA all around the world are told the only way to gain true recognition in the global community is to make a breakthrough in America. People are still told America invented literally everything modern culture-related, that the world revolves around them and all the “classics” in music come from there and that the rest of us could never produce anything as cool or modern using our own cultural heritage and that the American entertainment industry is the only “real” or “relevant” entertainment industry.

So obviously Koreans thought this is the way for them to get views, to find a platform, a voice. They created an industry that catered to Korean people and their needs, and the end goal was to be recognized worldwide by using tools that people were already familiar with. Hence, a combination of mashed music genres that were not created by Koreans but were very popular and easily relatable.

So, what does that mean? It means that without Koreans involved at every stage of the music production, it ceases being kpop. Kpop cannot be produced in any other country, among any other group of people, within any other context, within any other entertainment industry. If the producers and performers are not mostly Korean, if the production system is not mainly based in Korea and the songs they make are not mostly sung in Korean, there is no reason to call it kpop. It just becomes pop. Like I said, the only difference between kpop and pop is that kpop is representing Koreans.

Therefore it does not make sense that hundreds of thousands of non-Korean teenagers, especially non-Asians, rush to use the popularity of Korean pop to their own personal benefit and think that they can become kpop idols if they just create something that “sounds like kpop” or if they join Korean entertainment industries and become trainees. At the moment, a few of them are used as trophy members to make certain groups seem multicultural and multilingual, for those groups to gain more fans in countries those foreigners came from, but the fact of the day is that foreigners cannot claim ownership to kpop. They cannot say they want to create kpop music on their own. They cannot say they want to be the “change” in how kpop is being perceived. They cannot say they are there to shift the goals and “add more diversity” to an industry that was not created for them and is not their platform by definition. They cannot say they “belong” to the industry on the basis that someone from their own community long time ago created a certain music style Koreans are now using. They cannot say kpop represents mainstream music or western music and therefore any and every westerner should be welcomed to that industry with open arms, and that it’s inherently racist if they are not.

Are Koreans racists? Certainly yes. Is their entertainment industry giving credit to black communities for inventing the music styles they now benefit from? Not that I’ve ever seen. Are they appropriating fashion trends from black people even as we speak? Yes. Are they ignorant, dismissive and racist toward many other groups of people, including other Asians and Arabs? Yes.

Yet that does not remove their agency in the matter of kpop. It does not remove the fact that they built their own industry to promote themselves, when they had little to no representation in the global media. Foreigners, while they don’t have to support kpop industry or participate in it and while they have every right to criticize the industry for being racist, sexist and capitalistic shithole, still don’t get to enter the industry however and whenever they wish, thinking they can become closer to their favourite oppas, change the industry in their own terms, demand attention for themselves and think they deserve an opportunity to shine for being “that exotic refreshing foreign presence” (as if they don’t have an entire music industry catering to their own personal needs in their own home country).

If anyone gets to “diversify” the Korean entertainment industry, it’s Koreans themselves. You know, those black Koreans, Korean-Americans, Joseonjok people, Zainichi Koreans, Vietnamese Koreans, white Koreans, Korean diaspora, half-Koreans, North Koreans, disabled Koreans, fat Koreans, LGBT Koreans... you name it. We foreigners are not inherently entitled to anything in that society.

These aforementioned people are perfectly capable of changing, developing, challenging and diversifying their own media and entertainment industry without our “help”. We can call out kpop industry for treating its idols unfairly, for discriminating against their own people, for being abusive, for gaining profit at the expense of their idols’ health and mental well-being. We can call them racist for being racist. We can have an effect on the industry by deciding NOT to support them financially, like really, that’s just literal inactivity and the easiest possible way to have a say in what’s going on there.

But not a single one of us has an ownership to kpop, not a single one of us truly understands how Koreans live their lives or how we could “represent” them without being Koreans ourselves. We do not have a free entrance to that industry, even if we think that none of the things they produce are originated from Korea, or if we think they are “shitty racists” in this or that aspect.

People think that just because kpop is now becoming more and more mainstream and because it is targeted to all kinds of audiences that it’s somehow a free field of music anyone can enter. The music itself could be considered a free field - it is indeed just a bunch of different genres of music everyone is creating and recreating. Korean language is somewhat of a free field, too - anyone can learn to speak it. But kpop is not. Surely you can call yourself a kpop artist if you make songs in Korean or say you are a kpop idol because you used to be a trainee inside an entertainment company, but that simply does not make sense. Music sang in Korean language exists outside of kpop, so that does not make kpop kpop. Entertainment industries that train you to become a professional performer exist outside of the kpop industry, so that either does not kpop make. The only way you can be a kpop idol is if you represent Koreans (and their occasional multicultural aspects) in a Korean entertainment company and perform in Korean - and considering how the industry is insanely hard, oppressive, restrictive and limits your artistic talents in every possible way, one could fairly ask what made you want that. What inspires you to represent people of another country, other than fetishization, positive racism and you wanting to jump on the bandwagon because kpop is trendy now and you have the misinformed belief that kpop is a genre of music you could also create? Or perhaps people think they might be treated as special gems because they would then become exotic foreigners in a society that is very homogeneously Korean?

I remember times when jpop, jrock and manga/anime were still HUGELY popular everywhere in the world (in the beginning of 2000s). Times where everyone around me was identifying with Japanese popular culture and their fashion/music/art trends because it was edgy, cool and “alternative”. I still remember those times when people told me they wanted to travel to Japan and become manga artists, and you know what? They were also saying how cartoons/pop music weren’t originally a Japanese invention, so therefore it was well within reason for them to call themselves manga artists or jpop musicians for just “imitating” those styles, or hope they would be welcomed to those industries immediately after travelling to Japan. And I’m not saying Japanese people used these industries only to promote themselves, no, quite the contrary. But I am saying that people did feel entitled to jump onto those bandwagons mostly because they wanted to be seen as “cool and popular” too, Japanese people themselves be damned.

So yeah. Kpop is not the first, and probably not the last popular culture movement that people think they should have an access to simply because it’s fashionable now and because some of the basic elements in it are not originated from one single place. It’s probably also not the first or last industry people think they want to enter because they think that the language spoken or some of the cultural elements added to it made it into a whole “different genre” they could imitate by performing in that language or cosplaying their favourite pop culture acts. You cannot cosplay a Korean person. You cannot adopt kpop if you’re not Korean yourself and/or participating in their entertainment industry while ready to cater to their economy/society as a whole.

Do you guys even know why kpop entertainment industry is the way it is? The reason why the industry developed that way specifically was because Korea, in order to maintain its identity, was extremely protective and nationalistic and had only a very specific platform for playing Korean-made music in 1990s: two TV channels that were owned by the government. Not even radio stations, just two tv channels. They dictated how, when and what kind of music was allowed to be published. That’s why kpop became extremely performance-oriented, because it was created for the television from the very beginning. That’s also why the industry started dictating how the idols were behaving, how they looked and what they were allowed to do/say. That meant an extensive amount of training, manufacturing and controlling and therefore created a need for trainee system. That system ultimately became the only way for Koreans to reach for fame and musical career, because learning all those skills required for acceptable performances in the tv meant you had to have extensive amounts of time and money to practice them. But most Korean teens were and are bound to sit in schools and hagwons all day around, studying immense amounts, so they literally did not have those free hours to practice singing/dancing/performing skills on their own. Joining an entertainment company was the only option they had, and the fact that that route was harsh, time-taking and unforgiving, was simply reflecting the typical mindset of Korean people who think nothing should come easy.

So them going through those industries to become successful artists and idols is because they lack other options, not because that system is somehow superior to all other entertainment industries in the whole world. It is indeed weird, in that context, that people coming from more privileged backgrounds with more freedom and time to spend developing their musical skills should even want to enter an industry that is not built for them, does not answer to their needs and often dehumanizes them because of the kpop industry’s ideology that thinks people are products used for profit and nationalistic promotion.

#kpop #k pop #bts #monsta x #exo #twice #blackpink #seventeen #nct #itzy #red velvet #mine #korean pop #vixx #stray kidz #wanna one

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tiaragqueen · 6 years ago

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In His Sights

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Jung Hoseok x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,8k

✂ Trigger Warning: Violence, obsessive tendencies, possessive behaviors, yandere theme.

✂ This story is fictional and for amusement only. I don't believe any of the members would do this in real life. As always, thank you for reading and I hope you have a good day!

Do not re-upload my writing to another website or use it without my permission.

[Edited]

***

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“And I like the way you hurt inside; always waiting for the worst to get me by. And I like the way you hurt. After all you’ve done, look what I’ve become.” - Hurt [Get Scared]

Jung Hoseok was a cheerful man.

There wasn’t any day passed when he wasn’t smiling, or screaming in pure excitement. Sure, there were moments where he acted all mischievous and the like, but most of the time he was joyful.

Almost as if he had no worries.

This trait was what attracted you to him in the first place. Not only that, but he was also optimistic. He lent you a shoulder to cry on, giving you a piece of wise advice and listened to your problems without any judgments. At the end of your ranting and cries, he always cracked a joke or pull some harmless pranks on to your other friends. Anything to make sure you didn't go to sleep sad.

He was so caring. The perfect boyfriend anyone could ever ask for.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he never experienced anger. He had, though, just like any other humans in this world. But it was rare, and the probability was small either. His friends could count on with one hand the times where he was truly mad, or at least, the small signs. Because despite his expressive nature, he possessed enormous self-control. The reason had to be very painful; severe enough to actually ignite his ire.

And an angry Hoseok was an intimidating Hoseok.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to erase the gory image from your brain. But it was a pointless attempt because how could you forget something that happened right in front of your eyes? And the fact that the culprit was none other than your lover himself, Jung Hoseok, made it all the more indelible.

You had never expected your sweet, ‘sunshine’ of a man to be capable of such violent act. The man that claimed to be hope; your hope.

Little did he know that your hope had long gone down the drain the moment he took a whip from the closet.

Then again, love blinds people from any logic. Even the most affectionate ones.

You had been bounded in this chair for God knows how long. Your muscles were stiff, and the rope chafed your sensitive skin. It might be bleeding, who knows. But you knew that it was nothing compared to what your brother suffered right now.

Hoseok cracked his whip against your brother’s raw back. Another scream followed shortly; a heartrending wail that pierced through the night sky. You winced, a waterfall of tears streamed down your flushing cheeks. No matter how many times you’d heard it, you could never get used to that grievous sound. Nor could you bring yourself to stop crying when your brother was laying on his stomach – chained in the bed you shared with Hoseok – bare-chested and full of injuries.

It all happened too fast; one minute you were heading to the kitchen to prepare some food for him, and the next you woke up in your dark room with a terrible headache.

Hoseok put down the whip at last – you'd lost count on how many times he used that on to your dear sibling – and slowly turned to face you. You squirmed in your seat, trying to free yourself but to no avail. Hoseok was advancing towards you, and you had never begged him to leave you alone so loud in your life. His stride was slow and deliberate; meant to intimidate you and consume your entire being with an unadulterated fear.

And he succeeded. Of course, he did. You had never seen this side before, and now you wished you could rewind the time.

The tremor in your body was palpable, bringing forth cold sweats that poured from the pores. They trickled down to his palm that settled itself under your chin, dragging your face close to his. His minty breath – something that you used to love – felt like a freezing wind during winter. It brushed against your wet cheeks as if wanting to freeze the tears midway.

He was close. Too close. You felt almost claustrophobic with the proximity. It was like being stuck in an elevator - with your enemy - for hours. Except you didn't know how long you'd been staying here. All you knew was that it was night, and Hoseok still wearing his work clothes. A red checkered shirt with its buttons opened, revealing his dark tank top underneath, black pants, and white snickers. It was an outfit that you had chosen yourself because he could be clingy and wanted to know your preferences in male clothing.

Even though he already knew it, unbeknownst to you.

“Who do you love the most?”

Ah, there it was. The dreaded question. The first yet portentous inquiry he’d spoken after hours of intense torture and unremitting pain.

It was unfair how he could easily ask that without thinking about the dilemma that weighted your mind. You loved Hoseok – you truly did – but he had become such an overwhelming figure in your life. Always hovering over you whilst shooting a cautious look to your friends as if they would steal you away from him. You had reassured him countless times before, that you were loyal to him and would never leave him for anyone. But Hoseok still retained his wary and overprotective traits because deep inside, he feared that you would change your mind and choose somebody else instead.

Women are fickle creatures, after all. And it’s only natural for a man to protect his mate.

“I...”

What would you say? It’s not like you could choose who to love between a sibling or a lover. Both of them were kind to you, instilling warmth and love into your otherwise dull life. There was no bad blood; no family feud like those in dramas. They were supportive of your relationship with Hoseok, naively believing the mask of a doting and devoted boyfriend. And you, too, had fallen victim to it.

The cliché quote said ‘nobody’s perfect’. And yet, you were still beguiled by that so-called perfection.

But why? Why did he do this to him, to you? What could he possibly gain from this? Some kind of sick amusement? Satisfaction? Validation?

“Why...? Why are you doing this?” you sobbed, peering up through your wet lashes to look at his unusually hollow eyes. It scared you because they used to glitter with mirth. And now, it almost seemed as if you were looking to a doll. “Answer me, goddammit-!”

A hand clasped your mouth, preventing you from fully expressing your desperation and curses. You wanted to bite his palm for rudely cutting you off, but the fear of punishment forced you to stay put. Hoseok leaned forward, almost closing the suffocating space between the two of you. It could’ve been romantic had he didn’t look so cold yet empty.

“You want to know why?”

His voice was eerily calm despite the mocking tone. It terrified you; to see him act so cool because you couldn’t predict when and how he would lose his temper. You used to have this naïve thought that he might be one of those ‘violent and rampaging’ type, and while the former could be proved as accurate, the latter was clearly debatable.

With his hand still attached to your mouth, you merely nodded in response.

“It’s because you want to leave me.”

Your eyes widened, both from shock and rage. How dare he accused you of something you hadn’t done. Hoseok might not be what you had thought about, but you never planned on leaving him. Unless-

“You think I’m accusing you.” It was scary how he knew you so well until he could correctly predict what you were thinking about. You supposed that you should be flattered with the fact that he had taken the time to understand you – your flaws and all – but this just proved to you of how deep his love was.

How long he had been watching you without your knowledge.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” He narrowed his eyes, and you suddenly felt very small. Like a frightened deer in front of a fierce yet calculating cheetah because he could – and would – chase you to the end of the earth if necessary. “You have been meeting with your brother under the excuse of meeting your old friend. Oh, what was their name again? Seojoon?”

You gulped silently.

“There has never been a friend named Seojoon in your life, but I applaud you for your intricate lie in coming up with their background. Very believable, indeed. I almost fell for it.” He huffed out a derisive chuckle. “But you see, you can only keep up a lie for so long until it comes back to bite at you. And you have been found guilty.”

He continued, “I’m not stupid enough to let you go outside without my supervision, [Name]. Especially when you met the one person that should be the most supportive of us.”

Of course. Of course. How could you think that for one fucking second, you were free? That you could finally do anything and meet anyone you want? No, because the moment you accepted his confession, was when you gave him the reign to own you. To possess you as if you were some kind of a doll. A puppet to be controlled.

How fucking stupid could you be, [Name]?!

“But, no. Instead, he backstabbed me – us – by spouting out nonsense about how I’m not good enough for you and that I’m too possessive. Bullshit!” You flinched when he suddenly slammed his other hand against the table. “Your brother’s a fucking hypocrite, [Name]! How can you be so blind?! He’s trying to ruin our relationship!”

Hoseok finally released his palm before he could risk suffocating you any further and paced around the room in frustration. “And I can’t let that happen. No, no, no. I won’t.” He dashed towards you with surprising speed and grabbed your face. “You belong to me, remember? Forever and ever. We’re gonna marry someday and then we move out to another country or something. Far away from here, because this place’s not safe anymore.”

A manic smile slowly contorted his face when he noticed your trembling body. “Aw, why are you shaking? Are you scared?” he cooed, and you didn’t know whether he was taunting you or not. All you cared about was how you could burn this memory forever. “Don't worry, I’ll never hurt my darling. These are just the proofs of my love. ‘Cause we can’t have anyone to destroy something that we’ve built for so long, can we?”

Another tear slipped from your eyelids at the implication. Hoseok wiped them away with a stroke and smiled softly. You sobbed harder, chest constricted at the bitter nostalgia. The sight in front of you reminded you so much of his usual behavior.

The times where you were blissfully oblivious to his violent side. The times where he took you out on a spontaneous date and whisper some cheesy things reserved for your ears only. The times where he wasn't so crazy with you. Maybe he had, though. You just didn't know it. Yet. But you did now.

Where did all those beautiful memories go?

“I love you, [Name].”

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thedyingmoon · 6 years ago

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~ A V X Reader set in an Alternate Universe wherein Nero supposedly beats Urizen that 16th of May. 🖤

~ This chapter is dedicated to the 49 people who liked the first chapter, especially @acieoj and @heaven-on-a-landslide . Thank you so much! 🖤

~ Cover made by yours, truly. 🖤

***

"Break this heavy chain

That does freeze my bones around!

Selfish, vain,

Eternal bane,

That free love of bondage bound."

The female tourist guide, who had been anxiously glancing at V from a distance, finally mustered up enough courage to approach him with a nervous smile. She cleared her throat, hoping to get immediately noticed without ever having to call his attention in a not - so civilized way.

Fortunately for her, her heavy and noisy footsteps against the rocky pathway proved to be very efficient for gaining attention.

V looked up from the wonderful world of William Blake's book of poetic sketches and smiled at her, adding to the poor woman's already escalating discomfort.

"Ahh, I,..." the lady stuttered, not sure how to address the dire situation to V.

He graciously decided to end her conversational torture. "You do look like something has been bothering you. How can I be of service?" he said, his low, raspy voice not helping with the lady's nerves.

"Yes, well." she began, then inhaled sharply through her nose. She then pointed at the bird on V's left shoulder, and the huge cat lying on his feet. "The other guests are getting anxious of your,... ahh,... pets."

Immediately picking up on the woman's concern, V nodded and actually laughed. The first time in about three weeks since that day. "I see. Don't worry." He stood up from the comfort of the wooden bench near the ruins of the temple, making his "pets" move away from him. He strode towards the woman, lips curled up in a devilish yet adorable smirk. "These are my loyal,... companions. They would bring no harm to any of the innocent people here. That,..." the tone of his voice suddenly became lower as he twirled his metal cane playfully. "I can assure you."

The lady let out a helpless laugh, then nodded. "Okay. Whatever you say." She hastily moved away from him to give herself a safe distance from V's famliars and clumsily pointed at the breathtaking horizon. "Well, now, enjoy your stay here at Delphi!"

As Griffon watched the retreating form of the tourist guide with laughter in its devilishly yellow eyes, V's green ones scanned the beautiful place. Delphi really was a marvel, an ancient beauty that must've took even the most vile of the Demons' breath away.

He closed his book, put it away for a while, and proceeded to explore the place, particularly the ruins of Apollo's temple, where the tourist bus dropped him.

"So, V,..." Griffon said, catching up to his master. "Are we going to look for that thing there?"

"Not this time." V answered. "For now, I need to take a rest and reflect upon our journey, so far."

It's true. V, and the rest of his familiars, have been on a vagabond tour around the world, visiting places like Delphi. First, he visited Egypt's infamous pyramids, then he proceeded to China's mysterious terracotta tombs. He also went to the Himalayas ( he didn't stay there for long, considering the weather ), then Norway. He had been to such places in just three weeks that he had to keep a separate journal where he logs in about the details of his journey.

It's not like he just wanted to or anything.

The truth was - he failed in his initial mission to merge with Urizen that fifteenth of May. Who knew that boy Nero had enough power within him to beat his demonic half? So, thanks to the boy, he could no longer regain his full self.

But, it wasn't entirely the boy's fault. As a matter of fact, it all rooted from one foolish decision that changed his life forever.

It was all because of his desire to gain more power in order to defeat his twin brother.

And now, he had no choice but to search for a different kind of power - any kind - this time, to save himself.

To prevent his human flesh from crumbling.

Thus, started his vagabond ways alongside Griffon, Shadow, Nightmare, and -

"The Yamato really does wonders, huh?" Griffon said, then chuckled, ruffling his own feathers in delight with tiny shakes. "Who knew it would go directly to you and not to that kid Nero?"

"For one thing, I' am the rightful owner of the Yamato, not the boy Nero." V answered as he skipped some rocks along the pathway that led to the ruins of the temple. "I think it was fitting that it answered to me. But, as grateful as I' am that it was returned to me," he said, stopping at what looked like the remains of an altar. "I must not abuse my fragile body by using it over and over to transport us. You see," he began tracing the remains with the tip of his cane. "It consumes way too much of my,... demonic power. I must be wary of that fact."

"Aha, so that's why we had to hitch that stinkin' bus ride with that awful bitch! Didn't know how to keep her mouth shut!" Of course, Griffon was refering to the tourist guide who called him a pet earlier.

"Now, be nice to our little human." V reprimanded the demonic bird. "We will 'hitch' on the same vehicle on the way back."

"Ugh! Not again,..."

As Griffon threw tantrums for every tourist in the remains of Apollo's temple to see, V's eyes wandered at the altar and thought of that beloved story his mother read to him a very long time ago. He closed his eyes and searched through his tired mind for the right words, finally arriving at some that gave his heart a little ache of nostalgia.

"As she comes to the city, hollow hands empty,

Eyes open to what lies in wait for her,"

As V recited the very few lines he could remember of that beloved poem from his childhood, Shadow started purring, rubbing his legs with her huge form like she was a normal house cat. V smiled, knowing that he had, at least, one interested audience. Then, he went on.

"She does not weep nor wail,

In her eyes, home has always been burning."

All of a sudden, Shadow stopped purring. In fact, she stopped moving. She has become rigid, looking like a statue in front of V. He and Griffon noticed this and took note of her glowing red eyes that slowly turned bright blue.

V's eyes widened in surprise.

"Curious." He muttered under his breath.

Griffon flew towards him and whispered, "She's acting hella weird. What do we do to her?"

V smiled and took a sideways glance at Griffon.

"Then, we'll have the perfect opportunity to put your new skill on display for the audience."

"What?! Right here?!"

"Right here." V answered, not once losing his resolve. "Right now."

"And what's in it for me, huh, Shakespeare?"

"I will,... forever be,... in your debt." V said, holding up his right arm and using his cane to point towards the bright, sunny, sky.

"Okay! As if I could refuse."

"I' am truly grateful."

"Yeah, yeah." Griffon huffed, then flew towards the sky, high above the ruins of Apollo's temple.

As V watched the demonic bird flew around the air, he could not help but regret his decision. He yearned to see this place. It was, after all, the place from that precious story, as told to him by his beloved mother. Of course, he wanted to stay, to bask in the warm, sunny weather, to learn the ways of the locals, to be able to speak their native tongue, to know the rich history of the land, to dive into the hidden knowledge and wisdom Apollo has to offer,...

But, as the situation called, they, he, must act immediately.

And as V glanced back at his dark, petrified familiar, he noticed that the atmosphere was slowly turning heavy. Griffon was beginning to work his new magic.

"Alright, you weird folks!" The bird said as he flapped his wings, summoning all the power he had. "Party's over! Go home!"

Griffon spread his wings, letting power in the form of electricity run through them, and folded them once more. As he let out a guttural sound, he spread his beautiful blue wings once more, releasing a different kind of power that made his eyes white. But, this time, the electricity didn't land on the ground like what always happens when they're fighting against other Demons. The almost unnoticeable currents reached the clouds and crawled throughout the sky, instantly enveloping the immediate vicinity with darkness.

As the people looked up, they realized that it was going to rain. But, another flap of Griffon's wings summoned numerous lightning bolts from the sky that crashed to the ground, narrowly missing everyone by mere inches.

After a minute of his stormy display, Griffon flew down back beside V, knowing that his mission was a success, which was an understatement, considering the fact that none of the tourists were hurt.

"Okay, Shakespeare, coast is clear." He said to the man, feeling proud of his new skill.

"Thank you." V smiled at the bird, then turned back to Shadow, who was literally melting. "And now, for the task at hand,..."

V closed his eyes, then held out his left hand in front of Shadow. The action instantly triggered a reaction from the rigid Demon, making its form disintegrate and fall to the ground like shattered glass. With a different gesture of his hand, V made the shattered glass rise up once more from the ground, letting it take shape, forming jet black vines that grew and grew until they were as tall as the pillars of the temple. One last hand movement from V made the vines grew equally dark roses of all sizes.

As Shadow morphed into multiple vines, V took a step back, waiting and waiting, until the largest rose sprout out from one of the vines. He and Griffon watched in awe as the black rose opened, revealing something inside. He took a step forward and pulled it out of the flower. It was the Yamato, and it was glowing in a very unusual way.

"What is wrong with that thing?" Griffon asked as he looked at the Yamato and its radiance. "Did that thing go like that before?"

"If memory serves me right," V began, unsheathing the sword and letting the blinding blue light from the blade splash around his surroundings. "It did so, just one time when,..."

All of a sudden, the light became even more blinding as the sword became warmer and warmer in V's hands.

"Whoah! No wonder that cat's acting weird!" Griffon shrieked, hiding behind V. "You made her eat a laser sword!"

"Hush." V said, seemingly unaffected by the light of the Yamato. "It beckons me. It seems that it wanted me,... someplace else."

"Will you go, V? You still haven't recovered from your last journey!"

"I know." V answered as he positioned the sword high above the air. "But, I also know not to ignore the Yamato's call."

And with two clean swipes, V managed to create a portal that led to some place that seemed to softly glow, like a warm sunset. Or sunrise.

"Let's go." V said, calling both Griffon and Shadow back to him and entering the portal.

***

🖤🖤🖤

#devil may cry 5 #v #amwriting #work in progress #griffon #shadow #i see my future before me #yamato #apollo #v x reader #v x you #chapter 2

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etlunainmorte · 5 years ago

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🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

“Break this heavy chain

That does freeze my bones around!

Selfish, vain,

Eternal bane,

That free love of bondage bound.”

Fortunately for her, her heavy and noisy footsteps against the rocky pathway proved to be very efficient for gaining attention.

V looked up from the wonderful world of William Blake’s book of poetic sketches and smiled at her, adding to the poor woman’s already escalating discomfort.

“Ahh, I,…” the lady stuttered, not sure how to address the dire situation to V.

He graciously decided to end her conversational torture. “You do look like something has been bothering you. How can I be of service?” he said, his low, raspy voice not helping with the lady’s nerves.

“Yes, well.” she began, then inhaled sharply through her nose. She then pointed at the bird on V’s left shoulder, and the huge cat lying on his feet. “The other guests are getting anxious of your,… ahh,… pets.”

Immediately picking up on the woman’s concern, V nodded and actually laughed. The first time in about three weeks since that day. “I see. Don’t worry.” He stood up from the comfort of the wooden bench near the ruins of the temple, making his “pets” move away from him. He strode towards the woman, lips curled up in a devilish yet adorable smirk. “These are my loyal,… companions. They would bring no harm to any of the innocent people here. That,…” the tone of his voice suddenly became lower as he twirled his metal cane playfully. “I can assure you.”

The lady let out a helpless laugh, then nodded. “Okay. Whatever you say.” She hastily moved away from him to give herself a safe distance from V’s familiars and clumsily pointed at the breathtaking horizon. “Well, now, enjoy your stay here at Delphi!”

As Griffon watched the retreating form of the tourist guide with laughter in its devilishly yellow eyes, V’s green ones scanned the beautiful place. Delphi really was a marvel, an ancient beauty that must’ve took even the most vile of the Demons’ breath away.

He closed his book, put it away for a while, and proceeded to explore the place, particularly the ruins of Apollo’s temple, where the tourist bus dropped him.

“So, V,…” Griffon said, catching up to his master. “Are we going to look for that thing there?”

“Not this time.” V answered. “For now, I need to take a rest and reflect upon our journey, so far.”

It’s true. V, and the rest of his familiars, have been on a vagabond tour around the world, visiting places like Delphi. First, he visited Egypt’s infamous pyramids, then he proceeded to China’s mysterious terracotta tombs. He also went to the Himalayas ( he didn’t stay there for long, considering the weather ), then Norway. He had been to such places in just three weeks that he had to keep a separate journal where he logs in about the details of his journey.

It’s not like he just wanted to or anything.

But, it wasn’t entirely the boy’s fault. As a matter of fact, it all rooted from one foolish decision that changed his life forever.

It was all because of his desire to gain more power in order to defeat his twin brother.

And now, he had no choice but to search for a different kind of power - any kind - this time, to save himself.

To prevent his human flesh from crumbling.

Thus, started his vagabond ways alongside Griffon, Shadow, Nightmare, and -

“The Yamato really does wonders, huh?” Griffon said, then chuckled, ruffling his own feathers in delight with tiny shakes. “Who knew it would go directly to you and not to that kid Nero?”

“For one thing, I’ am the rightful owner of the Yamato, not the boy Nero.” V answered as he skipped some rocks along the pathway that led to the ruins of the temple. “I think it was fitting that it answered to me. But, as grateful as I’ am that it was returned to me,” he said, stopping at what looked like the remains of an altar. “I must not abuse my fragile body by using it over and over to transport us. You see,” he began tracing the remains with the tip of his cane. “It consumes way too much of my,… demonic power. I must be wary of that fact.”

“Aha, so that’s why we had to hitch that stinkin’ bus ride with that awful bitch! Didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut!” Of course, Griffon was referring to the tourist guide who called him a pet earlier.

“Now, be nice to our little human.” V reprimanded the demonic bird. “We will ’hitch’ on the same vehicle on the way back.”

“Ugh! Not again,…”

As Griffon threw tantrums for every tourist in the remains of Apollo’s temple to see, V’s eyes wandered at the altar and thought of that beloved story his mother read to him a very long time ago. He closed his eyes and searched through his tired mind for the right words, finally arriving at some that gave his heart a little ache of nostalgia.

“As she comes to the city, hollow hands empty,

Eyes open to what lies in wait for her,”

“She does not weep nor wail,

In her eyes, home has always been burning.”

V’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Curious.” He muttered under his breath.

Griffon flew towards him and whispered, “She’s acting hella weird. What do we do to her?”

V smiled and took a sideways glance at Griffon.

“Then, we’ll have the perfect opportunity to put your new skill on display for the audience.”

“What?! Right here?!”

“Right here.” V answered, not once losing his resolve. “Right now.”

“And what’s in it for me, huh, Shakespeare?”

“I will,… forever be,… in your debt.” V said, holding up his right arm and using his cane to point towards the bright, sunny, sky.

“Okay! As if I could refuse.”

“I’ am truly grateful.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Griffon huffed, then flew towards the sky, high above the ruins of Apollo’s temple.

But, as the situation called, they, he, must act immediately.

And as V glanced back at his dark, petrified familiar, he noticed that the atmosphere was slowly turning heavy. Griffon was beginning to work his new magic.

“Alright, you weird folks!” The bird said as he flapped his wings, summoning all the power he had. “Party’s over! Go home!”

Griffon spread his wings, letting power in the form of electricity run through them, and folded them once more. As he let out a guttural sound, he spread his beautiful blue wings once more, releasing a different kind of power that made his eyes white. But, this time, the electricity didn’t land on the ground like what always happens when they’re fighting against other Demons. The almost unnoticeable currents reached the clouds and crawled throughout the sky, instantly enveloping the immediate vicinity with darkness.

As the people looked up, they realized that it was going to rain. But, another flap of Griffon’s wings summoned numerous lightning bolts from the sky that crashed to the ground, narrowly missing everyone by mere inches.

After a minute of his stormy display, Griffon flew down back beside V, knowing that his mission was a success, which was an understatement, considering the fact that none of the tourists were hurt.

“Okay, Shakespeare, coast is clear.” He said to the man, feeling proud of his new skill.

“Thank you.” V smiled at the bird, then turned back to Shadow, who was literally melting. “And now, for the task at hand,…”

“What is wrong with that thing?” Griffon asked as he looked at the Yamato and its radiance. “Did that thing go like that before?”

“If memory serves me right,” V began, unsheathing the sword and letting the blinding blue light from the blade splash around his surroundings. “It did so, just one time when,…”

All of a sudden, the light became even more blinding as the sword became warmer and warmer in V’s hands.

“Whoah! No wonder that cat’s acting weird!” Griffon shrieked, hiding behind V. “You made her eat a laser sword!”

“Hush.” V said, seemingly unaffected by the light of the Yamato. “It beckons me. It seems that it wanted me,… someplace else.”

“Will you go, V? You still haven’t recovered from your last journey!”

“I know.” V answered as he positioned the sword high above the air. “But, I also know not to ignore the Yamato’s call.”

And with two clean swipes, V managed to create a portal that led to some place that seemed to softly glow, like a warm sunset. Or sunrise.

“Let’s go.” V said, calling both Griffon and Shadow back to him and entering the portal.

***

🖤🖤🖤

***

#devil may cry 5 #vitale sparda #i see my future before me #v x reader #v x you #chapter 2 #the tattooed poet #revised

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diveronarpg · 6 years ago

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Congratulations, JULIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of CASSIUS. Admin Jen: Cassius is multifaceted in every sense of the term, and it was the main reason why we couldn’t wait to receive an app for him -- there are so many aspects of his character that could be explored, so many layers to peel back and expand upon. And you achieved that so brilliantly, Julie. From the intriguing plots to the wonderful writing sample, everything came together so well to project the vision that you have for Cassius and it’s certainly left us thirsting for more! I’m so so glad that you’ll be bringing him to us and I can’t wait to see him on the dash! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Julie (hi, it’s me again!)

Age | 19

Preferred Pronouns | She/her or they/them works fine!

Activity Level | So this semester isn’t going to be as disastrous as I thought it’d be, but I’m still gonna give myself a 5.5 out of 10, with more activity on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays than any other days of the week.

Timezone | MST!

Current/Past RP Accounts | Orion’s blog is here! I think there’s some halfway decent stuff on there.

In Character

Character | Cassius / Cassian Bhatt. I’m fine with keeping Ranveer!

What drew you to this character? | “But when you dare to look a monster in the eye, when you issue that kind of challenge, when you provoke a man who takes pride in evisceration, one gets exactly what they bargain for: destruction.” This line in particular is really what did it for me - I can draw parallels and lines between Orion and Cassian as much as I want, but Cassian really does have something Orion lacks, and that’s ambition on the large and small scale. He’s conniving, clever, and most importantly, rooted in reality. Cassian is a realist; I think he knows what he lacks and what he has and even then where things can go wrong. He does his best to be a few steps ahead, and when all else fails, at least has some sort of back-up plan in mind. He holds the scales of justice - how could he ever want to be anything besides justified? He’s the interesting sort of aloof that has men and women alike flocking to him, which is key to how he measures his success. If they want him, let them come. If not, then let them keep their distance. He knows by now that people are fickle, but he always keeps them close in spite of their grievances and changing plans - they’re important, and he can use them, and that’s what’s truly important.

And what Cassian uses, he eventually destroys. Individual things can only serve their purpose for so long before they don’t have any purpose at all, and being the pragmatic man he is, Cassian’s quick to discard of them before they get any ideas about ascending beyond where they need to be. Cassian knows he needs to rise, that others need to fall, and some need to stay exactly where they are, and that’s something I think he’s been taught to maintain all his life - not by his father, whom he detests, but by his mother, who taught him everything he knew and more that he has yet to discover. What I’d really like to explore is how Cassian got from point A to point B. How do you go from a boy who loses himself in historical nonfiction to a man who is so bitterly cruel it leaves people breathless? Does it make him sad to know he doesn’t quite feel in the capacity others might? I find him really intriguing, and that’s what drew me to him.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

He’s being used in the same way he uses others, at least by Mona, something that has Cassian on edge; he’s unfamiliar with the position that comes with being compromised. He’s not worried, though, and that’s dangerous - he should be worried if he knows any better, but instead of pulling, Cassian pushes. I want to see how this extortion thread unfolds - mostly with how it impacts his relationship with his Captain, with himself, and how the Capulets will see him if they see these photos. Cassian’s technically on a leash, and it might be a long one, but he’s not sure how much give he has left to run ahead, think he’s the one in charge, before it yanks back from the collar.

Marriage is nothing but another tool in his set, and frankly, Cassian doesn’t view Lillian as anything more than that. Sure, she’s a good woman, a respectable woman, had dose her part in acquiescing to the proposal, taking on his name as hers at some point in the future. Her sorrow in being married to a man who, frankly, neither loves nor cares for her isn’t much more than a footnote at the bottom of the page to Cassian. Lillian provides opportunity to make him look all the more golden than he already is. He’ll give her anything she asks for, present it to her wrapped in precious metals and distracting paper, but only because he needs her, and not because he necessarily wants her. A union of necessity is still a union, and I’d love to see the fracturing between Lillian and Cassian, and how that damages Cassian, how long it takes. Not necessarily emotionally, but in terms of his reputation, which is all that matters to him.

Matters of the heart are uncomfortable for Cassian, that’s clear enough. He’s alone, has been alone, and in his mind, will always be alone. He has no issues in isolation, so long as it’s something brought on by his own choices. When love cannot bring happiness, monetary gain and skill will bring pride. Cassian’s a proud man with a black hole for a heart that eats everything it touches without abandon - I’d love to see someone knock him down a peg, either through his work or through emotional investment that he hasn’t really prepared himself for.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yep!

In Depth

In-Character Para Sample:

The first fifteen minutes of dinner are quiet. There’s not much noise beyond shifting in their seats, chewing, the clattering - as little of it as possible - of silverware against intricate-looking plates. Cassian notes that his mother looks exhausted, something not entirely unremarkable, but it’s not something he plans on asking about. He’d learned early on in life that asking Vahina Bhatt about anything she deemed unnecessary was futile. She’d answer with some notion of work, the governance of Verona, how much it grates on her temper and her time, fundraising - that sort of thing. Some off-the-cuff scandal that he might want to look into.

His father, halfway down the table, appears to be chewing not just on food but his words as well. “That Wen girl,” Naadir begins, because of course he would ask about the one topic Cassian has no interest in, “what do you think?”

Cassian gulps down a mouthful of wine in an attempt to both steel himself and delay an answer. He’s not sure what he thinks of her. She’d been relatively meek upon their first meeting, he’d thought, nothing like the diamond in the rough her mothers had made her out to be. But she’d been beautiful. More than beautiful. An effigy of grace, style, composition. She had followed the plans laid out for their first interaction to a T: introduction, dinner, discussion of the future, and a soft goodnight at the door. All in all, it had played out smoothly.

But their personalities don’t mix, and she seems flat. Static. Where Cassian finds himself confrontational, up front, willing to start a conversation on the intricacies and justification of law, social standards, she is reserved, an even line to the set of her mouth. She had smiled, yes, but it hadn’t been genuine. Maybe that’s for the best, Cassian thinks. None of this will be genuine. He has no love for her, she has no love for him, he doesn’t intend on saying anything of the sort. Not even in their vows, for the wedding to come. There will be no declarations of adoration. She’ll look nice with his Versace loafers, he thinks, for dinner parties and galas.

“She’ll be a good wife,” he replies, tone flat. His father hums, unsurprised by the lack of poetry frothing from his son’s mouth. Cassian has never been a romantic, after all, and that’s where their divide has always rested: a crack in the earth, widening from his younger years to where they are now. Vahina watches from the head of the table, glass of cabernet sauvignon in hand, a soft curve to her lips. But she’s looking at Cassian, not her husband, and if he were still a boy, he might as well gleamed with pride.

The ring he’s chosen for her, to announce to the world that she’ll be his, isn’t particularly extravagant. A golden band, with a green diamond atop, surrounded by smaller white cut jewels. It’s flashy - but not too flashy, so as not to imply vanity. He doesn’t say much else on the matter of his newfound fiancee, and his father knows better than to press, so he listens to his mother ask about his new courses at the university, given that it’s a new year. He ponders other things until the meal is done and he’s being nudged towards the door.

The ring is still on his mind as he’s driven home, as he closes the front door behind him, settles in his study for the night to look into the case Cosimo had called him about the other evening: the Bhatts are not a vain bloodline - they are seekers of knowledge, growth. The viridescent tint won’t be for envy, or a mark of ownership, but for nature. An indication of development, he thinks, that she will grow into the person he needs her to be. Isn’t that poetry enough?

Extras: An instrumental playlist, and because it’s a bit corny, but here’s the wedding ring I was looking at for Lillian!

#accepted #accepted: cassius

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kai-borg · 6 years ago

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Crescent - Queen of the outer kingdom

Crescent was once one of the rulers of the outer kingdom, a kingdom formed from a seemingly random hodgepodge of 'abandoned' Creator built Mocs, and wild Mocs. She was their Queen, the wife of their King, Deltek, or as he is now known, Tyrant. Back then, before her disappearance which sent Deltek into the spiral of insanity that formed Tyrant, their kingdom was one of the most peaceful out there, their kingdoms own natural hidden state due to its location deep in the Wild's of the outer lands, and the power both Deltek and Crescent wielded, and would use against those who threatened their kingdom, helped just as much as their own kind natures did. There were two oddities to their kingdom though. One, was all the original Mocs, the ones who helped found the kingdom, were all abandoned Creator Moc's, yet, despite that perceived state, none had any memory of their Creator, nor much of their past before being awakened by their future King and Queen, within the ruins that their kingdom grew from. The second was Crescent's and Deltek's own existence. They were neither Creator made Moc's, nor wild Moc's. In truth, no one, not even travelers from outside, had ever seen, or heard of Moc's of both their ability, and formation. Due to this, many myths and rumors formed around the couple, the biggest, which was a play upon their forms, was known as the legend of the 'Maiden of moon's light' & and the 'Demon of moon's shadow'. Which claimed both as sort of deities, ones created as opposites, yet both unable to hate the other, and so gained form to either better hide themselves from the eyes of the other deities, to be able to express their love without their own divine natures interfering, or both. All are wrong though, even if the belief of their beings as deities is close. Both Deltek and Crescent were in truth created from a mixture of both the death of the Creator of their kingdoms first citizens, and the shattering of a specially formed, or at least attempted as such, relic the Creator had made. Their 'Creator' had at one point become obsessed with immortality, a fear and hatred that their creations would outlive them, so they attempted to change that. During their experimentation and researching they learned of the relics and the power they could wield, a power they believed to be just what they required. They managed to form a special relic, what it was exactly is both hard to explain and forgotten to time for the most part anyways, but in basic it was formed from an odd mixture of life, death, and mortality itself, nearly killing the Creator in the process. After they'd managed to form the relic they attempted to attempted to infuse themselves into their self moc with it. It was an attempt that failed horribly, fusing all three together before crystallizing and shattering the newly changed relic into two halves due to the conflicting energies and attributes it had gained, basically erasing both from existence and also setting off an energy boost that nearly killed the other moc's in the Creator's territory. Now, as would've been expected nothing should have come from that besides leaving two powerful relics behind, but due to being infused with what was once the life force of two living beings, both wielding great creative potential, the relics mutated, forming bodies. Deltek's (Tryant) and Crescent's to be exact. For some reason both of their bodies differed greatly, Deltek's being large and powerful, while Crescent's was smaller and sleeker. Along with this was the differing sized shard's of their relic halves that remained after being vented off to form them (if one was to 'open them up' their inner forms would be basically crystal). This was most likely due to their size differences, Deltek's mainly being used for size, and Crescent's most likely for her greater power, explaining her shorter stature. Going by the powers they've exhibited, the easiest way to describe what the relics powers were split into would be life and death, Deltek's the latter and Crescent's the former. But even those descriptions are only the vaguest of ways to describe their powers, Deltek's only way of showing death being his formidable strength that can match even mocs tens of times his size, to perhaps his color scheme, and Crescent's being shown through an ability to create near-anything and partially mutate her own body at will. Despite their large differences Deltek and Crescent liked each other the moment they 'awoke'. Crescent using her powers to heal the injured mocs and Deltek using his strength to clear the debris and damage from the wave. After the mocs were awoken their memory of their Creator was gone, Deltek and Crescent having not known of them already due to their formation. Many of the mocs were left in a lost state, unknowing of what to do but with an instinctive feeling that there was someone they were suppose to look up to, so they looked up to the beings that had helped them. Soon after this the Outer kingdom was formed, a peaceful place, like The Kingdom, thats population was formed of miscellaneous mocs of all kinds, Deltek and Crescent being the only Mini-mayhems. Until they had their son, Jetflare. They'd long since been in a relationship since the kingdom was made, but it'd taken even Crescent a long time to figure out how to create such as a child, but once she did both her and Deltek immediately worked upon one. Unfortunately only a few years after Jetflare's creation he was brought down with a debilitating illness not even Crescent could heal, and during their attempts to find out how to do such she vanished, disappearing for unknown reasons and leaving only her inventions and unfinished projects behind. This was when Tyrant began, Deltek breaking from the loss of his wife and the strain of knowing he couldn't help his son, and started to become the hated being today, be that from a mental snap or just him giving into his true nature unknown. Yet, this wasn't when he truly became Tyrant, that happened when he found a hidden project of his wife's, a project that may have held the ability to cure his son, but one that also required his son to open the sealed device it was within, an impossibility due to the devices connection to those around it and the danger of moving Jetflare in his worsening state despite the inventions and tools made to slow the disease. So he took the next best route, cloning. Crescent had dabbled in the tech, never finishing it but leaving enough parts for Deltek to attempt to finish with what Crescent herself taught him, and the scientist's he'd... gained in his conquests. Unfortunately, without Crescent the task was an arduous one, and due to his damaged psyche a bloody one. Crescent had ensured the device could only be opened by Jetflare, encoding it to his DNA, but due to errors and unnoticed problems within their attempts at finishing the cloning devices, the Jetflare clones continued to have just enough differences in their DNA to keep the device from registering them, which then lead to their deaths by Tyrant's own hands as their 'uselessness' was revealed, his psyche allowing him to excuse it due to them being 'just mockery's of his son'. He went through about 40-50 cloning attempts before he created the current Jetflare, the one we both know, and the first to carry over a perfect DNA copy. Due to the cloning machines design the clones themselves carried over the memories of the original, if damaged ones. So it can be understood why Jetflare himself was surprised to have his father acting so uncaring towards him before dragging him into a room filled with his own corpses, Tyrant having left them there in disgust. It's even more understandable why his own personality broke down once he learned what he was. Tyrant forced him to open the device before tossing the shocked Jetflare to the side. Now what was in the device definitely wasn't what he expected. In fact it's something both you and I know due to its relation with Jetflare, if in a more undamaged and cleaned state, composed of whites and blues instead of its blacks, reds and rusted brown. Tyrant due to his degrading mentality didn't even bother to attempt to figure out what the function of the robotic teddy-bear was, quite literally throwing it to the side before going to work tearing the area apart in rage. During this Jetflare managed to snap himself out of his stunned state, taking the damaged bear out of spite, his personality beyond changed, as he fled in the distraction. As he ran he managed to find a blade, a short and jagged thing, before he ended up in the same room as the one he'd been cloned from, surrounded by tubes and machines as he was kept barely alive. To say Jetflare was mad was putting it lightly, he quite literally hated himself, blaming the dying bot for his terrible creation, the false life he knew and the pain he'd already suffered. So he killed him, leaving Tyrant to the sight of his son standing over himself, a blood covered blade in his hand as the other lay dead, before fleeing activating the wings he'd been gifted and escaping through the nearest window, the bear in tow. Since then, as I've said before, Tyrant has been hunting for Jetflare, and Jetflare himself ended up in my house, keeping his past a secret. Since coming here he's calmed down, his anger and hatred lessening due to actually finding a caring 'family', and finally getting to act somewhat like a child, i.e. the version Toa-Shifter was sent for his series. Another thing that shall be gifted to your knowledge today is the use behind Cuddles, he was quite literally built for the situation that initiated all of this, or near to it, Crescent vanishing. He was designed to locate her, and pull her back to its location if such was needed due to her being removed from the universe or somehow stuck in a state/realm/area she couldn't escape herself, or be freed from with conventional means. Unfortunately for this he needs her remaining shard of crystallized Relic, which Tyrant wears around his wrist, something he can't even state, nor most likely fully recall due to the damage he was dealt by Tyrant's throw, also being the reason he has no speech, or at least no known one. Personality: Kind, caring, thoughtful, and a bit of a nutcase. Crescent made for one of the best of Rulers, she suffered no (or at least minimal) greed, she would show kindness even to enemies so long as they truly meant their own wish of reformation, and where Deltek could be rash at times, she could remain cool and help calm the small rage he's always harbored. But she was also a touch of a handful, from her love of insane experimentation, to speed and racing itself, she was always either causing mild trouble by dashing through the kingdom at high-speeds, or by accidentally creating machines who's uses even she'd become frightened of allowing into even the right hands. Other attributes: Crescent's form is highly changeable through the use of her powers, from the modification of her limbs, to even the full, albeit temporary, reformation of her entire body. But, her favourite use, (and why she later gained the nickname of the demon of light-speed) is to form what's essentially a jet of sorts on her back, and then use it to either fly long distances, or speed across areas at speeds that most speed based Mocs can't even reach.

So yep, that is her most favourite use of it, a jet formed directly from her body. It uses a mix of her relic-core's (which both her and tyrant have, just break off a limb and you see the crystals within, just like what you can see on the part of her jet connected to her back) power and some internal mechanics she modded in to allow for her to move at such crazy speeds, and be able to react to them too.

She is also a genius when it comes to creating nigh-any type of machine, tool, weapon, or that which is related. Weapons: Besides those she may attempt to create out of boredom, Cresent has never been one to fight, preferring to solve conflict through more peaceful means, or at least by tiring them out until they are forced to surrender. Of course, this doesn't mean she won't fight if needed, but when she does, the damage she can cause is even more monstrous than Tyrant's own. ================ Crescent was inspired both from Toa-Shifter's amazing series and some of Jedder77's own crazy Mini-mayhem mocs, the ideas behind them, and my own want to do such after writing of her in Tyrant's Bio. She speaks in a blue (#2088B2) version of this font: fontzone.net/font-details/spee…

#Mini mayhem #Mini mayhems #Crescent #Queen #House universe #House!verse #bionicle #moc

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seperis · 7 years ago

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So because my life does not have challenges enough (thanks, universe) I got hit with Plague Thing on Saturday and am just now no longer mouthing worrying non-sequiturs to my son when my fever spikes.

But enough about me. I was told that someone said they wanted the next DtoA chapter for Christmas. I couldn’t do that, but I thought maybe I’d try and give you the next best thing.

Chapter 24, Section One

Thanks to my wonderful Lilliane for checking to make sure this wasn’t like, gibberish; the fever’s been weird.

Castiel paces the endless length of a room that continues forever, the clean white walls studded with doors at precise intervals. Some are open, some ajar, some merely cracked, spilling memories like waking dreams before him, moments out of time or context. The older doors are closed, the oldest ones locked. He pauses, fingers ghosting over the complicated whirls that surround one door, frame built from ancient olive and balsam and citrus wood, extinct for millennia, sealed with seven locks stretching from top to base.

"Copper," he murmurs, identifying each one. "Tin. Iron. Lead. Gold. Silver. Quicksilver." There's neither latch nor knob on the door, nor keyholes in the locks; this door once closed was never meant to be opened again. Pressing his palm to the smooth frame, he breathes a single word: "Cassiel."

The door shivers, locks trembling with a discordant metal jangle, and he breathes air scented with myrrh and ancient flowers in first bloom as they burn to ash beneath a blackened sky--

"No," he says, jerking back, tasting burning ash. "I think it's best you remain there and I here."

Turning away, he continues down the room, watching doors pass: some old, some new, some barely formed, some so ancient the wood that formed them died out before humanity had even reached two cell status, amoebas floating in primordial seas.

He passes the Grove, a black haired boy cradling the body of a dead man as the shouting masses reached him. A glimpse of black skirts draws him to a starkly elegant work room, walls pigeonholed for books, washed in the stillness of grief: Diana granted his request, Cornelia Africana. It will be done. A fragile blonde girl rocking on the floor in terrible pain as white-clad maids circle her helplessly. An elderly soldier rides three days and three nights to bring the news to Misenum, his own loss disciplined to another's need.

Diana in her temple, expressionless: You have no right to question us, Cornelia Africana. We do not answer to you.

A god's promise was only as good as their desire to keep it, and they didn't care. It was just a game to them, only one of hundreds, thousands, played by the gods with mortals as their pieces. He'd watched all of human history; this was neither the greatest or the least of them played with human souls and human lives.

He glimpses Cornelia in her tabilium with her books, turning one of the most powerful minds this planet has ever seen to a single purpose: this is my offering. He fights the urge to enter and stop her, warn her, but it's just a memory; there's nothing he can do now. The time is long past he could do anything at all.

If you can, you should.

He pauses at the sight of a cracked door, frowning; easing it open, he's witness to a silent tableau of Cornelia Africana, Sempronia Graccha, Emet, and Sappho surrounding a narrow bed where Claudia Pulchera struggles for each breath. The dark eyes are sunken into darkness, bones in stark relief, and the rise and fall of her chest barely moves the thin sheet covering her.

"It will not be long, Domina," Emet says quietly, then his head turns, seeing Castiel. The faint widening of the dark brown eyes is the only sign of his perception; Egypt's priestly caste are very well-trained.

"Be not afraid, Emet of Memphis," he tells him, pausing the flow of time in this location.

Emet steps away from the bed to gracefully lower himself into one of the hundred prostrations that an Egyptian priest learns as a matter of course. He examines him, satisfied at what he finds: Amon-Ra's divine spark is present, of course, but the mark of Hippocrates is there as well, given to one who has surpassed the requirements of his calling.

"I am called to judgment," Emet says into the mosaic floor. "I am ready, Balance of the World; my life will pay in full for the harm I have done. I only ask to be permitted to see Claudia through her passage and her mother and sister to their beds."

"Rise, Emet; we are but a servant as you are." He waits for Emet to gain his feet again. "I am not here for you."

The change is subtle, but the movement is not; Emet inserts himself between him and the bed and the women beside it. Mortal behavior is often baffling, but this is not; the light of Hippocrates grows stronger, gleaming with the verdant greens of life woven between the birthright power of a priest of Egypt, fiercely protective. "None here deserve such attention, Messenger."

Interesting. "It is our natural right. Do you think you can stop us?"

"I do not," Emet answers steadily. "But I shall try anyway."

He would at that. "Claudia Pulchera will not take Charon's coin."

Emet nods warily. "She refused."

"The Shores are infinite and the numbers that crowd them vast; she could search until she forgets herself as well as who she seeks," he tells Emet. "I will escort her to him."

Emet's expression is fascinating; as a rule, the priestly caste aren't demonstrative. "You--you--will accompany Claudia to the Underworld?"

"I doubt they'll refuse me admission," he says, wondering if perhaps Emet's education was lacking after all; he does remember his last vessel among the Egyptian priestly caste had a propensity to fall asleep during lectures.

"I doubt you would be denied anything you might want," Emet answers. "I merely wonder why the Weight and the Balance would accept a task so...common. Or that such a task would even exist."

He finds himself looking at Claudia, the rasp of her breathing echoing through the room. "We are the Host on Earth," he says. "All of Creation is our demesne. It is our will, and it will be done."

Emet blinks, wariness inexplicably draining away, and bows his head. "Whatever assistance you require, I offer it, and myself as instrument of your will."

Stepping back, startled, he watches Emet accept the presence of an angel within him before returning to Claudia's bedside. She was in such pain despite the syrup of poppies, her mind clouded; there was no need to take a temporary vessel while he waited for her to die, no need for him to wait those hours with her at all...but her death was slow as her body began to shut down, and she was afraid. Only hours--barely a breath before it ended--but even so, he took away her pain, cleared her mind to speak to her mother and her sister, give them some comfort in their pain as she completed her time on earth.

He doesn't need to see the rest, but he can't look away: Cornelia Africana closes Claudia's eyes and Sempronia Graccha smooths back the dull grey-shot black hair with an unsteady hand before turning to the comfort of her mother's arms. On the bedside table lies Charon's coin, rejected, and the pain of grief is augmented by the knowledge of the horror of what they send her to.

"She won't be alone," Castiel whispers; it's only a memory, and there's nothing he can do now. He gathered Claudia to him and passed the Guardian of the Underworld unopposed and unquestioned; he took her to her husband, who all this time clung to enough of himself to welcome her, her brother and sister with him.

It wouldn't last, of course; the Shores would take them, slowly and painfully, piece by piece, until they were no more than forgotten memories of themselves, truly shades. Yet her joy and Tiberius' was far greater in their union here than that of any shade on Charon's Barge on their way to paradise. When he left the Underworld, he left the four of them with one thing: their names, written into their shades for all of time. All else may be lost, but they would know themselves and each other; that much, they would always keep.

"I did not know that Messengers were kind."

Turning, Castiel sees the face that could have launched a thousand (Roman) ships. "We aren't." Kindness is so small; Enochian has no concept of it at all.

"A lie: it is vast, Messenger. It is everything." She follows his gaze to the darkened room. "You didn't remember?"

He shakes his head. "Some of it, not all. Not until now."

"You came to me in my bath," she says, eyes distant. "I remember...you took my knife and held me in your arms in the cooling water and let me feel you and know I was not alone. You spoke to me; you didn't reproach me for my weakness, but told me that Gaius waited for me on the Shores, and that you would take me to him when my time was done."

"Why is it, that we blame the reed for breaking when the weight placed upon it was purpose-made too great to bear?" he asks bitterly. "Blame those that chose to make a weight that you could not carry; the responsibility is theirs, and so is the blame. What was done to you was obscene."

"Opimius--"

"And your father." Her childhood had been cruel, the medium at best malicious neglect, at worst the calculated destruction of a young girl's fragile mind. She was sold to the highest--or most august--bidder, her value was only in what benefits she brought her birth family at her marriage. "I shared your life entire, Licinia Crassa; there was no flaw in you."

"I remember...you said that, too." She shakes her head. "Like you, I have forgotten much."

The bleakness of the Shores unfolds around them, and Castiel stills; the lifeless dirt and dry, empty air are antithetical to all that he was as an angel and he can feel it still. Worse, however, are the ragged, indistinct grey shapes that surround them like barely-solid mist. He fights the instinctive urge to reach for them, to offer comfort and support; as an angel, his purpose was war, to administer justice in his Father's name and embody His wrath, never His succor. If you can, you should.

"Why am I here?" he asks, hands clenched at his sides as a shade drifts by, hopeless, helpless, alone.

"I didn't think you'd hear me," she answers. "Not here."

He jerks around. "You summoned me?"

"I forgot so much," she answers, then touches her chest, and for a moment, something gleams silver-gold, bright: her name, written into her shade. "But I never forgot me. You did that. I wanted to thank you."

He looks around the Shores, trying not to flinch as an oblivious shade wanders too close. To doom someone here and deny them even the relief of madness.... "Do you call that kindness?"

"I do," she answers. "It was a gift, its value beyond measure. I wanted to tell you that, and that I used it as any gift should be used."

He thinks of those endless, locked doors. "Some things," he answers softly, "should be beyond memory."

"Don't be afraid, Castiel of Chitaqua," she says, a smile in her voice. "You've been many and now are one, but that one is a multitude. You were, are, will be a thousand people before you're done." The shades are now profound; truly, he lives in a time of ridiculous miracles. "That sounds familiar."

"Practice what you preach, Messenger." She shakes her head. "Even here, time is short and I cannot stay long--"

"I would say I was surprised you can do it at all," he says. "But I'm not, or at least, less than I should be. It's not just a side effect of the backlash. The Door has been unguarded since the murder of Cerberus."

She hesitates. "That is not all."

Of course it's not. "The Misborn are the natural heirs of Cerberus." She nods, shoulders slumping. "That's how they passed through to come here without the Morningstar's consent. They didn't have time to designate an alternate heir, as Charon did."

"Until now, it didn't matter; the living world has no more appeal than the Land of the Dead. Dead or living, prey born mortal are of equal weight; their hunger cannot be satisfied by either."

"What changed?"

"Something in the mortal world makes them hungry," she says slowly, forehead creasing in thought. "Something they can eat."

There are so many possibilities, all of them terrible. "I don't suppose we'd be fortunate enough for it to be me?"

"I know not," she answers. "Castiel--"

"Not that it matters," he continues bitterly, thinking of Lucifer; he bred monsters of gods and never thought what that meant. "If they can hunt the mortal world with impunity--"

"They won't," she interrupts. "They can claim the Door, yes, but that does not mean we will let them."

"'We'?" Castiel looks the masses of shades surround him, their despair and fear and pain endless, terrible to behold. "And this is your army?" As an angel, he could have helped them: if he'd thought of it, if he'd cared, if he'd even seen them. As an angel, he saw this and did nothing. If he were an angel now...but he's not.

He's not. If you can, you should.

"There are worse things than pain," Licinia says, stiffening as her eyes going to River. "There's forgetting why you endure it."

Before their eyes, the River changes, swimming calm robin's-egg blue and green, inviting; as one, the masses rush toward it, throwing themselves into the shallows and thrusting their heads beneath the surface, drinking greedily.

"Lethe," he says as one of the shapes returns, and he glimpses a blank oval set with dimly sketched eyes that seem to look through him; nothing exists behind them. "It takes--"

"Your pain," she answers, staring down at the water lapping only inches from their feet. "Your fear. Your anger. Your grief. All you must do is offer it yourself, whole and entire."

He swallows back bile as more crowd forward. Licinia gazes at the water lapping only inches from their feet, blue eyes dark.

"It is hard," she whispers. "To see it so close, within reach of my arm, to know there my pain can be left. All I must do is drink."

He glances at her; the longing is as sharp as pain.

"My husband was betrayed and murdered, his body butchered, his shade condemned to wander the Shores, and I was driven mad," she answers rigidly. "I see what they did to him, night and day; I see them cut off his head and gouge out his eyes and cut out his tongue. They opened his skull and filled with gold, for the reward offered for his head was based on weight." She looks up at him blindly. "Sometimes, it's all that I can see."

"But you don't take the waters."

"Lethe will take my pain, but for their condescension, my offering must be me," she answers. "Licinia of the Crassii, made happy wife of the last of the Gracchi sons, mother of Sempronia, sister of Claudia, and daughter of Africana. I must give up the woman who welcomed me as a loving mother, the man who believed I had no flaw, the daughter I bore to him in our marriage bed, and the sister who was my greatest comfort." She swallows. "And I must give up the woman I could have been in life, had I been strong enough to claim her."

The choice is breathtaking in its cruelty; it's one they're forced to make every single day, until they forget there's a choice at all. Hell would approve.

"I will give it nothing," Licinia says softly, ripples of determination in her voice. "So here I stand and here I remain; I refuse it. I reject it."

Watching the Shores become churned mud as more come forward, eager, desperate, he thinks of Dean and Bobby, of Andy and Gary, of Kellie and Ray, Alicia bleeding in that field, of needles and smoke and the thousand ways he learned to forget. "I don't think I could."

"I don't see why," she answers. "You've done it a thousand times before and will a thousand times again." Licinia smiles up at him, brilliant and sweet, and he understands why Gaius loved her, why Cornelia mourned her so bitterly. She brought such joy to her new family, joy that had been long absent with Tiberius' terrible death, Scipio's betrayal, the reveal of Sempronia's suffering, and so desperately needed. Her fragility made her all the more precious, and as much as her sons, Licinia's death left a scar on Cornelia's heart that never quite healed.

"It's hard," she says, reaching out a hand and pulling a shade to her side. Not formless, however; deep brown eyes beneath black hair smile at him shyly, overwriting the hideousness of her slow death. "But it's easier when you're not alone."

"We give it nothing," Claudia says, and another shade joins them, then another, and another. "Here we stand, and here we remain."

"We refuse it," one says as more join them; he searches their forming faces, watching them become more substantial, become--become people. "We reject it."

A tall male eases up beside Claudia as his brother joins Licinia. "It's hard," Gaius says, his mother's brilliant eyes smiling at him. "But we're never alone. Thank you, Castiel."

He's surprised by his own smile, something bubbling up from somewhere deep that feels like hope. "It is good to see you, Gaius Sempronius." Gaius tips his head, eyebrows raised. "Yes, of course, I almost forgot; you were right."

Gaius grins back. "I rather thought I would be."

He fights down laughter; this isn't the time (or perhaps, it is). "So I assume that this is--"

"--my army, yes," Licinia finishes, laughter in her eyes. "Kindness is everything, Castiel of Chitaqua. It was a gift, and I did with it as you would expect; I gave it to all who could understand it. More will come; my work is only begun, but it shall be done."

He searches the dozens of faces. "I didn't know it could be passed to others." He honestly doesn't think that's possible.

"I've had time to work out the details," she says, and he looks into the face of the woman she didn't get to be in life. "There's been little else to do."

He starts to answer, then pauses: an army. "What are you doing?"

"The Morningstar calls himself Master of the Shores; it is in his name that the Misborn patrol our Shores and hunt our people," Licinia answers, raising her chin. "We do not accept his claim."

"The Shores were unclaimed by any god or mortal," he answers, and doesn't say because no one wanted them. "His conquest, while unwelcome, was just."

"They were not unclaimed," she answers. "No challenge was offered or accepted, no battle was fought and won; he trespasses on what is not his own and enforces his claim of possession with the Misborn. We do not accept this; the Shores were not his to take."

Castiel gazes at the featureless landscape, then at her, puzzled. "Even if you could claim the Shores, you would have no more authority over the Rivers than he does now," he tries. "You still could not cross."

"We don't want to cross," she says, taking a deliberate step forward before looking down. "I thought, instead, we might plant a garden."

Following her gaze, his breath catches; where she was standing, thin blades of new spring grass poke through the lifeless dirt that grows darker, richer. A fragile plant pushes itself upward, tiny leaves unfurling before his eyes, and kneeling, he reaches a shaking hand to touch one perfect leaf and feels the thrum of life: Creation.

"Here we stand," she says. "And here we remain. Why should we go elsewhere? This is our home, and we will make it a paradise. It is not over yet." Castiel straightens. "You heard it, too?

"He asked the question, and through all of time and space, we heard it," she confirms. "We did not understand it then: we hardly understood ourselves. Now, we understand, and unto you we give our answer: yes. It's not over yet."

Dean's suggestion of a secret newsletter is becoming increasingly plausible. "Who asked the question?"

"The impossible," she answers. "And where I stand, here on the Shores, is where it shall begin."

"Why here?" he asks. "Why now?"

"When nothing is written, all we have is now," she answers. "So now is when it must be."

He watches another plant fight its way to the surface; the soil is poor, the environment hostile, it shouldn't be able to survive (or even exist) but perhaps it simply doesn't care. It could use help, however. If you can, you should. "You dispute Morningstar's claim to these lands? You claim ownership of the Shores?" She nods. "By what right? Say it."

"We challenge Morningstar's claim to the Shores; these are not unclaimed lands," Licinia answers. "Our residence makes us its natural owners; it is from us he must take them."

"You were here first, yes, excellent choice." Calling in a knife, Castiel cuts across his palm and turns it to hover over the dirt, watching the soil absorb his blood. "The Host recognizes your claim and finds it just. No challenge was made or accepted, and no battle was fought or won, so where you stand are now disputed lands. Our decision is this: ownership will be decided by combat and to the victor goes the spoils in full. This is our will and it will be done."

He glances up to see Licinia blinking slowly. "You can do that?"

"We are the last of the Host in all Creation," he says, watching his blood splash across the bright greenery. "There is no one who can tell us we can't." Standing up, he smiles at her. "Come here; we will not send you into battle unarmed."

Enchanted, he watches green grow wherever she steps before she drops gracefully to her knees, skirts pooling like quicksilver in a growing green frame. She raises her head, and he swipes a finger through his blood and touches it to her forehead, breathing his blessing in his native tongue. "Rise, Licinia of the Shores, and pick up your sword. The battle begins when you step on the field."

She nods and he extends a hand, helping her to her feet, and looks into the blue eyes. "The woman you wished to claim was not found in life," he says. "But she was not lost, Licinia. You found her here; I look upon her now." Licinia smiles slowly, mouth trembling. "Remember this: when you step on the field, you do not doubt, you do not wonder, you do not despair; you win."

"I will," she says, squeezing his hand and stepping back. Around her, the grass spreads further, a tiny, incongruous miracle; this is where she stands. He counts the shades quickly and then remembers there's no time here; he has all he needs.

"Gaius, come here," he says, and he sinks to her knees. Touching his forehead, he breathes his benediction; if you can, you should. "Rise, Gaius of the Shores, and pick up your sword."

#down to agincourt #the game of god

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omni-spiritual · 4 years ago

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● Disclaimer:

None of the ideas in this blog are fact, nor is it a matter of opinion. This is pure speculation about how I believe the spiritual side of the universe operates based on an educated guess from a hypothesis presented in other religions, as well as Humanity's current knowledge of scientific understanding. These are hypotheses that our current level of technology has no way of proving either way.

It is my belief that all religions are as equally right as they are wrong. There is no actual way of knowing if any of this is fact so it should not be treated as such and should be open to change. People should also keep an open mind to other religious beliefs.

● The Universe:

I believe there are an infinite number of universes out there, each sentient, each omnipotent to the things going on inside of it. Although they are likely aware of each other they are not aware of what happens in the others.

The universe we inhabit is a living organism, which we attempt to comprehend as "God". All the various galaxies are organs, and the planets and stars which make them up are cells. Sentient life and animals are essentially bacteria, tiny organisms that can be either helpful or detrimental to their host.

Each spec of life is connected to the universe itself. They are part of it and the matter of the universe makes up its various working parts. This is why there is a running belief between religions that "God is all things", as everything from atoms to people to galaxies make up its body. The Universe is a sentient, fully self-aware, combination of all life and energy. It has trillions of pocket dimensions which are a part of it, like growths on a body.

God is merely more aware of the organisms that make up its body then we are of our own.

I like to think of it as female, like a nurturing mother, but that has no basis in anything. Just a feeling. It is likely the universe does not have a "gender" as we understand it.

It is my belief, based on personal observations (such as seemingly impossible prayers being answered). That God is neither good nor evil, but has a merciful and compassionate outlook towards everything that lives inside her.

God does not create evil, nor are our troubles God's doing. Life, by its nature, is cruel and, well God tries to help us. God itself is a living organism with flaws and limits. Such as not being able to affect free will. Rather, God affects the universe by the laws of the universe and affecting the probable outcome (AKA "increasing the odds" or "luck.”) However games of chance aren't a high priority for prayers to be answered as there are far more important things for God to concern herself with. Doing something that disregards the laws of the universe is possible but is extremely hard, as it takes a lot of effort which causes neglect for others.

● The Cycle:

The galaxies expands out until gravity collapses in on itself and they slowly begin compressing back to the center of the universe. They tightly compact themselves in the black hole at the center of the universe until nothing else is left.

However the black hole will also consume all super fluids, which is a state of matter not effected by gravity, due to them being carried by planetary bodies and asteroids which pick them up on their way to the black hole. This will inevitably result in the black hole erupting and causing new galaxies to form out of the space dust. This cycle is an actual scientific theory called "The Big Bounce" which explains in greater detail how the big bang works.

Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed. The universe is made up purely of energy, even matter is nothing more than physical energy which has been converted through extreme means (AKA the first big bang). The universe has gone through an untold number of these cycles, where it has effectively died of old age before reincarnating itself.

● The Soul:

All creatures that can think have a soul, including Synthetic Lifeforms such as Artificial Intelligence. The Soul is nothing more than the electrical impulses that control the body. The brain (even a mechanical brain) imprints memories and personality traits onto it from the moment you start thinking. When you die that consciousness still exist and is recycled in the next lifeform that uses the energy. That lifeform will have the traits of you but the memories will remain dormant unless something synchronizes the thoughts of your new brain to your soul's memories. Your soul gains new information each time it is recycled. It changes and evolves but it is still you, and all your other lives, at its core.

Souls can be reincarnated as any race or creature that has a brain, organic or synthetic doesn't matter. Souls are continuously reincarnated, taking a "break" following death to look after the souls of their loved ones. When those people pass on the soul allows itself to be "judged" however they don't go to hell or heaven, rather they are reincarnated based on their Karma.

There is no such thing as hell. The physical plane is as close as you get to such an environment as it is a proving ground for Bacteria to test itself and eventually ascend into Enlightenment.

● Karma

While I believe "Karma" affects your next life, I also believe what you do in this life matters.

If you are punished in this life, either by law or a seeming "Random run of bad luck", then your karma evens out Provided you see the events for what they are and "repent" (As cliche as that sounds). If you repent, actually repent, then you can be forgiven for near anything. But this isn't a free bargain. Redemption comes at the cost of hard times, but at the end of it, you get your clean slate and second chance.

In essence, if bad stuff happens to you and you interpreted it as "Divine punishment", and learned from it. Then you will start experiencing good luck again. Then your next life will be getting a pretty nice setting.

You can't escape your bad Karma by killing yourself. However, you can take comfort in the knowledge that it won't last forever. Eventually, your Karma will restore itself and things will start going your way again.

Likewise, if you go unpunished in your past life, you are born with poor Karma, and will suffer through "Bad Luck" for apparently no reason. But that to, won't last forever.

While it is possible to restore your Karma by doing good... doing good things, specifically for the purpose of redeeming your Karma, doesn't affect it. Good deeds, done for bad or selfish reasons, doesn't help you, but nor do they condemn you. You must truly do good for goods sake for it to effect your Karma.

● Sins:

There is no such thing as sin. Karma is only determined by if you are a "good person" by your own values. However this is not as black and white as it seems. Acts you personally believe to be for "the Greater Good" or are "Morally Grey issues" that disturb your person still affect your Karma in a negative way. If you twist your beliefs to justify hurting others, that affects your Karma negatively as well. Your Karma also determines how much of a priority your prayers are.

● Deities:

It is highly likely each universe has billions of small pocket dimensions growing on it like moles. However too many pocket Dimensions is harmful to the universe. The dimensions can bump into each other and destroy each other, leaving wounds on the main body of the universe. This is where Deities come into play. Lower gods, called Deities, likely do exists. They are known by us as gods from ancient mythologies.

Deities are former bacteria which have reached "Enlightenment" and are able to interact with the physical world without the use of a physical body. They are beings of pure consciousness and immense power, which they are supposed to use for various task to help the universe function. Deities retain their consciousness even after the universe dies and are reborn through the Big Bounce Theory.

One of these task is to act as White Blood Cells, healing the wounds of the universe. They manage the various pocket dimensions of their universe, to insure they don't become harmful to the body of the universe. Another is to recycle energy for reincarnating individual souls. The final task is to create planets and stars. It is possible, if there is a consciousness behind shaping worlds, that it comes from these entities. Which act through science to clump together space dust, a process taking millions of years. Deities want as many habitable worlds as possible in order for more deities to emerge.

Deities do all this by influencing "luck" through scientific laws.

● Jesus:

Jesus is one of many demigods recorded throughout history, however he was the child of the universe itself and a mortal. Whereas other demigods were the offspring of deities who we know through mythology. The reason we do not see these individuals anymore is because the universe was either offended or the deities became too worried to trust us with their own children after we murdered Jesus. It is my belief that Jesus did not "sacrifice his life for our salvation", rather he tried to save us and humanity killed him for it. This is the reason we don't see Gods from Mythology anymore. Our world marked itself as a poor vacation spot after that.

● Luck

It wasn't too long ago that we didn't understand what made gravity work. We had the basic theories, and hypothesized what made it work, but we recognized gravity as a fundamental force hundreds of years before we even began to understand the quantum particles that generated it. Yet we could still predict it and manipulate it to our advantage, in sports and construction and various other areas.

It is my belief that Luck is a fundamental force, like gravity. We merely don't understand what makes it work yet. However, as with gravity before, we can predict it and manipulate Luck. Mostly people do this through rituals or items they believe to be lucky.

Wiccans, and those that practice true witchcraft, are not flashy magicians. No fire balls or animal transformations. I believe what these individuals actually do is bend luck through ritualistic prayers they call "spells". Much of this is guess work, and likely unnecessary, however they are able to tap into the force of luck and bend it to steer certain events in their favor.

Well not as efficient at it as Demigods, living creatures can learn to bend luck themselves or ask a spirit to do so for them (which is more effective but less reliable).

String Theory suggest the existence of other dimensions. If this is true then we could assume many of these dimensions have lifeforms of their own. It is possible that the "Spirits" and "Demons" Wiccans contact through other rituals are actually beings from other dimensions. Beings attempting to make contact from their end, as the wiccans are.

Honestly I'm not sure if this part of their practice is true but I will submit for the record that it is scientifically possible. In a hypothetical situation where beings from other dimensions have a deeper understanding of String Theory then ourselves, they could, theoretically, be able to contact us.

Personally I would prefer to stay the hell away from such beings. Many of them may be benevolent but, like any other person, they likely have their own agendas and would likely expect something in return for whatever favors individuals ask for. It doesn't help that any being with such an understanding of Science would view us as inferior. At best they would consider you a pet, at worse a play thing.

If you're going to summon things for help. It's best to stick to your own loved ones, who have passed and are waiting to be reincarnated. As beings of conciousness they can influence luck more easily, rather then interact with other aspects of the physical worlds.

Ask help from family, friends, even pets that have passed, but don't just ask them for things. Talk to them (or rather think at them) when you go to bed. Tell them about your day and they will likely feel more appreciated and help you where they can. Even help answer your prayers.

To alliterate, real magic can be explained through theoretical science. If proper research is put into it, it could be proven as true someday... unfortunately because of the stigma of "magic" it is unlikely any scientist would be willing to put the research into it.

The soul itself could be proven if more research was put into identifying the unique signature of brainwaves (and attempting to track it after death). Same can be said for magic... good luck finding an eccentric billionaire willing to fund the research.

#Spiritual #Religion #Religious #Speculate #Theory

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typologycentral · 7 years ago

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[Fi] Bloody Fi purge! Your inferior cousin needs some dominant and auxiliary guidance.

To preface: I love you XNFPs and unbeknownst to me, always have. For one, it's been edifying and validating to see some of my all-time favorite humans (writers, musicians, actors, thinkers, etc...) being typed as XNFP. Even before learning about typology and gaining a deeper understanding of Jungian cognitive functions, I was actively working on (what I now know to be) Fi development because a lack of it had reaped much unnecessary hardship onto my life. Therefore, I think that conscientious journey led me to people that embodied their Fi with vigor and authenticity and helped me get in touch with my own, for which I am eternally grateful. And now on to the issue at hand (this is a long read but I'm trying to give relatively detailed information that might help you to help me): For a little under a decade, since high school, I've had an on and off, pseudo-platonic, quasi-romantic, eternal soulmate, occasional f-buddy relationship with this ebullient, effervescent, deeply insightful, dreamy eyed, pixie warrior priestess (INFP) that, in my relatively short life, has always stood a mile apart from the "Gone Girl/Cersei Lannister/Elle Driver/Cookie Lyon/Harley Quinn/Akasha, Queen of the Damned" fare I've usually attracted [strike]...and been equally attracted to[/strike]. Our first interaction was a classroom debate turned bloodstained duel to the death over the ethics of eating animals (I swear on the atom, this is not a utilization of an NFP stereotype lol). Something clicked (energy + angst + lust + social isolation + troubled pasts), and from there, this happened > I'd never before intimately known someone who had the chasm of incongruously layered emotionality she possessed--ostensibly she experienced feelings in a plethora of shades from eggshell, hunter green, and cobalt blue to neon yellow and not only that, could verbalize them as such. Meanwhile, I only had ready access to basic black, white, red (all degrees of rage), grey, and at my best, a metallic gold. Though wholly confounding, maddening and taxing to me, I had never felt more woke and unchained and set free. It was intoxicating to experience a wider array, a more diverse palette of feelings. I obviously never reached her depths, patterns and colors, but even experiencing a trifle more than I was previously accustomed to felt like a massive, tectonic plate moving, internal shift. She saw me shed an actual, solitary tear once under extreme duress but in better times, just by staring into my eyes and smiling on a whim she could easily make me mist up with soul purifying relief, which was a gargantuan, almost incomprehensible feat for lesser mortals and I truly honestly never before felt so connected to someone on a level that was nigh impossible to articulate in a rational way. And particularly when she was sad and grieving (probably because of me), which often left me feeling inadequate because I was too emotionally dumb and powerless to effectively help--which, in and of itself, beset me with very real, very potent, personal "trigger" landmines. Especially back then, I neither spoke of nor experienced emotions with great affect. I understood them cognitively and intellectually, but to actually engage them with my "heart" felt like a blind man wading neck-deep in cement. My take on our biggest, most immediate problem aside from all the other reasons this union was likely to fail? We just spoke completely different cognitive "languages (Ni vs Si? Dom Fi vs Inferior Fi? Dom Te vs. Inferior Te?)" that always created endless communication gaffs, roadblocks and nuclear disasters. For example: Pixie: "Did I see you at Starbucks earlier today with Cersei f%#king Lannister when you were supposed to be at a study group?" Me: "That was the study group." Pixie: *heart imploding with the force of a billion suns* "Why didn't you tell me that?" Me: *blistering dispassion with a hint of exasperated bemusement* "Look, our past relationship is just that, in the past. You have nothing to feel insecure about. It was harmless, only work. You know I love you." Pixie: "That's not what I asked you! Stop lying and trying to hide and sugarcoat things! You know I hate that brother f%#king bitch! Why didn't you tell me you were going to see her? Me: *voice box shredding like the Hulk's Capri pants* "Because that was fucking irrelevant. She was put in a group with me! Her strategy to double-cross Dany and Jon will fall to shit, for Christ sakes. Are you happy now? You always focus on the wrong thing!" She always wanted to know the exact details behind what actually happened in a very direct, matter of fact way (perhaps to refine the many possibilities she generated for why I would withhold supposedly important information from her), whereas I always instinctively and immediately went to why I did something or the "why" concerning the underlying problem, because the "why," the deeper meaning (should and theoretically, in my mind) supersedes anything else, and especially when problem solving and coming up with a viable solution imo. Ultimately, it just didn't work. Idiotically yet idealistically, we wouldn't let that stop us. We broke up and got back together a few times before deciding that we were better off as this nebulous, ill defined glob of corrupted love and unresolved daddy/mommy abandonment issues that maybe one day might actually not fall apart at the seams just as it's getting good again. The whole idea and its subsequent execution was dysfunctional, unhealthy, ridiculous and plain ol stupid, but I gather this was us trying to be intense, brooding and deep. Dunno exactly. We'd go on to see other people and sometimes, in between relationships, link up again. Usually we couldn't reach a year and a half before we wound up back in the other's arms/bed. Moving on. She experienced a tragedy (by her standards) about 3 years ago while I was literally on the opposite side of the planet and whereas I would've normally come flying to her aid with an S on my chest, I made the conscious choice not to. Already enduring my ascent to power (lol) being stifled because of my brokedown Fi usage as it pertains to my burgeoning career, I resented yet another unwieldy force (Pixie) possessing that type of influence over me as well; I defiantly chose self-interest above anyone or anything else (like I'm instinctively wont to do, right or wrong, good or bad). She kept trying to reach me to the point of flooding all of our communication channels with emotional spam (from childish antics to vile, unforgivable diatribes). After a while, I felt bad, decided to reach out to her but was ignored for 2.5 years straight. That had never happened before--it broke our unspoken rule, which devastated me more than I realized. I grieved (rather poorly by over-utilizing Se), but eventually tucked it away, moved on and focused on work. I figured we were never meant to be anyway but that I would still love her (from afar) and wish her the best regardless. Lo and behold, she called me last night out of nowhere, drunkenly seeping concentrated pain, spewing regret, betrayal, rejection, abandonment, hatred and then love for me. She says, through tears, that she's still in love with me and wants to know if there's any chance for an "us." I felt terrible and thoroughly confused. I tried to listen and be supportive (my Te is completely inept at properly addressing/handling others' intense feelings)--I just don't naturally "speak" emotions in an unforced, compassionate, empathetic, organic manner. I'm better than I used to be but I was blindsided, taken aback and don't think I did much good. Honestly, I don't need or want this in my life right now; I'm so engrossed in my work and achieving my goals and going by what she was saying over the phone, she's still stuck in past patterns of dysfunction. I don't want that anymore. But I truly do care for her and want her to be well and happy--just not with me and not right now, at least. I hate that she is suffering but I don't know what, if anything, I should/could do to remedy this. And now, finally, here are my questions to you smart, capable, helpful people*/**: 1. When you are expressing your feelings (whether "good" or "bad"), what is the best way to respond to this that will make you feel heard, understood and validated? 2. When overcome with negative feelings that seem too powerful and unrelenting, how do you self-soothe (using safe + legal methods)? 3. Is there anyway I can speak my truth and tell her honestly where I'm at and what I want at this point in my life without further hurting her? Should I do it regardless or is it better to wait for when she's more stable? 4. Tangent, now that I have you > How do you know what you value? (Is that a stupid question? lol) I think I know what I value ("money-power-respect," knowledge, meaning/substance, fairness, justice, individuality) but it can be hard to finesse on the spot (when asked) and not come off as crude and unrefined. Do you spend a lot of time going over in your mind what is meaningful and significant to you, or do you just know somehow? (like how I seemingly "know" and intuit stuff via introverted intuition) To those who made it all the way to the end, thank you. I would really really really really appreciate some help. I have very few people in my life I trust to give me strong emotions related advice and none of them are XNFPs. Their emotions are just as trash and poorly developed as mine are. lol *Obviously, there are a multitude of ways that people respond to these things that exclude type but I'm looking for any and all variations, particularly from XNFPs and anyone else who can provide insight. **And I will shamelessly bump this thread until I obtain the breadth of insight I seek. :shrug: https://www.typologycentral.com/forums/showthread.php?t=93755&goto=newpost&utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=tumblr

#The NF Idyllic (ENFP #INFP #ENFJ #INFJ)

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josephleventhal · 7 years ago

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My Soul To Keep

My Soul to Keep

The truth was inescapable. Every particle of my very being communicated this with such intensity that I had to face this horrifying fact: I was dying. To be sure, I was still fully conscious, with my faculties in full operation. Nonetheless, I was dying. And dreadful though I may think it, death was what I most truly desired. Why, if the notion of death so disturbed me, did I so desire death? Because I was a prisoner. I was being held captive within a useless, ineffectual body, and I had to get free from its suffocating hold on me. As well, I knew not when death would seize me, yet I knew that moment was fast approaching.

I was afflicted with a fatal disease, almost to the day, six years ago. Up to that time, I was extremely active and amazingly healthy. I was rarely ill, and was quite fond of exercise and adventurous outdoor activities. It was an exceptional occasion, indeed, in which I ever had need of a visit to my physician’s office.

My current condition began at first with very slight numbing of my left knee. This sensation left eight months later, but only for a brief period of time. When the numbness returned, it rapidly progressed to my left foot, causing that foot to flop, resulting in an annoying “slap” as I walked. This condition persisted for a full two years, with neither my doctor nor the “specialists’” being able to determine the cause or a cure.

The symptoms started increasing, with my physical condition deteriorating quite rapidly. About three years ago, my left leg became completely paralyzed, soon followed by my right. My entire body, head and face excluded, eventually became utterly paralyzed. No known cause, no known cure. Hence my desire to die and escape my tortuous imprisonment.

Interestingly, I had during both my youth and adulthood been extraordinarily fascinated with death. More accurately, my interest lie with what occurred following death; the so-called “after-life.” The questions ran continually through my mind, begging to be solved, pleading for resolution: Is there a soul or form of spirit that lives on after the body dies, or do we simply enter into a “state” of non-existence? Is the spirit, if it exists, eternal? Is reincarnation myth or reality? I have spent countless hours in deep, meaningful contemplation upon these questions and many other related uncertainties.

While seeking answers to my myriad questions concerning what occurs after death, I had come to a most definite conclusion: I did not want to cease existing! I had, for the most part, enjoyed life and cherished my existence; that is, of course, until the occurrence of my current predicament. Furthermore, while quite illogical, non-existence very much frightened me.

However, with all of my ramblings and confessions, I neglected to make known one important fact: I have never fully subscribed to a belief in life after death or the existence of an everlasting spirit or soul. Nonetheless, I maintained a hope that such was the case.

I was now ready, even eager, to move on and discover the answers to my life-long questions. I had become trapped within the prison of my useless body. Though I could not speak, I sensed that my daughter and friends, gathering around to witness my last living moments, understood the warmth and comfort their presence brought me. I felt no pain, aside from the mental anguish of being trapped within an ineffectual body. I as well took comfort in knowing that I would be buried next to my beloved wife, who died two years past.

Her death was the result of a car collision, which occurred when she was driving on her way to pick me up from a hospital visit. A mother was more concerned with her two children squabbling in the back seat, than she was with the road ahead of her, and her vehicle drifted into the opposing lane, and collided with that of my wife. Chance may be that we might unite in some possible afterlife, and I wanted that with all of my being.

My sight suddenly grew dim, and I found myself floating in darkness. A faint, but incredibly white light emerged and began gradually enveloping me (my consciousness) in a soft glow, like a shell shielding me from the foreboding blackness. From the darkness beyond my faint, soft white shell of light, emerged a presence, an aura almost shapeless in appearance, and darker even than my present realm.

Was this some sort of dream or nightmare, induced by the horrid stress of my abominable condition? No, I sensed somehow that it was not. Was I experiencing death? Yes, that seemed much more likely. Surely I must have passed from life, and I would finally be free from the torturous entrapment of my incompetent physical form. I anxiously awaited discovery as to what would now become of me, fear now starting to

overwhelm and suffocate me. Time passed. How much, I know not. Maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe

days. For me, it seemed akin to the proverbial eternity. Then, from the shadowy presence emanated a voice that seemed to come not from any particular direction, but from all directions. Yet I by some means knew that the voice belonged to it.

“A choice,” declared the presence in a voice that was neither deep nor shrill, smooth nor gruff, but immensely chilling none-the-less, and seemed to reside in the deepest caverns of my consciousness. “You must now make a choice.” Moments passed, and I attempted to reflect on and comprehend the meaning of this increasingly unsettling experience. Then the voice broke the silence.

“You may choose eternal existence in the form of your soul, or you may choose to cease all existence, to become nothing.

“Before you decide, understand two facts,” continued my guide, as “guide” is what I had come to think of the indistinct, gloomy presence before me.

“Firstly, your decision is permanent. It binds your fate for all eternity.” I experienced what can only be described as a chill running through my consciousness (or possibly soul?) as I realized the immensity of the options placed before me.

“Secondly, just as does life, so eternal existence of the soul comes with a price. The nature of that price I will not reveal.”

I felt relief and a bit of excitement as I realized that my life-long questions were finally meeting with answers: Yes, the soul of man does exist! Yes, the soul lives eternally, or at least has the potential for eternal existence!

I had made my decision; admittedly in haste, borne from my desire for continued existence, but also with confidence. I would finally be free! Oh, how I hoped my wife had decided as I had. Together again, at longest last!!

I had somehow made my choice known to my “guide,” (for I could not speak or communicate in a any manner that I was aware of), for there came the reply, “This will be done.” My state abruptly faded, and I awoke, finding myself back in my room, still surrounded by family and friends.

A dream! It was all a damnable dream! An utterly ill-begotten delusion. Still no answers to my questions. Still the dread of uncertainty. I saw the beautiful face of my

daughter, her large, deep-blue, almond-shaped eyes gazing down at me, eyes full of love, caring and concern. How I wished I could tell her of my dream, and how real it had seemed. But, alas, the disease had robbed me of the act of speech, and I knew of no way of communicating my experience.

Whiteness! Suddenly, my vision was ablaze with intense whiteness and nothing else! Whiter than pure snow, whiter than anything I had ever seen or experienced. The whiteness then released its hold on my vision as quickly as it had seized it, and my sight abruptly returned to its normal state.

“ What was that?!” I silently screamed. My eyes quickly scanned, within their limits, each face of those near me, to discover if any but me had experienced the explosion of white light. Their expressions revealed they had not.

A deep sense of depression grew about me. Bad, life-like dreams and nonsensical illusions. My mind was becoming as useless as my body. My desire to depart this life grew to tremendously new heights!

I slept for an unknown amount of time, waking up with quite a start. My sight was again fading, and a feeling of what can only be described as “true nothingness” began to enshroud me. I instinctively knew this sensation not to be a trick of my mind. I knew my time had arrived. “Finally, one way or another, I will be set free!” was my last thought as I slipped into that aforementioned “nothingness.”

Nothingness gradually gave way to awareness. I was aware of only deep, dark blackness. I was confused, bewildered. Was I dead? Yes, I most certainly must be. Was I in some sort of transitional phase, like that of Purgatory? Yet, I was still aware of only that deep void of blackness.

I recalled my recent dream, of the choice I was given, and of my choosing to exist as an everlasting soul. To be free from the confines of the fragile body, and the boundaries of time and space.

A sound! I became cognizant of a very faint sound piercing the void. For an extraordinarily long time the sound remained faint. That sound slowly, ever so steadily, grew into a sound I recognized: I was hearing a scream! That frightening scream was soon joined by others, forming a cacophony of haunting, agonizing screams.

My bafflement suddenly transformed into understanding. I had been mysteriously infused with certain knowledge, with a horrifying comprehension. Dread arose within me. I now knew that the dream and vision of whiteness were real. That the shadowy figure and its words were existent. I had in fact made a choice, and the white flash I had experienced earlier, the flash that neither my daughter nor my friends attending my bedside had witnessed, confirmed my decision. My soul would indeed live on forever. I had, however, gained an absolutely terrifying, horrible insight: THE SOUL NEVER, EVER LEAVES THE BODY!

There was indeed a price to be paid. I was to be forever imprisoned in perpetual darkness in the tomb of my lifeless body, even as the flesh decayed from the bones, and even as the bones, through the eons of time, turned to dust. No non-existence, no Heaven, no free-spirited existence, not even reincarnation, but what I could only comprehend as ETERNAL HELL!

And those utterly horrendous, sickening screams? They are the voices of the many hundreds buried before me in this same cemetery, who had also come to the realization of their sentence of everlasting anguish! Panic, like an immense and terrifying wave, arose within me and swiftly enveloped my imprisoned soul.

That dreadfully haunting chorus of screams was now joined by another.

(Unusual Happenings: Tales of Death, Dreams and Dimensions, 2016)

#short stories #horror #supernatural #Unusual Happenings #suspense

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paperbackwritersblog · 4 years ago

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Modern movements

There is a cultural shift on a very grand scale in the west atm, none more so than in the USA, but this has as always sailed over to the UK, allbeit in a much smaller and less aggressive scale.

Its led me to ponder on the ideas that drive us , the ones that pick up momentum and large followings.

When I look back through history the vast majority of ideas came through the need to balance out society. Pushing through rights to the masses that before only applied to a select few. It seemed only natural that this would happen at some point in time, the only difference in the last few hundred years is that instead of the group being pushed down eventually rising up to overthrow those with the grip on power in the form of revolution and or civil war , we now have a democratic process and the worst case scenario is mostly protesting with the odd riot. The slaughter that used to be associated with wholesale change is seen now as brutal, thuggish and mindless.

The moment a group decides on this course of action they instantly loose support and the public no longer want to be associated with their movement! An active example of this is the BLM movement that has sweeped across the west in the last 3 months.

The movement had been simmering low key for a few years but had not really grabbed the attention of anyone that wasnt an activist. However, making the most of an opportunity and thanks to media behaving like a modern gerbles, they managed to muster lots of sympathy and support after the seemingly unjust death of a black man at the hands(or knee to be exact) of a white police officer.

When this first happened, the subsequent outrage caused the world to rise. This also intertwined with a global pandemic, peoples frustration and fears were given a focus. Yet after 3 months thankfully the bias narrative is coming apart due to technology and the ability to share information. I cant imagine what state we would be in right now if all narratives were controlled like it was back 80 years ago!

We are now seing the true nature of those screaming with outrage and their ideas as unpalletable, hardly anyone with any sense agrees with neither their demands nor how they think its ok to go about getting them.

In conversations I have had as well as my knowledge of past movements, it is the peaceful protests with reasonable request that have picked up steam amungst the masses. One can only wonder how bad things had gotten in history for the average person for them to rise and fight in the ways that they did! And also with chinese whispers , what did they think was actually going on in comparison to what was going on?! When I look at ghandis message and how he implemented his ideas as well as martin luther king, I see there was nothing unreasonable about what they were saying! Even with how bad things were for minority groups at the time. Neither of these men felt that in order for there to be balance that any one group should be destroyed, they just wanted the groups being pushed down to be up on the same footing as everyone else. Equal opportunity was the desire and I think even people in better positions agreed with this on the whole.

So what is it about todays movements that has changed? From my own perspective, it seems that society in the west has been picking up steam when it comes to moving in the right direction! Theres movements all across the western world that have accomplished their aims and things are better on average than they have ever been. Most of the unbalances are on a small scale now and if anything certain parts of our society arent functioning correctly through fear of hurting peoples feelings!

History shows there are always sections of society fuelled with rage, the younger people of society who are still trying to figure out how they fit with the landscape as well as those who have lived a life of luxury who are detactched from the realities of the average person , using popular movements they sympathise with in order to get out there and be heard, basically wanting to infuse meaning into their lives and so engage in things they dont fully understand nor support, we see this in the hypocrisy of people following the movement. Just recently watching lots of anti capitalism activists queing up at macdonalds, one of the biggest capitalist franchises in the world!!Racism is being called out when its not there, sexism and LGBT rights have gone off the deep end and it feels like the momentum of activism has ploughed forward with the same steam it had in the 70s through till the 80s without anything to really latch onto! And so they are projecting great outrage energy into the slightest transgression.

With all this going on I am wondering what great movements are left in the west that will grip society in the way antislavery, womens rights and gay rights movements have?! I guess it is hard for me to say, being a white male in the west gives me very little experience in comparison to people of colour or alternative sexual orientation. However I know I would be rejected by some members of family if I came out as gay, I cannot force people to change their feelings on the mater, the laws have already been adjusted and that hasnt changed peoples feelings!

The feelings people are screaming about right now arent things the average person can see or feel! When I grew up in the 80s, not only could I see and hear racism, I could genuinely feel it! It was woven into the fabric of our lives, it was shown on t.v , it was on and in our advertisements and was actively seen in peoples behavior, but that certainly isnt so in most of the west now. So when a minority of people scream racism over something small, the average person shrugs their shoulders or just ignores and moves on. It gathers no momentum and just falls flat on the streets.

What does seem to be happening atm is the platforms that shape and mould our perspective lense are screaming and shouting about a world that most of us cant see!! This is a genuine worry in that if you shout about anything long and hard enough it will become a truth.

One of the biggest monsters in the modern world for belief and putting that belief into action was adolf hitler was quoted “ if you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough , it will be believed”!!

And no matter what you may think of this man, it is undeniable that he was a master manipulator of people on a grand scale. He was able to convince very very ordinary people to do truly barbaric things with total conviction that what they were doing was right and just!

The plight of the average person in the west is nothing in comparison to the struggles of europe in the early part of the 20th century, yet with such enthusiasm the news narrative would have you think we are worse off. In my mind the biggest threat society faces right now, is the narratives we are being fed. Yet taking down an organisation is nothing like taking down a ruling tyrant hell bent on destruction! Like cutting the head of a snake and 2 replacing it, organisations gain power through ideas and the dismantling of ideas involves changing peoples hearts and minds, it is not something that can ever be achieved by bombs and bullets.

E.Plaistow

#social movements #outrage #culture

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