#and one of them followed a common link between them out of the blue

[sarcastic-sue]

.

[entelodante]

Wanted to figure out how chimera’s wrote and ended up starting on their written language proper. MASSIVE info dump below! 

Writing

They write using four fingers of one hand, usually the right, coated in ink. Think like a stamp almost. The three middle fingers draw with the tips of the teeth whilst the thumb will alternate between tip and back. All words are written simultaneously inward. The remaining fingers grip the source of ink, usually a length of hardened pigment only wetted on one side OR those who write often could invest in a pen. A pen for a chimera is a fanning brush saturated with ink that the writing teeth brush through when needing to reink. It allows for much faster wetting of the teeth, but can be messy when learning or refilling. 

Most chimera are right handed but left handed individuals exist, they will simply need to learn to use the two fingers opposite the middle in reverse of how someone who is right handed would! Luckily all fingers can move pretty independently of each other and it is an easy task.  As chimera mostly communicate through direct broadcast most find the written word lacking, so it is a common occupation among Chimera to write for others. It is an impressive skill to eloquently convey ideas/feelings through writing. Though their language set up lends to it MUCH more than others. 

The Nitty Gritty

All subject to change as this is very first drafty. 

Chimeric is a logographic language, there is no set alphabet and all ‘words’ stem from symbols representing things and ideas. Sentences are kind of two sentences atop one another, with one being the literal and the other the reactionary. It is read from out to in and sentences are written in a circle divided into 4 quarters. We’ll start with the top moving counter clockwise. 

Quarter 1 (Red) is the subject area, now subjects function the same as nouns for the most part, people, places, and things. But something important to note is that there must always be an ‘audience’ for the words being spoken. An audience basically means pronouns though they are a lot more encompassing with: I, You, Us, Them, Them excluding me/you, Us excluding you, Everyone, and a bunch of others. These are all acceptable audience subjects to top off your sentence. For instance you wouldn’t say “This pizza tastes good!” you would instead say “I enjoy the taste of this pizza” or “Everyone enjoys the taste of this pizza” the opinion/emotion needs to be applied to a source to make sense grammatically. 

Quarter 2 (Green) is all about emotions and opinions. Chimeric language is an exchange of ideas but also importantly emotions and feelings. Q2 is dedicated to how the sentence is supposed to be interpreted or felt by the reader, as obviously in ‘spoken’ chimeric speaker and listener technically feel the same about what is currently being said. Listener opinion is very distinct from speaker and in writing the speaker takes priority. So for example the statement “Who finished the box but left it in the pantry?” would instead have to be translated into something akin to “I am pissed and questioning who had the audacity to finish the box and did not care enough to remove it from the pantry thus leaving me to find it and become disappointed?” Basically chimeric lends itself to very long translations due to their feelings.  

Quarter 3 (Blue) is the action section of the sentence. The verbs if you will. This is where things are happening and is VERY tied in with Q1. Subjects in Q1 and Q2 will be linked together with lines that follow the same slice through the circle.

When a subject is linked to an action that means that the subject is the one performing the action, whereas subjects closer to the center and unaligned with an action are what is being acted upon. Like with the audience conundrum though an action needs a subject to actually act, whether it is an individual/s or an object or place. This is usually the least word heavy portion of the sentence as it is almost supplemental to Q1, and in contrast to the thin, crisp lines of the other quarters, Q3 will often be smudgey and more messy due to being written mostly with the back of the thumb. 

Quarter 4 (Yellow) is generally not going to have any words written there, as it functions as the anchor point for the hand. The outmost finger rests here on the page to stabilize the hand as it closes during writing. When writing in a ream of papers this is where the hole to hold them all together is punched through. However in modern fanciful writing styles Q4 is also used as a secondary emotional quarter. This style will use Q4 as the reactionary emotion of the reader, more so the expected reaction and emotion from the reader. This is an EXTREMELY class based writing style and it is a GIANT NO NO to write like this for someone of higher status to read. Typically only Clan heads will freely use this writing style, especially towards each other lmao. The writing style of the passive aggressive power struggle. 

All together Quarters are read at once! And I mean that there is no one word the chimera will start with. Every word of the sentence is absorbed at the same time, no following along a line like how I’m currently typing. But what indicates the order of which things are meant to be perceived is how close they are to the outside of the circle. Things closer to the center come later in the sentence and will be understood to be lower in the hierarchy of words. However only subjects and actions are directly linked to each other, emotion/opinion words are to have a more natural seep throughout the entirety of the sentence with only a loose idea of where they are to be felt. In this way while a subjects actions may be concrete, the writers feelings about them are more fluid and organic. 

Chimeric conlang yay! I wanted to make modern Mirum script but decided I needed to start at the roots. So technically two written languages originate from Mirum, but they are extremely similar with one directly branching from the other. Chimeric is the original and Miran is the derivative, they mostly share characters but their sentence structure is different. Chimeric keeps the circular structure whereas Miran is a zigzagging horizontal and completely drops quarters 2 and 4. Leading to modern Miran being a very literal language vs Chimeric’s emotion heavy focus. But if you know one you can pretty much read the other, albeit with some culture shock. 

[achaoticeternal]

nothing between us

aemond targaryen x reader part two - can’t you see...? ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ word count: 3.6k summary: under the influence of his mother, Aemond has followed the Faith of the Seven closely. The second son of the King is proud to meet a young noble Lady who shares the Faith as closely as he does.  a/n: there will be a part two :)  warnings: AFAB reader, theme of obsession, religious themes and guilt

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“And may the Mother and Father watch over us as we walk in light…” The prayer rolled off your tongue with a finish. With a nod of your head, you finally rose from your spot at the altar.

The High Septon bid a dismissal as the halls of the sept began to clear. Your mother linked arms with you, serving as your guide through the crowd. She kept a warm smile on her face, nodding to both nobles and peasants alike. Though your father was just behind you, not showing the same warmth to the general public as your mother. 

You continued to follow out the doors, the sun shining brilliantly upon the capital. The light bounced off the blue waters, reflecting beautifully onto the shore. It had been either overcast or raining for the past week or so. But a day of sun was something you would truly thank the Mother for later. 

As you continued to be tugged along down the steps of the sept, your arms slipped out of your mother's, instead lifting up your skirt to be more diligent with your steps. In the courtyard below, merchants and spinsters began to announce their wears, bidding anyone who dared to take a look. Usually, they would be selling more exotic things than they would on any other day. 

With a giggle, your steps picked up as you tapped your mother on the shoulder, “We must stop by one of the book stands! I’ve read practically everything I can access in the prince’s and king’s library. A book from afar would be a welcome distraction!”

“You and your books…” Your father chuckled behind you, patting your back, “You’ll have to choose quickly, the Hand is summoning the Small Council to convene once that bell strikes two.”

With a nod, you picked up your steps, hoping to get to the book stand sooner. However, you were stuck behind a group of stragglers who cared to chat far more than they cared to walk. A sigh passed your lips as you continued trying to move around the group and reach your destination soon. You were able to press yourself against the wall in order to squeeze through the small gaps the group of elders made. When bumping past them, you whisper small apologies and pardons.

It isn’t until you are fully around the group of elders offering you small smiles that you are able to take large strides. You take the steps two at a time, hoping to beat the rush of the audience fleeing from the sept this morning. A smile spans across your face as you eye the end of the stairs, close enough that you feel the sparks of gratification stir inside. Accounting for the commoners surrounding you, your steps continue light and quick against the cobblestone. 

Yet what you did not account for was a mother and her two small children toddling next to her. The little girl drops her wood carving of a bear which tumbles down the stairs. As the toddler leans down to grab her belonging, you take a swift sidestep to avoid falling upon her or her mother. And just as quickly as relief passes through you, your foot dips into a small hole in the ground, causing your balance to unfavorably sway. Your hands can cling to nothing to keep you up and so you feel yourself free fall into the courtyard.

You brace yourself for an impact that never comes. Instead, two firm arms have caught you, saving you from any injury of landing so roughly.

“May the Seven bless you! Thank you,” The words spill from your lips as you regain your footing, standing to meet whoever has come to your aid. The breath exits your body as you meet, the violet eye of one Prince Aemond Targaryen. A dark cloak hangs over his shoulders, the hood pulled up most likely to hide his silver blond hair from straying eyes. If not for your somewhat familiarness with the royal family, you might have dismissed him as another stroller in the courtyard. Except you do recall seeing him and the Queen Mother, Alicent Hightower, observing the service in the sept just mere moments ago. The only other indicator to confirm that it is the Prince is the two King’s Guard that has joined his side, their shoulders relaxing when they recognize your noble appearance. 

“My-”

“My lady,” Aemond is quick to cut you off, clearly wishing not to be recognized, “May I ask where you were rushing off so quickly? It seems patience might not be among your virtues.”

Before you can properly answer him, you feel a hand on your shoulder -- your father who bows his head slightly in observance to the prince, “I apologize for my daughter’s clumsiness, ser.”

Aemond’s face remains stoic as he addresses your father, “All is well, my Lord. Perhaps we might thank the Seven that your daughter fell into my arms, rather than injuring herself or others on the abrasive ground.” 

A pause lingers for a moment as your father tries to find his next words. Should he thank the prince? Correct his daughter before the royal before him? Instead, you reply to the prince’s original question.

“There is a book stall that is only in the market once a moon with books from across the sea. I’ve almost read everything in the royal libraries, so I hoped to find a new text to read,” Your tone was polite, and kind when addressing the prince. You almost swore to the Mother that the corners of Aemond’s lips twitched into a smile before his disposition settled once more.

“Enjoy your noon then, I hear the Hand has summoned the small council and tends to busy them later” the Prince spoke with a nod, “my Lord, my Lady.” 

And just like that, the Prince and his guards have almost dissipated among the crowd. They are undoubtedly returning to the Red Keep, yet you wonder why the Prince did not join his mother in the royal carriage. But the thought leaves your mind just as quickly as your parents escort you to the book stand, not wishing for you to cause another scene.

--

The sun has fallen past midday and your father has long left you and your mother to attend the meeting in the Hand’s tower. While your Lord Father attended to work and the realm, you entertained your mother in one of the social dens of the Keep. Your mother was currently perched on a chair by the window, completing some needlework. In the chair opposite to her, there you sat with the religious text of the Faith in your lap. 

This was Sunday tradition, and even if your father could not be in attendance, you would not deny your obligation to thank the Seven for all they do for you, your family, and the realm. Though you knew nearly every passage by heart, your mother insisted you read so as not to be distracted from the outside temptations of the world.

But the book only kept your attention to a certain extent. Your mother was too enamored by her craft to notice when your eyes strayed from the pages and to the people that passed through the Keep. It was mainly guards going about their duties, and servants tending to wherever they must, but even Prince Aemond and Prince Aegon made a pass through. 

Both the Targaryen princes were walking in the direction of the Hand’s Tower. Most likely to participate in the Small Council meeting as a part of their royal duties. After living almost two moons in the castle, you noticed that the elder brother, Aegon, did not share the same satisfaction in performing his tasks as Aemond did. Once you swore that you watched Aemond nearly drag his brother to one of the council meetings, but you would never vocalize such. 

Here they were, the Targaryen princes, strolling through the corridor. Aegon was currently speaking but was too distant to make out what he quite said. You only assumed it to be a joke as he laughed while Aemond seemed less than entertained. But with a slight turn of his head, the younger prince caught sight of you, continuing your readings to your mother. He noted the book in your lap, familiar with it himself due to his time with his own mother, and offered you a nod. 

A moment later, the princes were gone. It was as if you had only imagined it, in fact, you could have convinced yourself the slight interaction had never happened. Except your mother spoke up when she noticed you had fallen silent, “Continue reading, dear.”

-- 

Days passed and with it, routine settled into place. Consistently socializing with the other nobles taking residence within the Keep, attending septa lessons, and continuing your residency in the library. However, a new commonality slithers into your routine. At least once a day, your path would cross with Prince Aemond, just briefly, but always the same gesture. Just a nod. 

You had anticipated today to be no different, spotting the prince earlier in the day. He had been sitting in the gardens with his beloved sister, Princess Helaena, as she cared for her collection of insects. Others would gossip of the princess’s peculiar curiosity, but you thought it endearing, almost divine, in how she cared for even the smallest of the Seven’s creatures. While you took station across the garden, Aemond gently passed back to his sister an arachnid one of the maesters had brought back from the citadel as a token to the princess. Once the creature was safely in Helaena’s palm, Aemond almost instantaneously caught your gaze. 

The impromptu action caused your breath to hitch in your throat. As always, you offered the Prince a nod of your head and a smile as a sign of respect. And as always, Aemond returned the nod. But then the corners of his mouth twitched upward as well, eyes locked on yours. It was the first time you had seen Aemond truly smile. 

Now that smile haunted your memory whilst sitting and attempting to read one of the new books your father recently purchased for you. It was some Braavosi epic that reached astounding popularity, yet now hardly held your attention. The poems bored you more than the Concise History of the Construction of Lemonwood. Taking the pendant of the Maiden between your fingers, you silently prayed to the Gods to rid these thoughts of the prince from your mind. Even as innocent as they were… you did not want temptation to come knocking at your door.

But the Gods speak in rhythm, or at least enjoy seeing mortals grovel, you thought as none other than Prince Aemond entered the library. He wore his usual dark tunic and trousers with a matching waistcoat and belt to cinch it all together. Even outside his training garbs, he reminded you firmly of the Warrior. 

Prince Aemond offered you a curt nod upon his entrance to the library before making his way over to a previously organized stack of books. Most of them were about the histories of Old Valyria with the occasional book on law and reform. It seemed Aemond was consistently studying as if that were his duty to the realm. Though you acknowledged that it was part of what was expected of him. 

Your focus finally returned back to your own novel when the Prince decided to claim your attention once more, “I have not seen that book in this library before.”

“Pardon me, my Prince?” You looked to him curiously, surprised at his observant eye.

“That book,” He gestured to your hand, “The binding is not only fresh but there is not a book in this library with a green cover and red stitching. That red stitching is not of Westeros either.”

You blinked a few times, absorbing this information, “You would be correct, my prince.”

“Then how did you come across such a book, my lady?” 

Swallowing your nerves, you continued the light conversation with the Prince, “My Lord Father bought it for me from a Braavosi merchant.”

“Mmm… if I recall, it was the same day you took that tumble,” He raised his brow.

“Yes, my Prince.” The day I tumbled into your arms.

“And, if my memory serves correctly, you made a sentiment on how you’ve already read through the titles in this library.”

“Yes, my prince.” You agreed once more, “All titles that I was permitted to read.”

“Permitted,” The word lingered on his tongue as if it were a curse, “I see.”

Silence fell over the library. You assumed it to be the end of your conversation with the prince. Minutes passed and you returned to your pages, mulling over the same lines for what felt like eons. That was until the prince called your attention once more.

“Who gives you permission as to what books you read?” There was something in his tone that you couldn’t quite place, but it stirred something within you.

“That would be my Lord Father,” You answered softly, “my prince.”

Then footsteps thudded across the floor. Aemond moved swiftly from his desk to stand before you instead. From your seat, you gazed up at the tall lean prince. In your current position, he towered over you and a warm hue of orange outlined his head from behind - as if he was carved from the perfected chisel and marble in the hand of the Seven. With ease, he took the epic from your hand and replaced it with a slightly heavier book. 

“At this time every day, I expect you to meet me in the library and read this to me,” Aemond instructed you.

Looking down, you took note of the title: Encounters of the Maiden and the Warrior.

“As you wish, my prince,” You nodded your head, “But I must ask my Lord Father for-”

“I am your prince,” Aemond interrupted, “Are direct orders from your prince not enough for you to do as you are told?”

You did not respond. Words were lost on you, and how could you correct him? He was right, in a sense… wasn’t he?

“Then the matter is settled,” He tilted his head, “Besides, your family mulls over religious texts quite often. This is simply a text to expand such education.”

Without another rise from yourself, you opened the book and began to read it to him. Aemond settled himself in a chair opposite of your own, fingers lightly tapping against the wood of the armrest. His expression gave away little of what he was thinking, so you simply continued.

The activity continued till the end of the moon. At first, you anticipated the meetings would only last till you finished reading the book aloud to him. But it shocked you one day when Aemond would instruct you to skip a few pages or even entire chapters. When you questioned him about this, he simply dismissed them as unnecessary to your divine education. He did not allow you to press the matter further. 

--

One evening, you joined your mother in your parents’ apartments after a visit to the Sept with your mother. Together, you had participated in your weekly prayers to the Mother and Maiden, lighting a candle for each. When you both returned, you recounted the trip to your father who had been too tied to his duties to participate. 

Dinner plans had been arranged for the families of Small Council members to have a private feast with the royal family. Typically, your family would pray in the godswood of the Keep before attending any supper, but tonight your parents thought it best to make an exception. 

Your mother had just finished pinning your hair when a knock fell upon the chamber door. Looking at your father, he answered the guest’s knock. 

There stood Prince Aemond, and his loyal King’s Guard, Ser Criston Cole. It was rare for a royal to come calling at a door. Quickly, you all rose to your feet, paying respects to the prince before you. While your father and mother offered him a nod, you honored the prince with a curtsy. 

“My Prince, why might we have the pleasure of your presence?” your Lord Father asked.

Aemond’s eye drifted over your form. He drank in the sight of you, prepared even if simply for a dinner with the King. His eye then adjusted back to looking your father in the eye.

“I have come to call upon the young Lady,” He stated simply, “I’d like to pray with her in the godswood before supper, under supervision, of course.” The prince gestured to Ser Cole who remained still. 

Warmth filled your cheeks and chest at the thought of being alone with the prince. It wasn’t your first time, of course, but each private moment with him brought over a wave of new emotions. 

Taking a moment to think, your father then nodded his head in agreement, “You have my permission.”

--

Ser Criston was notably trailing quite a few steps behind the prince and you as if he did not want to infringe upon the interaction. A part of your mind wondered if it was by order or out of the guard’s own consideration.

Aemond had led you from your parents’ apartments to just outside the garden wall. Your arm was carefully linked in his own, shoulders brushing against the other with each step. While you walked, you recounted your visit to the sept to the prince. He had not inquired, but you disdained any silence between you both and he did at least act amused. Amused as the prince would allow himself to be, at least. 

“And who gifted you your pendant of the Maiden?” The prince asked.

“My grandmother, before she passed,” you explained to him, “It was hers. A gift from my grandfather upon their betrothal.”

“I see,” He nodded, falling quiet once more. 

Before another word could be uttered, you arrived at the courtyard where the small godswood lay snug. Though you appreciated having a place to properly pray to the Seven nearby, your mind always trailed back to the godswood of your own ancestral home. It was considerably larger than this, or any of the Southern kingdoms. You never commented on the size though, not wanting to offend those who tended to it or sought comfort here. 

As Aemond led you forward, Ser Criston remained in the archway at attention. His eyes focused on the halls, surveying for harm as expected of him. 

Just as you approached the heart tree, Aemond stopped his moments, keeping you tucked into his side. Your eyes turned to his face, scanning his demeanor for a clue of what was in his mind.

Suddenly, he spoke once more, “My mother often comments on the fact that there is not a proper weirwood tree in the Red Keep’s godswood.”

After a pause, you offered him a response, “I believe I understand her sentiment.”

The prince turned toward you with a raised brow, dropping your arm in exchange for taking your hands in his own, “And what is that sentiment, my lady?’

Your eyes flicker over his face, the faintest hint of a smirk playing upon his lips. Tearing your gaze away from his face, you refocused down… down at his large hands which grasped your own. His cool, calloused hands nearly engulfed your own. Such thoughts sent a chill down your spine. The warm feeling returned, but you pushed away your acknowledgment of it. 

Taking a deep breath, you looked to where a weirwood tree might take occupancy in this godswood, “I do not wish to speak in ill opinion of the crown, my prince.”

“I want to hear your thoughts,” His hands squeezed your own, albeit gently, “Speak them.”

With a sigh, you continued as instructed, “Very few Targaryens, much less Targaryen Kings have truly devoted themselves to the Seven. The show of faith is merely a guise to appease the High Septon and common folk. As I’m sure you are well aware, it was always said that Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. Being compared to Gods does not ignite one to take up faith in what one might perceive themself as an equal to. So King’s Landing and many southern kingdoms are sullied with sin.”

Silence hung in the air, but the prince did not weaken his grip upon you. Worry sank in your stomach, wondering if you had spoken too freely for the prince’s liking. His common smirk played at his lips once more, “An observant lady… a very smart girl.”

The small praise made your heart drum against your chest, You could sweat to the Gods that he could feel it in your pulse too as he ducked his head closer to your own.

“My smart girl has been paying attention to our lessons,” His breath was warm against your face. His eye flickered from your own to the pendant resting atop your chest, “Good…”

Slowly, Aemond released one of your hands and raised his own up toward your face. His fingers took hold of the pendant, thumb grazing over the engraving. Then, he brought the pendant closer to his face, the tension of the chain against your neck, causing you to lean closer to him. His eye now held your gaze in a moment of surprising intimacy. Aemond raised the pendant to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to it, eye never once leaving your own. 

When he released it, the pendant fell back upon your chest. You released the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. 

“Now that I’ve given you my blessing,” Aemond’s voice was warm, but still caused your skin to prickle, “Get on your knees and pray…”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

[scotianostra]

May 17th is Norwegian Constitution Day or Syttende Mai as its known in Norway.

A wonderful spring holiday celebrated with red, white and blue ribbons, national costumes and waving of the Norwegian flag, the three colours are everywhere in Norway at this time of year.

It’s a day Norwegians all over the world take off to celebrate and marks the historic signing of the Constitution in 1814, the year Norway gained its independence from Sweden, which was fully realized in 1905.

In every city, town and village in Norway, children and adults alike express their cultural pride by marching to the bright music of school bands, celebrating the joy of springtime and honoring of those citizens who created Norway’s constitutional government, founding her independence.

Especially popular is the Children’s Procession that brings every child out in their best clothes or national costume.

In Edinburgh the Norwegian community celebrate Syttende Mai too.

Edinburgh’s celebrations include the Norwegian Scottish Society dinner, after a reception at the Norwegian Consulate’s residence.

Each year Norwegian students in Edinburgh hold a breakfast at Prestonfield House followed by a parade along Waterloo Place and onto Princes Street. At the boom of Edinburgh Castle’s One o’ clock gun, the pigeons fly and the parade begins!

Tonight expats and guests gather at The Royal Scots Club Abercromby Place for a celebration dinner held by the Norwegian Scottish Association. The association was founded in Edinburgh in 1966, and has enjoyed over 50 years of Norwegian-Scottish friendship.

Norwegian Scottish Association roots lie in a much older friendly society, one rooted in the shared experience of Norwegians and Scots during the Second World War. Founded in Dumfries in 1941, the Scottish Norwegian Society brought Scots and Norwegians together in difficult times. Having escaped the German occupation of their homeland in 1940, around a thousand Norwegians had come to be stationed at various times in Dumfries, and it was not long before the idea of a formal society was begun.

Of course our history with Norway goes back centuries, Northern Scotland, was, at one time, a Norse domain and the Northern Isles experienced the most long-lasting Norse influence. Almost half of the people on Shetland today have Viking ancestry, and around 30% of Orkney residents.

Many agree that there are many points of commonality between the Norse character and the Scottish one that leads to a sense of kinship between the two countries, even for those living much further south in Scotland, where Viking influence did not reach. Words like bairn and muckle made their way into Scot’s language via the Norwegians.

I touched upon the links during the second world war earlier and have posted before about the Shetland bus which provided a transport link between the Shetland Islands and occupied Norway. Many Norwegian refugees fled their occupied home with the help of Norwegian sailors who undertook daring, high-risk trips across the North Sea. The whole episode became emblematic of the friendship across the seas.

More recently Edinburgh’s Zoo also has a strong connection to Norway as it is home to a very special resident. Sir Nils Olav III is the mascot and colonel-in-chief of the Norwegian King’s Guard. The king penguin’s rank has been passed down through three generations since 1972. Knighted in 2008, he even received a military promotion in 2016 with the brigadier title bestowed upon him in a special ceremony at the zoo.

The Zoo’s link with Norway originated in 1913 when arctic explorer Roald Amundsen presented a penguin to them on their opening. Once a year the penguin inspects soldiers from Norway’s King’s Guard.

Edinburgh's Syttende mai parade – the 17th May or Norwegian Constitution Day parade traditionally takes place along the capital's main thoroughfare, Princes Street. At the boom of Edinburgh Castle's 'one o' clock gun', the pigeons fly and the parade begins!

Pics are from last ears parade.

[glindafication]

I have been having a lot of thoughts about Glinda's costuming (specifically in the movie) and I NEED to talk about it right now so here goes. (This is specifically about the clothes Glinda wears at Shiz)

So I have seen quite a few people pointing out how Glinda doesn't follow the Shiz uniform (where all the other characters are in white/blue/orange besides her and Elphaba and kind of Fiyero) and I have a lot of mixed opinions on this.

First off I think it makes perfect sense for Elphaba because in the movie we are told that she wasn't originally going to study at Shiz and also we do see her wearing some of the uniform pieces (for example she wears the same blue fabric wrap thingy as the other students in the sports scene while Glinda doesn't), so it makes sense that she wouldn't have the time and/or money to buy the proper uniform pieces. But for Glinda, I am kind of conflicted. On the one hand, she is very used to getting her way and very focused on her looks, so it could be argued that it is in character for her to flagrantly ignore the uniform policy for the sake of her aesthetic. On the other hand, I feel like it is a bit of a missed opportunity to establish the more conformist aspect of Glinda's character. Showing that Glinda is unwilling to break the rules is important because it makes her choice to join the Wizard and Morrible despite not wanting to make more sense. This also feels like a bit of a missed opportunity to better establish Fiyero's character as they could have had Glinda follow the uniform while Fiyero doesn't. This would have further established that Fiyero is more willing to actively break the rules than Glinda, which could help to explain why Elphaba trusts him. This is still established through dancing through life and with the Ozdust ballroom being stated to be illegal in the movie, but I feel this could've been another good opportunity.

There is of course the out of universe reason for this which is that it helps to Glinda to visually stand out. This is extremely common where uniforms are used as costumes as having everyone wear the same/similar things while the main characters wear something different is a very easy way to tell the audience who to focus on. However this is done differently in the musical, where the main Shiz uniform is a mixture of navy and white while Elphaba wears exclusively navy and Glinda wears exclusively white. (With small amounts of blue/navy in her shirt). This still visually distinguishes our main characters from the ensemble (and from each other with the use of contrast) without having it feel like they're just choosing to ignore the uniform. It is conscievably possible that the Shiz uniform allows students to pick from a selection of white and navy options and Glinda simply chose all of the white ones while Elphaba chose all of the navy ones.

I am also mildly frustrated with the decision to relegate movie Glinda to a tiny sliver of the colour wheel in general, as I have said before. She only wears pink once in the muscial so having her in almost exclusively pink in the movie despite her having more costumes is a bit annoying. Especially since I have the sneaking suspicion that part of the reason they did this was because building a strong association between Glinda and the colour pink would allow them to make Glinda themed merch by simply making something pink instead of making something with a more meaningful link to her character.

I will say that I am not trying to hate on Glinda's movie costumes by any means. A lot of them are very technically impressive and visually gorgeous (her Ozdust dress is absolutely stunning and I want one). I have no doubt that a lot of time, effort and thought went into these costumes. These are just my personal thoughts as a huge fan of the musical and of the costumes used in it

(Some pictures to explain what I am referring to, top two are musical costumes, bottom two are movie costumes)

[agentlizardofowca]

I can't copy the shape because mobile, but I'd love a DVD Bonus for "Store Your Nemesis Under Your Bed"!

(HumanPerryAU Takes place after the ending of Store your nemesis under your bed: Phineas just admitted that Perry hid a mysterious man under his bed. To avoid having to talk about it, Perry ran away and hid in his bedroom. Link to the fic for those who are curious)

Candace cornered them with tense shoulders and flashing eyes. There was a sharpness to her that set Ferb on edge. Curiosity he expected, but the hard line of her eyebrows was obsessive.

"Tell me about the man." She breathed the words hard and rushed into the space between her and the brothers.

Mom and Dad were upstairs, trying to coax Perry out of his bedroom, where he'd escaped to after Phineas spilled his dirty secret.

"I didn't see him, Candace." Phineas said in a happy tone, completely unaware of the tension in their sister's shoulders. "Ferb pointed it out to me."

Candace swiped her hair over the other shoulder and gazed at Ferb. She knew he usually preferred to let other people do the talking, so she usually posed her questions to the room at large.

Ferb appreciated this. He liked it even more that every once in a while Candace broke that pattern to include him.

What do you think Ferb? Or Are you okay? Candace wasn't just curious, she was also very genuine. Something she and Phineas had in common. Ferb loves his siblings so much.

"I couldn't see him very well, he was under the bed."

"But you knew he was there?"

"I could see his eyes."

Candace parted her lips, but Ferb already knew what to say.

"Blue."

Candace hummed. "I wonder who he was."

"Do you think Uncle Perry will tell us?" Phineas asked optimistically as if their uncle hadn't just fled from the dining table.

"Why did he feel so guilty? It's not like we don't know he likes men. Did Dad forbid him to take his boyfriends home? He wouldn't," She scrunched her nose as she thought. "Right?"

"You think that was his boyfriend?" Phineas asked and he tapped the tip of his nose as he pondered. Romance had always been a mystery to Phineas, and apparently, the concept of their uncle having a love life was foreign to him. Isabella was fighting an uphill battle.

"Who else would he hide away under his bed?" Candace asked as if she genuinely wanted a serious answer.

Phin shrugged. "They could just be friends I guess."

"Maybe he secretly ordered pizza, just for himself." Ferb joked.

"That still doesn't explain why." Candace squinted the way she did before she was going to make someone else's business her own. She ignored Ferb's last remark and left the room to go join her parents at Perry's door.

Ferb just shrugged, they weren't going to figure it out unless Perry wanted them to know. And if Ferb knew one thing about his uncle, it was that he was good at keeping secrets.

Phineas wished Candace good luck as she stalked out of the room. "There is no way Perry is going to let them in now." He point out to Ferb, who nodded in agreement. A moment later he paused as he noticed something peculiar over Phineas' shoulder.

A slipper landed in the grass outside the window.

Ferb angled his head to see. He recognised it, and his eyebrows rose in bewilderment. Was Perry really that desperate to escape?

A moment later, a foot lowered from the roof. Another moment later a second foot followed, this one was wearing a matching slipper to the one in the grass.

Only one person in this family would be crazy enough to climb out the window and jump off the roof.

Ferb watched with amusement as Perry landed with a soft thunk on the deck outside. He hopped to collect his slipper and put it on.

By now both brothers were  both staring out the window, watching this happen.

Perry knew they were there, so he waved when he turned around.

Obviously they waved back, they weren't rude.

Phineas hopped off his chair to opened the sliding door. "So, what's the plan?"

Perry scratched at his hair and shrugged awkwardly. 「Ice cream?」 He offered.

Ferb allowed him and Phineas to be herded into Perry's car. It wasn't until they were about to leave the driveway that Candace and her parents popped their heads outside. Phineas happily waved them adieu as they drove off.

[aegon-targaryen]

Blue & Gold

Oneshot | 7.5K words | Post-TP zelink | read on AO3

The shadows are growing long, and someone is following him.

Humans make so much noise, no matter how hard they try to move with careful grace. Link crouches low beneath a bush of witch-hazel, yellow as a goldfinch this time of year but slightly dull to his limited vision, and he listens to the footsteps crunch across a carpet of dead leaves.

It must be Rusl. With any luck, he’s hunting for ordinary game, not the same quarry that still eludes Link. He left home without telling anyone about the corpses—foxes torn apart outside their dens, stags slaughtered at a stream’s edge—or about the creeping wrongness he never expected to sense in Faron Woods again. Rusl has come out here a couple times since. Link evaded him once, but this is the man who taught him to hunt. A few days ago, they locked eyes across a clearing, and Link wasted a few heartbeats hoping for recognition before Rusl reached for an arrow.

He'd rather not face that again. Link straightens silently and is about to slink away when a breeze rustles through the forest, smelling of soap richer than any villager could obtain and of the ink that always smudges her fingers. He’s frozen in place as the hunter comes into view.

Fine leather boots. The hem of a dark cloak. A longsword sheathed at her hip and a bow in her left hand. She’s gloved against the chill, but Link knows the back of her other hand bears a mark identical to the one on his shackled paw.

Foliage obscures her face, and he’s grateful, because he knows he’ll break the moment he sees it. He’ll come running the same way he pounded up that hill, heart hammering in his throat as the sun set over the stranger who had replaced the imp he’d known. It only took one crooked grin for him to realize that she was no stranger; she was his shadow, she was everything, she was—

Link presses his chin to his paws. That princess is gone. Why is this one here?

It can’t have anything to do with him. Not after that moment of instinctive contact in the castle’s shadowed hallway, the taste of coffee on her lips, the heat of her breath on his neck, the way she slammed open the door of her bedroom with a fervency he never expected. They fumbled to shed layers and layers until all Link could see were the scars of lightning splintering across her body, scars he inflicted. Then came the cold crash of clarity when they met each other’s eyes and found blue instead of Twili red, and the cracks in her composure widening with every step he took towards the door.

No. It can’t have anything to do with him.

One more step brings Zelda into full view. To his muted vision, she’s all contrast: white gloves beneath her black cloak, dark eyelashes downturned against creamy skin. There’s no crown on her head, no jewelry flashing at her neck or ears, but regality isn’t so easy to shed. Mistaking her for an ordinary woman would be like mistaking a wolf for a lamb.

She’s still studying the ground. Link realizes his mistake—on the way to his hiding place, he skirted around the muddy edge of a puddle that will advertise his trail as clearly as a painted sign. Zelda lifts her gaze to search the tangled undergrowth, and though he can’t perceive the flush of cold on her cheeks or the exact hue of her tunic, only death could blind him to her remarkably blue eyes.

She drums her fingers against her bow, then says tartly, “You’ve stained enough rugs for me to recognize your pawprints, Link.”

He creeps forward with a sigh of defeat, allowing the jangling chain to announce his presence. Zelda watches coolly as he emerges, shakes the leaves from his coat, and comes to sit at her feet. Close study shows him that while her grip eases on the bow, tension still lingers in her shoulders—secrets and subtleties, as always. She never makes herself easily known.

All three of them have that in common.

Despite the way they parted, despite everything that lies between them, Zelda kneels on the forest floor. Not for the first time, Link wishes she wouldn’t lower herself for him, but when she stretches out a hand, he can’t stop himself from pressing his head into her palm, can’t stop his stupid tail from wagging.

“Before you ask,” she says, “Rusl sent me a very concerned letter about how Faron’s wildlife is being slaughtered by some unnatural predator, and the only sign of you is a note that says to take care of Epona.”

Link huffs.

“It absolutely is my business. There’s talk all over Hyrule of a swordsman hunting down monster dens and roadside terrors, and I’ve left you to it, but the Resistance aided Hyrule when I could not. That makes me indebted to all its members. I may not rule this province, but I know the Twilight, and I know you. Rusl pins the killings on a wolf he encountered, Link. One he saw the same night Ordon’s children were taken.”

There’s humor in the irony, somewhere, but his throat constricts at the memory of his first night in this form, of Uli’s terror and Rusl’s vengeful grief as he swung the torch at Link. No one could fault them. Yet from the very start, Zelda saw the truth, and the people who raised him saw only the beast.

Link dips his head to avoid her gaze. Her fingers dig deep into the thick fur at the back of his neck, and she murmurs, “I am sorry, Link.”

She said that the day they met. If the apology was unwarranted then, it’s devastating now. He plants all four paws in the dirt, feeling her hand slide away as he begins to tease out the magic he’s meticulously learned to counter since Midna left him the shadow crystal without warning or instruction. Pain blooms beneath his eyelids and floods his mouth with copper, but it’s over fast, and then he’s running a hand over his face to brush away the disorientation.

Zelda waits, her lips pressed together inscrutably. If there’s anything good about being human, it’s the full-color shine of her rich brown hair in the sunlight.

“Whatever the killer is, it moves fast,” Link says at length, voice rough from disuse. “There’s no sense to the trail, so I keep losing it. I haven’t found anything but the corpses, and…”

“I know. I sense it too.”

Fear of a nameless evil, she called it during her captivity. Strange light and stranger shadows with a thousand eyes peering out of them. Considering that the last vestiges of Twilight disappeared months ago, he’s half-wondered if this dread is all in his mind, nightmares bleeding into waking hours. Zelda’s confirmation comes as a relief.

“How long have you been out here?” she asks.

Link stretches his arms over his head. “A week or so.”

“You haven’t considered returning to Ordon for help? A search party could cover much more ground.”

“A search party could also get killed.”

She narrows her eyes, stripping him bare just as he feared, reminding him of all the things that seem distant here in the quiet woods. “And you can’t?”

He would roll his eyes if Uli hadn’t raised him better. He gets to his feet and sticks out his hand, trying not to wince when Zelda rises without taking it.

“Show me the trail. If magic is at work here, I’ll be able to help.” She sees something in his face and adds, “If you are about to send me home—”

Link points across the clearing. “It’s that way, and no, I’m not stupid enough to try.”

Zelda’s lips twitch. She turns as though to conceal the smile, and Goddesses, he’s missed this: the intricacy of her, the way she challenges and surprises him. And beneath all that lies the safety of being with someone who faced the same enemy he did, who rode into battle wielding that bow like a slice of sun in her hands.

Her aid is probably more than he deserves, but she’s here. Even if has nothing to do with him, she’s here.

Link falls into step at her side and returns to the trail he was following before he caught wind of her approach. It’s a furrow of crushed undergrowth and snapped twigs, as though something charged through at top speed—sloppily, though, without the logic one would expect from an animal. The thick carpet of dead leaves keeps him from guessing exactly what the creature is, without any distinct prints left in the dirt. Still, there’s a clear enough lead for now.

“How’s court?” he asks after a while.

“Far better than it was a few months ago,” Zelda replies. Always the wry jokes. Always the implication that she owes him something, even though she fought for Hyrule as hard as she could.

“So…it’s terrible?”

“It’s tolerable.”

Only for someone raised to tolerate anything and everything, snarks a voice that sounds a great deal like Midna. With the castle lying half in ruins, the vultures have wasted no time in descending to pick its corpse clean—noblemen who spent the Twilight cowering in their estates, foreign princes looking to acquire a bride and a kingdom in one fell swoop. Zelda faces it all with cool austerity, guarding her scars with high collars and hardened eyes. Link can barely face his own village.

“You came alone?” he wonders, trying to keep his tone light.

“You know as well as anyone that my guards are more liability than asset. I left my horse with Epona.”

“With…oh.”

“Yes, I stopped by Ordon in case anything had changed since Rusl’s letter. He and Uli were very hospitable.” Zelda sneaks a glance at him. “And very worried about you.”

He tries to picture her sitting at that old wooden table with a bowl of Uli’s pumpkin stew, surrounded by the clutter and kindness that Link has taken for granted all his life. How callous he must seem to someone who has no family and very few people she can trust.  “They know I can take care of myself,” he mumbles.

“Is that so? Rusl wanted to accompany me to Faron, in case the beast had mauled you and was going to do the same to me.”

“How’d you talk him out of it?”

“I told him,” Zelda says archly, “that wolves do not frighten me.”

Link falters mid-step. So does she, but for a very different reason: there’s a dead thing at her feet, a mangled bundle of blood and bone hardly recognizable as a hare. Zelda crouches beside it. Golden light flares beneath her right glove, sparking something familiar in the mark on Link’s own hand.

“Is that how you found me?” he asks.

“That and your pawprints. You host a great deal of magic, Link. As does our killer.”

He surveys the gouges that ripped the poor hare apart and brushes away the leaves that surround its corpse. There are a handful of vague prints in the dirt beneath.

“Deer prints, or…maybe boar.” He tries not to recall the nightmarish beast he faced in the castle throne room. “But it’s probably a coincidence. Deer aren’t predators, and a boar wouldn’t leave the corpse uneaten.”

Zelda presses her glowing hand to her chest absently, tilting her head back to watch a cluster of leaves the color of Midna’s hair flutter down to earth.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” she answers quickly. “Only…whatever this thing is, I’d rather not face it after nightfall.”

Link glances up at the orange light that’s spread across the sky, matching the autumn forest. Darkness is no challenge for him, but not everyone has the senses of a wolf. “Back to Ordon, then?”

“All that way? If we spend the night here, we can start again at dawn before the beast gets too far away.”

“You don’t mind?” It’s strange enough to see her outside the castle, alone and unadorned. He heard enough complaining from Midna to know that wilderness is not a princess’s natural habitat. “It’ll be cold tonight.”

“My magic can keep me warm.” Zelda fiddles with her gloves for a moment, then adds quietly, “My mother used to take me camping.”

Link tries to conceal his surprise. She’s never told him anything like that, never handed him a piece of her past. Though he can’t fathom what he’s done to deserve her trust, he’ll be damned if he makes a mess of this too.

The sun has nearly fled by the time they reach the creekside cave where he’s taken shelter the past few nights. It keeps out the wind and the damp as well as anyone could hope for, though it feels abruptly cramped and shabby when he leads Zelda inside. Link has been a wolf more often than not since leaving Ordon, but he never adjusted to the idea of eating like one, so the goat cheese and pumpkin rolls that Uli gave to Zelda come as a delight after days of foraged berries and game cooked over a campfire.

They sit at the cave’s mouth and watch the last traces of daylight slip away past the black branches. He doesn’t have to ask what occupies Zelda’s mind at this hour. More than once at the castle, dusk would drag both their gazes to the windows, or to each other. Some days, the sheer sight of her cut like mirror shards. The nights, though—the nights were always easier.

“You can take my bedroll,” he tells her quietly. “I’ll be warm enough as a wolf.”

“You’ve gotten rather good with the shadow crystal,” Zelda says. “Quite the feat for someone with no magical training.”

Link shrugs, fiddling with the string on his neck, where Ilia’s horseshoe whistle rests beside a far more dangerous tool. When he touched the shadow crystal to his skin on one of the unbearable nights that followed Midna’s departure, he didn’t know if there was a way back to humanity without her help, or whether he wanted a way back. It took hours alone with the watchful moon and the crickets’ songs before he realized he couldn’t spend the rest of his life as a terror to everyone he met.

A terror to everyone but Zelda, at least.

His chest aches with a sudden, fierce gratitude towards her. That night, he did manage to brace himself against the magic and shake it free, and now he can step between forms in a way that feels entirely right. But even if he hadn’t been able to help himself, he knows where he would have gone—right to her door like a dog scraping to be let in, knowing she would always answer, knowing she would treat him with the same exasperated kindness no matter what he looked like.

Link still lacks the words to fix what broke that day in the desert, but he wasn’t alone when the Mirror of Twilight shattered, nor in the deafening silence that followed. Zelda came all this way. He owes it to her to try.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, grateful that darkness cloaks them. “It wasn’t you. It was everything except for you. Still…there’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

Wind sighs through the forest, and Zelda sighs with it. “Think nothing of it.”

His spine stiffens with incredulity. “I walked away from you.”

“I remember.”

“I kissed you and I saw your scars and I walked away, Zelda.” Now he wishes the shadows weren’t hiding her expression, that he could understand her the way Midna did. “It—it wasn’t nothing.”

“But it was for the best, don’t you think?”

That stings more than it should. She’s entirely right. For a thousand different reasons, they never should have opened this door. Link is sickened by the idea of her marrying one of those noblemen circling the castle—it would be like chaining a golden eagle to a carrion crow—but that’s her choice to make, not his to jeopardize.

Besides, Midna took so much of him with her, and he barely knows what to do with all that remains.

With a sigh, Link pulls off his cloak to offer Zelda an extra layer of warmth. He’s met with silence and shadows too deep for his human eyes to pierce, but eventually she accepts it with a murmured, “Thank you.”

There’s a glimmer of gold as the Triforce lights her way to the bedroll. He touches the shadow crystal, gritting his teeth through the transformation—if only all pain passed so quickly—and turns a circle before settling down in front of her, making himself a shield against the wind and anything else that might risk entering his den. They lie there cradled in the quiet arms of the night, but it’s a long time before either of them falls asleep.

.

.

.

Link opens his eyes to a cloudy grey dawn and Zelda’s fingers tangled up in the thick fur between his shoulders. He holds himself very still, listening as the woods come awake around them, until she wakes too and twitches away from him.

Breakfast is a pumpkin roll split between them and goat cheese spread over his last apple. Link will have to hunt if they’re out here much longer, but for now, there’s more important game. He’s a wolf again when they set off, partly because it’s easier to find and follow the killer’s trail like this and partly because he has no idea what to say to Zelda.

He didn’t expect her to accept his apology so easily. He didn’t expect to spend another night in her company at all. It was always shadows that brought them together at the castle, long after everyone else was asleep. Link would stumble upon her in his wanderings, a thin wraith haunting the ruined castle with the same restlessness that infected him. The first few nights, they passed each other by with nothing more than a murmured greeting—but later, they fell into step together, climbing the ramparts to see the stars or walking the gardens in moonlit silence.

Only once did they come together like gravity, tentative in the first kiss but starving by the second; only once did they break apart in breathless terror. And once will have to be enough. He can’t allow that hunger to swallow them both whole.

The morning remains chilly and bleak, and their quarry’s twisting trail makes Faron seem twice as large as it actually is. A growl of annoyance builds at the back of Link’s throat when he realizes they’re going in circles. It’s one thing for his time to be wasted, but how much longer can he drag Zelda around? He watches her strong shoulders, the long waterfall of her hair, all the things he missed without realizing it, and he knows she can only resist the call of the castle for so long.

She stops in her tracks suddenly, and the glow emanating from her hand makes him halt as well. Link follows her gaze downhill to a stream that trickles through the forest.

There’s a shadow at the water’s edge. Only when it shifts does he understand that he’s looking at a boar, bristling with unnatural darkness and twice the size of those native to Faron. The saddle on its back marks it as a Bulblin’s mount, but Link always knew those creatures to be natural, if brutish. There’s nothing natural about this one. He can hear the slow drip of blood from the boar’s pelt and the snuffling irregularity of its breath as it guzzles from the stream.

Zelda grasps at the fur between his shoulder blades with a trembling hand. “Twili magic. The beast is half-mad with it. I suspected as much when we found the hare yesterday, but…”

I know, Link wants to say. Sensing it from afar doesn’t prepare you for seeing it in the flesh.

Midna made sure their worlds would never intersect. The presence of her people’s magic here makes no sense, yet there’s no denying the taint that fills the air, a pulsing wrongness that forces him to remember vermin-infested waterways, towns full of guileless spirits, and a world with no sun or moon. Even the rising wind can’t sweep away the malaise.

“I can hit it from here,” Zelda whispers, nocking an arrow to her bowstring. “It’s likely to flee in the opposite direction. Perhaps we should split up to limit its chances of escape.”

Link nods, creeping downhill and downstream. The angle gives him a glimpse of the boar’s long tusks, blackened by the power that curses it and sharp enough to have killed all those poor animals. He’s glad Zelda is staying up there in the trees, kept safe by higher ground.

The wind picks up, hinting at rain—but more than that, he smells rot, and he smells the Twilight. A shiver rips through him from nose to tail, jangling the metal cuff he’s worn since the first day he woke up as a wolf.

The sound might as well be thunder. The boar raises its head and fixes him with a gaze that weeps blood.

Zelda’s first arrow strikes its shoulder. The creature wheels around with a spray of sand and an awful cry. Link takes off to give chase, but his quarry doesn’t flee as any self-preserving animal would, even when a second arrow pierces its night-black pelt. The boar’s massive head swings towards the slope, powerful muscles bunching beneath its thick hide, and Link thinks, No.

The boar charges uphill at a pace he can barely comprehend, crushing everything in its path. A third arrow flies through the trees, missing by a hair. Link’s paws devour the distance, but he knows it won’t be enough. Not her. Not this. Not again.

Gold light blossoms through the foliage, a shudder of power greater than anything he’s felt in a long time. There’s another frightened squeal, and then the trees part to reveal the boar trapped in a column of light, Zelda’s arms shaking with the effort to hold it there.

Link closes the gap with a leap, his fangs finding the beast’s shoulder and his claws raking through whatever else he can reach. Hot blood drowns out the taste of decay and everything else—he hates this, he’s always hated this, even though a part of him digs in deeper and exults while the enemy screams. The boar bucks, making his vision tilt wildly; Link jerks his head back with a snarl and parts his jaws to go for the throat.

He catches a glimpse of Zelda, a flash of wild eyes and radiant light—blue and gold, the only colors in his world of greys—and in that moment of distraction, the boar thrashes against her hold. Tusks arc through the air and collide with the border of Zelda’s spell, shattering the power that once stood against Ganondorf.

There’s a cry that breaks his heart. Link launches himself at the boar’s face, raking his front claws over its eyes. The creature buckles beneath him, hooves slipping on the leaf-littered ground, and the world somersaults as they tumble down the slope together.

Link springs free before he’s crushed. The boar struggles upright with a pitiful wheeze and staggers away from him, finally remembering its survival instincts. He pays it no mind; he’s already scrambling uphill.

Zelda is a shivering huddle on the ground. There’s blood everywhere, on her and on him, and rain has begun to fall. A memory clamors for attention, dark fields and flooded tunnels and Midna dying on his back, but Link shoves it away and wrenches himself back to humanity faster than ever.

“We have to stop that thing,” Zelda gasps. “We—”

He tips her chin up—no blood—and runs his hands down her shoulders before pausing at her elbows. The boar’s tusks tore open those lovely white gloves and the flesh beneath.

Link fumbles through the pouches at his waist until he finds gauze to press down on each of her forearms, holding it there even when Zelda gasps and clutches him with shaky fingers.

“It’s getting away,” she insists.

He spares one glance for the boar, limping away in the opposite direction. “I don’t care.”

“Link, there’s something—”

“Zelda.” Cold raindrops slide down his neck and trail clean paths through the heat of her blood. He can’t loosen his grip, so he presses his forehead to hers and says firmly, “I’m not leaving you.”

She shudders against him. Maybe it’s pain. Maybe it’s disbelief; he’s left her before. But instead of pulling away, Zelda closes her eyes and breathes him in. This close, Link can see the edge of a scar peeking out from beneath her collar.

This close, he can’t help but remember what it felt like to kiss her.

He’d linger in this moment for much longer if his throat wasn’t burning with the scent of her blood. They backtrack up the slope to a cave that caught his eye earlier, not much more than a hollow space formed by the roots of a great tree as it cracks through the rocky outcropping beneath it. They have to hunch and keep bumping into each other on their way inside, but at least they’ll be out of the rain.

He gives her a red potion, then sits across from her to peel off the ruined mess of her gloves. She’s biting her lip, shoulders bunched up as she resists the instinct to pull away from the pain. A hiss escapes through her teeth when Link rinses the wounds off with his waterskin.

“Your left arm’s not too bad,” he says, bandaging it swiftly. “But you’ll need a couple stitches on the right. Don’t worry; I’ve done this plenty of times.”

“I’m not worried.”

You should be, he wants to reply, because right under his fingers is the network of scars that climbs up her wrists to disappear beneath her sleeves, a jagged reflection of the lightning Link redirected at her in the throne room. It’s everything he’s been running from—the memory of her corrupted amber gaze, the blood of countless other creatures under his fingernails, the reason he can’t bear to stay in Ordon for more than a few days at a time.

But he can’t flee again, because she needs him. That fact keeps his hands steady enough to thread the needle and bring her arm over to rest on his thigh. “Ever had this done before?” he asks.

“No.”

“Hurts like hell, but I’ll make it fast, okay?”

“I will be fine,” Zelda replies evenly, because of course she will; she had no choice but to hold her head high through the collapse of her kingdom and everything else Ganondorf did to her. Link grits his teeth and tries to seem half so composed as he starts the stitches, tries not to listen to her shaky breathing.

“She was awful with blood,” he finds himself saying. “I learned early on not to expect her help. Towards the end, though…she wouldn’t stitch me up, but she would talk to me. Make herself a distraction.” An unwilling smile tugs at his lips. “She was a good distraction.”

Zelda gasps out a laugh that makes him suddenly aware of how close they’re sitting, his knee pressed against her calf. “What did she speak of?”

“Simple stuff, mostly. What she thought about whatever corner of Hyrule we were in. How different it was from her realm. What she wanted to eat that day. Food was the only thing she really liked about our world.”

“Not the only thing, Link.”

Her voice is tight with pain, both from the needle and, he suspects, from a hurt that runs much deeper. At the castle, they tiptoed around the broken glass Midna left behind as if silence would bring her back. Link is surprised to find that he can have this conversation without wanting to scream—surprised to find that it’s a relief to remember her with the one person who will understand. Yet another strange but immutable burden he and Zelda have in common.

“She did talk about you, sometimes,” he adds. “After what you did for her…we thought you were gone, at first. But from the second she realized you were alive, she never gave up on bringing you back.”

“She never gave up on anything,” Zelda agrees wistfully.

“Were you…what do you remember from back then?”

She tips her head back to watch water drip through the cracks in their shelter. “Only the vaguest things. Saving her. Being her. Being with you. I was not fully aware of myself until the throne room.”

He shouldn’t have asked. Grateful for the excuse to keep his head down, Link ties off the last stitch and trims the excess thread, then dampens a cloth to wipe away the remaining blood.

“Thank you,” Zelda says, searching his face. “Was there something else you wanted to ask me?”

Lightning crackling through the air, her face twisted into a sick grin, the sword wavering in her grip during the brief lapses in Ganondorf’s control—Link will remember it as long as he lives. But does Zelda? There’s something in her expression, the same weary grief she wore the day they met, that makes him think she does.

But the question burns like ashes on his tongue. He can’t confront what the enemy did to her, what he did to her, and still meet her eyes afterwards. So instead he asks, “What was that thing? A miniature Ganon?”

She chuckles dryly. “No. The boar was tainted by a piece of the Fused Shadows.”

“What?” Link shoots up so suddenly that his head smacks the nearest tree root. “Ow! I mean—how?”

“I wish I knew. Midna and I sought out the fragments in Hyrule Field and disposed of them while you were sleeping off your injuries. But if I had to guess…even the smallest shard, one easily overlooked, would be capable of corrupting most living creatures. Especially one that already served the enemy.”

He sighs, tucking his hands under his knees for warmth. That boar isn’t evil, any more than Epona is. But he remembers the beast’s rotting stench and bleeding pelt and knows that it’s been suffering since it came into contact with the Fused Shadows. That’s reason enough to finish the job.

“Okay,” Link decides wearily. “It won’t get far with those injuries. Why don’t you rest a while? I’ll wake you up when it stops raining.”

Zelda purses her lips, but the exhausting effects of blood loss negate whatever objection she wants to voice. She curls up under both their cloaks and lays her head on his legs. He doesn’t remember moving, but his fingers are carding through her long hair, a touch as instinctive as that first kiss in the hallway. Even though all the reasons he left the castle are still wedged between them, everything seems so terribly simple out here in the wild—no thrones, no broken mirrors, no scavenging noblemen.

Maybe she feels the same way, for her eyes drift shut without a word of protest.

Link leans back and listens to the rainfall. Hopefully Fado brought the goats inside before it started; being wet and cold makes them twice as ornery. Everyone else will be welcoming the excuse to take a break from the endless harvest work. This time last year, Ilia would have knocked on Link’s door with a book and a blushing smile, and they would have sat by the fire in comfortable silence, stealing a few rare hours away from prying eyes.

He looks down at Zelda—dark eyelashes fluttering against pale cheeks, hands tucked under her chin so that he can see the new stitches layered over the old scars. He wonders if she, too, yearns for things long gone. If she feels like she’s walking through the ruins of a life she no longer recognizes.

And she’s tethered to that life. Link, at least, has the luxury of freedom.

Yet the boar’s blood still burns at the back of his throat. The Twilight followed him all the way home.

It’s time to stop running from it.

Link pulls off his thick overtunic of Ordonian wool and balls it up, sliding it under Zelda’s head. In only his chainmail and undershirt, the damp air has a bite to it, but when he squeezes out through the tree root and pads away on four legs, he no longer feels the cold.

In a few minutes, he’s down the slope and back to the pebbled stream where they encountered the boar. The rain has washed away most of the blood but given him fresh mud that captures the boar’s hoofprints, to say nothing of that unmistakable stench. Worse than the castle sewers or reekfish; if anything, it brings back the parched decay of Arbiter’s Grounds.

He finds the boar lying at the base of an elm, its sides shuddering with unsteady gasps, its dark pelt soaked through with rain and worse. Death drips from the two arrows buried in the boar’s flesh and the gouges made by Link’s fangs and claws. Movement brings his eyes up to the branches overhead, where half a dozen crows are silhouetted against the grey sky, waiting for nature to provide them a feast of flesh.

The boar must smell him too, but it makes no effort to rise as he creeps to its side. If it was ever capable of speech like most animals he’s met, it’s mute now. His earlier attack may have blinded the poor thing, but even so, there’s a look in its eyes that Link has seen so many times. Not fear. Not acceptance. Just exhausted resignation. Even Ganondorf looked that way at the end.

Trying to run was foolish. He will never forget how it feels to deal out death. He can only bare his fangs and end it as quickly as he can.

As the boar breathes its last, Link knows he can’t leave it to the crows. Not just because whatever remains of the Fused Shadows could latch onto them too, but because this never should have happened in the first place. Because he knows how it feels to be twisted beyond recognition by forces so much bigger than him.

He's digging between the tree roots when the sound of Zelda’s footsteps reaches him. Even when they come to a halt in front of the grave, he doesn’t look up until she says, “Link.”

There’s an edge to her voice he’s reluctant to face, but she just stares at him and drums her fingers against the bow in her hands until he jumps out of the hole, spraying her with mud in the process.

“You said you wouldn’t leave.”

Link dips his head towards the boar’s corpse.

“Yes, I know it had to die. That does not mean—” She stops abruptly, her face bloodless beneath the hood of her cloak, and heaves out a great sigh.

He’s never seen what anger looks like on her face before today. Watching her piece together what remained of the castle and its cowardly soldiers with nothing but serene patience fascinated him, especially after months with Midna, who was so full of fury that Link practically became immune to it. Zelda’s ire feels different, though, because he’s certain he deserves it.

So he shifts, feeling mud soak into his trousers before he pushes himself up to face her. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was coming back, I swear.”

“That is not the point. It was one thing when you were wandering all over Hyrule, helping strangers, but here…do you realize what you have in Ordon? An entire village of people who would do anythingfor you, because you’ve done everything for them. Yet you spent days out here in the cold instead of asking for their help.” She tightens her grip on the bow. “For mine. A wolf needs a pack, Link.”

“I told you before, I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. This…” He gestures vaguely at the dead boar. “This is my…”

“You already did what fate asked of you.”

“And now you’re telling me to just walk away?”

“I’m not telling you to do anything. But tell me this is the life you want and I’ll call you a liar.”

“I don’t—I’m not suited for herding goats anymore.” Link brushes rainwater from his brow so he has an excuse to look away and adds all in a rush, “I would keep your hands clean, Zelda.”

She laughs, knife-sharp and far more bitter than anything he’s ever heard from her. “It’s years too late for that.”

He finds himself wondering how the old queen and king died, how long Zelda has been alone, and why he’s never asked her any of these questions before. She’s always seemed so distant, so perfectly indestructible—but she kissed him as desperately as he kissed her. How did he overlook that?

“What I meant was…it’s not like you can walk away,” Link says. “You have your role. And I have mine.”

She stares at him through the rain, shaking her head slowly. “This is exactly why Midna broke the Mirror.”

He flinches back a step. “What does thatmean?”

“She wanted you to be free, Link. She spent months in your shadow, watching you carry all these things that—”

“That I was meant to carry.”

“Does that make them any easier to bear?” Zelda counters, locking him in place with those relentless blue eyes. “When I said it was for the best that you left the castle, this is what I meant. Midna was right, and I owe you everything, and I will not be another thing that weighs you down.”

“What is it you think you owe me? If you mean Hyrule, that was Midna as much as me, and you’ve been taking care of it much longer.”

“Of course I mean Hyrule. But not only that.” She pulls up her sleeve, unveiling the red scars that branch out along her veins. “You saved me.”

Link’s heart sinks like a stone into bottomless depths. His gaze falls on the boar’s carcass, dripping blood and water into its bed of leaves. The crows are still waiting in the branches overhead. He digs his nails into his palms and chokes out, “I hurt you, Zelda. Don’t—don’t pretend otherwise. I heard you scream.”

For a long time, the only sound between them is the rain pattering down over the forest. She comes forward slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. “You heard Ganondorf scream. Every part of me that matters was with Midna. I felt no pain.”

“Your body did.”

“Perhaps. But it was necessary.” Zelda inclines her head towards the boar. “It’s always been necessary. It doesn’t make you what you think you are.”

Link shudders out a breath. She reaches for his hand and turns it over to inspect his palm, callused from a lifetime of ranch work and covered in plenty of his own scars. Only an hour ago, he was stitching her skin back together. They’ve ridden to war, loved and lost the same woman, tasted each other’s lips and gotten halfway to doing much more than that. But somehow, the gentleness of this touch is what unravels him.

Zelda has been nothing but honest with him since the day they met. It was one of the first things he appreciated about her—that in a world turned unrecognizable, there was at least one person willing to tell her the truth. Link has no reason to start doubting her now.

He runs his fingers over the scars that climb up the inside of her wrist, careful of her new wounds. That day in the throne room, her skin was marble and her eyes amber. He can feel the heat of her breath now, see the blue of her gaze, feel the thrum of her pulse, all of it a reminder that they made it through alive.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”

Zelda allows herself a small smile. “Of course.”

“I want you to know something, though. You’ll never weigh me down. And I’m still not leaving you, not for good.”

“Link…”

“A wolf needs a pack, Zelda.”

She holds his gaze for a long time, as if waiting for him to change his mind. When he doesn’t, she brings a hand to his cheek, touching him the same way Midna touched them both: with a tenderness that almost defies belief. One by one, the crows fly away, and Zelda closes her eyes and kisses the rain from Link’s skin.

.

.

.

After the boar lies buried beneath the elm’s roots, they make their way home—because whatever else changes, Ordon will always be home. They’re greeted by fussing from Uli, questions from Rusl, and food piled high on their plates. Zelda sneaks that subtle smile across the table at Link while he explains that Faron is safe and apologizes for making them worry.

When they finally extricate themselves, the rain has given way to bold rays of late-afternoon sun that filter through the trees. Their horses are grazing in the clearing by his treehouse, Epona’s chestnut coat a brilliant mirror of the autumn foliage beside the quiet grey of Zelda’s gelding.

“I’d best be on my way,” Zelda says reluctantly. “They could overthrow me any day, after all.”

Link laughs. “Wait…that was a joke, right?”

“Of course it was.” She lifts the saddle onto her horse’s back. “Midna’s influence, I suppose.”

He circles to the gelding’s other side to cinch the girth. He’s half-tempted to saddle Epona up too, but he’s not quite ready for that, and maybe Zelda isn’t either. He’s spent months searching for an end that will never come, running from the inevitable truth of who he’s become since the Twilight. The forest will regrow and die and regrow again, but it won’t be the same, and neither will he. He needs to come to terms with that. And to stop looking for Midna in every shadow.

“I’ll visit you soon,” he says, coming back around the horse. “I just need a little more time.”

Zelda smiles at him. “We have all the time in the world. She made sure of that.”

“She did.” Link draws her into an embrace, smelling the rain in her damp hair. “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t keep patching everyone else up while you bleed.”

“Only if you promise to do the same,” she murmurs against his shoulder.

“I do.” He presses his lips to her temple and pulls back, memorizing her in the sunlight, tucking the sight away until the next time they see each other.

Zelda takes her horse’s reins, and instead of mounting, leads him past the treehouse on foot. Link follows her down the dirt path and past the Light Spirit’s glittering spring until they come to a halt at the bridge.

“Link, shift into a wolf,” she says, tethering her horse to one of the bridge posts.

“Huh? Why?”

“Trust me.”

And he does. Reaching for the shadow crystal, letting the pain pass over him—briefer every time, as much a part of him as the mark on his hand—and shakes his coat out, nudging her hand with his cold nose. The horse throws his head up in alarm at the sudden appearance of a predator, but Zelda pats his neck and kneels in front of Link.

She touches the iron cuff and severed chain that have been fastened to his leg since the day this all began. “Would you like this gone?”

Yes. Goddesses, yes. Link bobs his head, his tail wagging enthusiastically of its own accord.

“All right, then. Hold still.”

He sits back on his haunches and forces his ridiculous tail to stop moving. Zelda slides her fingers along the edge of the metal, and again comes that familiar golden glow, that call reaching out to the core of him.

With a rattling clankthat Link never wants to hear again, the cuff drops to the ground in two pieces leaving behind a pale band of fur that never grew properly beneath it. He picks up his paw, marveling at the weightlessness, and puts it down so he can nuzzle Zelda’s cheek, coaxing a laugh out of her.

He wonders if he should shift so that he can tell her thank you and I’m glad you came and I’ll see you later. But when Zelda kisses the soft fur between his ears before rising to her feet, he knows there’s no need.

She understands him in any form.

.

.

.

[ranger-ribbons]

More General Rangers Headcanons

Sixth Rangers are inherently more powerful than the regular Rangers. You'll notice that most can 1v1 difficult enemies that prove challenging to even the Reds of the team (ie.: Zhane (In Space Silver) 1v1'ing Ecliptor). This is because, on a power scale, the Sixth is supposed to balance the team out. A team that can work as individuals and an individual that can work on/with a team

Reds develop an attachment to their Sixth Rangers, be it romantic (Carter Grayson/Ryan Mitchell) or platonic (Leo and Mike Corbett), but it's close and quickly formed

Similarly, Sixth Rangers form quick and close attachments to their Reds, platonic or romantic

Pinks and Blues are either siblings or best friends and there is no in-between

Survivor's Guilt is a powerful force and 90% of the Rangers have it, especially the alien Rangers or those like the Lunar Wolf Wildforce Ranger

Rangers getting discouraged and believing themselves unworthy of the Power is also common, so there's a network of Rangers you can call to help with that kind of stuff

If you don't already have fantastic spatial awareness, you develop it pretty quick as a Ranger. It's damn near impossible not to because of all the attacks by Monsters, Bugs, etc

Red Rangers can give orders to their teams and the Power will give little pushes for the other Rangers to following it, but that doesn't mean the other Rangers can't refuse of their own volition

The Morphin' Grid affords its Rangers a form of immortality. They can be fatally injured, but otherwise, Rangers are effectively immortal

Some Rangers go on to become police officers, but most Rangers agree that working to assist and help people (ie.: lifeguards, doctors, breaking ground in the science fields) is best. Some of them establish dojos to train people to protect themselves (Tommy Oliver) and others work with volunteer efforts (Troy Burrows)

Veteran Rangers, Reds especially, tend to hang back during crossover events- this is to give the new Reds the confidence in themselves and their abilities, and allow them to grow into their leadership. The only exception was Forever Red, because Jason is a little bit of a control freak. He's the oldest Red, it's his right

When a Ranger is in a battle that forces them into demorph (i.e.: Gia, Jake, and Noah (Megaforce) against Creepox) the other teammates will be supremely worried and clingy, this is because of a trauma bond each team shares, but also because seeing someone you love get so hurt in a battle that they lose their ability to hold their morphs is fucking terrifying.

On that note, other Ranger teams will check in after those battles because seeing your successors get demorphed in the middle of battle is also something terrifying

Also on that note, some Rangers have specific nightmares in which they don't make it out of those demorph fights alive

The TMNT do on occasion pop out of the New York sewers to assist in a battle or two with the Ranger teams

Rangers who have martial arts skills (Ninja Storm, Jungle Fury, Samurai, Ninja Steel, etc) stick together, much like Rangers who are from or went to space

The techs of the teams have secret channels that they use to make "communication devices" (cell phones) so that Rangers don't have to rely on their morphers to communicate as well as being able to communicate with other Rangers and teams

Bulk and Skull have been linked so tightly with the Rangers that they've been kidnapped several times, only to be let go when it's been clear they aren't Rangers themselves

Junior Rangers have a chat, kids that helped Rangers (Heather, Jordon, etc.) have linked up and compared notes. They know of or know each other and most of them are tightly linked together

Possibility of more later, I didn't expect more than one post lol

[infiniteeight8]

Please I NEED more of the sentinel and guide au

I realized I never specified that the boys are still heroes in this AU. They are sentinel and guide and Iron Man and Doctor Strange. However that works. lol. That’s how they knew each other in the first ficlet and how Stephen got to Tony so quickly.

The first part of this AU is here.

-

Courting Stephen Strange is surprisingly low key. At this point in their lives, they both get more than enough excitement without feeling like they have to go out and find more. They eat in a lot. Stephen takes Tony sightseeing to some inaccessible places—both conventionally and interdimensionally inaccessible. Tony takes Stephen to a couple of shows. But mostly, they eat in and talk. 

And practice guiding Tony’s senses, of course.

That’s practical, but it’s also great for building intimacy. Grounding a Sentinel requires activating multiple senses. Tony gets to know trembling touches and the rumble of a deep voice and the hint of dust and tea that clings to Stephen’s robes. Stephen gets to know the rhythm of Tony’s pulse and intricacies of his breath and the focus of his eyes. 

Inevitably, the time comes for them to meet in the spirit world the first time. Despite how well the courtship is going—and it is going well—Tony isn’t looking forward to it. People don’t generally react well to his spirit guide. As a result, when he opens his eyes to the blue-green landscape of the spirit world, he’s not surprised to find himself alone. He’s also not surprised to find himself somewhere other than the jungle. The jungle is a common spirit world setting for sentinels and guides alike, but it’s not the only one, and it’s never been one Tony identified with. The cornfield is a surprise, though.

Eventually, the tall stalks rustle and rustle and Stephen emerges from between them. Their gazes mutually go automatically to their spirit guides, and after a moment they both start laughing.

Spirit guides are, almost universally, large predators. Wolves and panthers are most common, followed by other big canines and cats, but bears and even crocodiles are not unheard of.

Tony’s spirit guide is a crow. The judgment he sees in the eyes of guides with wolves at their sides has been the nail in the coffin of more than one potential bonding. 

Despite their compatibility, it had never occurred to him that Stephen might also have a non-standard spirit guide. His is a cat, but not one of the big cats. It’s a common housecat, riding on Stephen’s shoulder just as Tony’s crow is riding on his.

Their laughter runs down and they link arms, setting off on a rambling walk through the corn, their spirit guides calmly riding along. 

[arabriddler]

The King and Queen of Gotham. Oswald and Sofia met when they were little and were friends. Oswald’s mother worked as The Falcone’s maid before getting kicked out for stealing money to treat Oswald’s ankle ( 1 ). they were apart for a while afterwards. Both planning to take over Carmine Falcone’s control over Gotham. When Oswald was captured by her father, Sofia gave him an out by faking his death and asking him to leave Gotham, but when Oswald returned home he found his mother dead ( 2 ).

Oswald executed his revenge over Falcone by getting himself admitted into Arkham and forming a one-sided fake relationship with Edward The Riddler, Nygma ( 3 ). There, he and Ed helped break outAlberto, Flacone’s son who went on a rampage and was secretly admitted to Arkham’s high security wing. Then he forged some papers and used outside connections to get himself out of Arkham. Outside, Oswald made his appearance public as The Penguin and run for mayor and promised to get the city under control and safe.

Falcone got worried about finding Alberto. At the time, Riddler, who was secretly in an alliance with the penguin broke out for a night. (4) he promised Falcone that he knows where Alberto is and offered evidence and a meet up place ( it was the same warehouse Falcone tortured Oswald in ( 2 )). This was all going according to Ed and Oswald’s plan. They left a back door open on purpose. Falcone thought it was a mistake and inspected it. There he saw The Penguin go inside a purple box.

It was time to meet The Riddler and in the warehouse was a set up for a game, The Riddler announced that the game involved Falcone knowing which box has The Penguin and kill him. The Riddler gave a riddle whose answer was blue, but Falcone chose purple since he saw Penguin going in there earlier, and he shot it. When the boxes were revealed he found that penguin was in the blue box and Alberto was in the purple one dressed up as The Penguin. He accidentally killed his own son. After giving Falcone some time to grieve, Oswald killed him then he and Riddler staged his and his son’s death to like like a murder-suicide.

Of course, Sofia knew better, and was upset that Oswald didn’t follow her advice and killed her father and brother. This ignited a sort of war between them before they met on common ground and agreed to divide Gotham between them in respect of their old friendship.

Notes and links

(1) The story of Oswald and Sofia’s childhood friendship. (2) The story of Oswald getting captured by Falcone.

(3) Oswald and Edward in Arkham

(4) Ed returned to Arkham after the game. When Oswald became mayor, he used his influence to get Ed out of there.

[gaybae1021]

Talkin mcd werewolves

I always had such a spot spot for the mcd werewolves. Specifically, I really liked how they didn’t go down the Twilight route, keeping traditional anthro and scary designs and not doing Alpha bs (cough cough mystreet).

That being said, the werewolves felt kind of poorly defined to me, the tribes were more like plot devices, appearing and vanishing without any real discussion of the impact. The fact that Bodolf’s tribe was hardly mentioned in season 2 I think shows that they ran out of ideas for the werewolves.

Luckily my brain is absolutely overflowing with ideas about them, so here’s my redesigns and thought process:

To anthro or not to anthro?

While I really liked the choice of anthro werewolf designs, I absolutely suck at drawing anthros. It also felt weird doing that for child characters, I know the series kept kids as normal wolves but does that mean werewolf puberty involves an awkward transition from animal to anthro? It just kind of Icked me out, so I’ve decided to keep all werewolves as full wolf transformations. Unlike twilight though, I’ll be largely referencing Wolfwalkers.

Tribes

I know the series had four tribes, but so far I’ve only needed three for the story. If I ever need more tribes, I’ll add more. I haven’t named them yet either, so I’ll denote them by color for now.

Red Wolves

Og wolf tribe, led by Bodolf and Khira. Wolves in this tribe are smaller than the other tribes, with shorter limbs, tails, and muzzles. They have light patches on their muzzles, above the eyes, and on their paws. Brown and Amber eyes are most common.

Brown Wolves

Yip’s destroyed tribe, and also the type Logan was turned into, hence Yip bonding with him so quickly. They are the largest and stockiest wolf tribe, with wide muzzles and short ears. They have lighter markings under their eyes, on their chests, and the underside of their tails. Green and hazel eyes are most common.

White wolves

Fenrir’s tribe. Medium-sized, but thin and lithe, almost more fox-like than wolf. Large ear tufts, neck ruffs, and tails make them look larger than they are. They have dark markings inspired by huskies. Blue and grey eyes are most common.

All tribes, despite size difference, are significantly larger than actual wolves, and most adults werewolves outweigh the average human.

Werewolf Creation

Werewolves can be born by having one or two werewolf parents. They can also be created by being bitten by a werewolf while in wolf form. The person will become the same tribe as the wolf that bit them. Children’s marking will usually follow basic genetics, but those bitten can develop markings independent of the appearance of the wolf that bit them.

Transformation

Transformations, like in Wolfwalkers, are astral projections. The person does not physically transform, rather their consciousness leaves their body and manifests as a wolf. This most often occurs during sleep, but anything that causes a “disconnect” between mind and body can also cause the transformation. So being knocked unconscious, meditation, or sufficient intense emotion will also do the trick.

Communication

Werewolves in wolf form can still understand spoken language, but they cannot be understood by humans. Werewolves in human form can still understand werewolves in wolf form.

Injury

While transformed, the two forms are still linked. Injuries sustained to either form will transfer to the other. In the same way, so long as one body is being sustained, the other does not have sustain itself. Since the body is technically resting, the wolf does not need sleep, and so long as the wolf hunts, the body does not need food. Hypothetically, werewolves can remain transformed indefinitely. However, there are risks associated with this.

Lost werewolves

In the past, Werewolves were occasionally used in blood sport and hard labor. A massive beast of human intelligence that never needed sleep? It was easy to see why fighting arenas and military generals were eager to capture werewolves and use them for their own gain. Sometimes, they would manage to escape, but they no longer knew where their bodies were. Being separated from their bodies for long periods of time would essentially cause them to go feral. These “lost werewolves” are essentially immortal, the strength and instinct of a wolf combined with a faded but still present human cunning, and no need for sleep. The stigma of werewolves as dangerous is mostly due to the few cases of attacks by lost werewolves. This is what happened to Logan, and also what destroyed Yip’s tribe.

Leaders

No alpha crap in my version, we’re following actual wolf behavior with a leading couple. I don’t necessarily think the tribe is a fully related family unit like wolf packs, bringing new people into the tribes is actually quite common, but most of the tribes definitely follow the idea of “they are our leaders because they take care of us” not for any strength/bloodline reasons.

Now onto the werewolf characters I have so far!

Bodolf and Khira

Leaders of the red wolves. Both have equal authority, though are quite different in their beliefs. Bodolf is more open to working with humans, whereas Khira is less trusting, and unless a human is joining their tribes wants very little to do with humans.

Logan

Turned after an attack by a lost werewolf. Initially struggles with accepting this new part of himself, but becomes more comfortable with support from Donna and Yip. Gains his leader mark after fully accepting his role as Yip’s guardian. His growing family kind of symbolizes the regrowth of a tribe that was almost wiped out.

Yip

Last surviving member of the original brown wolves. Was taken in by Donna and Logan while they searched for his tribe, and more importantly, his body. Eventually Logan and Yip find the ruins of Yip’s tribe, and after an epic showdown with the lost werewolf that turned Logan and attacked Yip’s tribe, are able to bring Yip’s body home.

Leona

Child of Kiki and Zane. Initially human, she was born very weak, and Zoey didn’t have much hope she would survive. Desperate, Kiki took her to the Red Wolves, hoping that turning Leona would give her the strength she needed to make it through. Bodolf was out, so Kiki had to plead to Khira, who has never been fond of her. Khira initially refused, as she had no idea what effects turning a child would have. She also insisted that if she did it, Leona would have to stay with the tribe. Kiki was able to convince her otherwise, and Khira begrudgingly agreed to turn Leona. The turn was successful, and Leona’s health improved, though she has some developmental delays and stunting.

Donna

Le gasp, a significant shift from canon! Not entirely sure if I want her to become a werewolf, but at the same time it would be incredibly cool and give her something else to do in season 2 besides generic mom. If she is turned, it was either an accident by Rollo/Lello, or she intentionally had Logan turn her. She gets her leader mark at this point.

Rollo and Lello

Identical twins, both in human and wolf form. It can be difficult to tell them apart while transformed, though their personality differences make it clear who’s who very quickly. Rollo is energetic and playful, while Lello is more reserved.

Fenrir

Prince of the White Wolves. Unlike the other tribes, during the timeskip his tribe has adopted many human practices. They live in a more traditional kingdom, and have more traditional power structures. For example, Fenrir’s mother has significantly less power than his father, and lacks the leader mark. Fenrir recognizes the problem with his tribe’s new practices, but doesn’t stand up to his father. He is kind, but also cowardly, and when push comes to shove his loyalty stays with his family. Takes the role of leader after his father is killed by Laurance.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Don't Go Blindly Into the Dark

Summary:

To hide that he can't read, Jan Van Eck has been forcing his son to pretend he's blind since he was eight years old. Wylan is now attending Ketterdam University, and meeting Jesper Fahey may very well be about to change his life. But is he safe to tell Jesper the truth? And what will Jesper say if he does?

Jesper is struggling to weigh up his life in the Barrel and his life at the University of Ketterdam, and there's a good chance that his growing debt is about to make the decision for him. He hasn't attended class consecutively for months, but maybe that will change when his newest project includes partnering up with Wylan Van Eck. But can he really leave the Barrel behind him? And how long can he keep up the pretence of who he thinks Wylan wants him to be?

Tags: @justalunaticfangirl @lunarthecorvus

If anyone else would like to be tagged let me know :)

Content warnings for this chapter: death / dead bodies

AO3 link

Chapter 16 - Kaz

Kaz left Jesper and Inej at the Crow Club with their plan not long after Inej had returned from the Geldstraat, following the busy streets North and along to West Stave. The elusive sun was making its second appearance of the month, a rare occurrence in Ketterdam, but it was ruined by the clouds and mist and growing threat of a storm on the horizon. A far more common occurrence for Ketterdam. Kaz didn’t mind the damp cold air of the slightly greyed quality of the sky today though; what good would sunshine do him?

He crossed Goedmedbridge and approached the White Rose, eyes drifting farther ahead and to the other side of the canal to see the glistening façade of the Menagerie. It wasn’t closed - Kaz wasn’t sure it ever closed, few businesses in the Barrel ever did unless there was no other choice - but the crowds were certainly thinner than usual. Dead girls on your doorstep were bad for business. It might have actually been better to close for a day, to let the rumour mill die down and the suspicion be replaced with intrigue before the doors opened again. But apparently Heleen Van Houden disagreed, and the doors remained open. Or they would have done; the lower floor of the Menagerie didn’t really have doors, as such, but was more of an open courtyard with the rest of the birdcage teetering above it, only the back wall was solid and along it ran the staircases to the upper floors. On the occasional time the building was closed, the doors at the top of the stairs were locked, the girls and anything else of value tucked safely away above them. 

Part of Kaz wondered what had happened to the Leopard over the past week, part of him was pretty sure he knew. He paused for a brief moment as the feathered figure of Heleen appeared in the parlour, letting his eyes follow her across the building. As though she could feel his eyes on her, the Peacock stopped and turned to face him. Kaz doubted she could see him properly from across the canal - he could only she it was her from the extravagant blue silhouette she cut across the image but as she stayed in place looking across the canal for a moment he thought that perhaps she was seeing him a similar way, recognisable as a shadow-clad black suit in the swirling rivers of tourists in colourful capes. He turned away. 

As soon as he stepped into the parlour of the White Rose, the boy behind his desk caught his eye. His white hair was either too long for his face or poorly styled, and it flopped slightly into his colourless eyes so he had to push it out of his way to see anything. Kaz had once asked Nina if the removal of the eye colour actually affected the sight, and ended up with a half hour lecture on something called rod and cone cells that he hadn’t bargained for, but in short the answer was no. 

Kaz wrinkled his nose beneath the stench of the falsely perfume roses hanging above the desk, matching the ones that climbed the front of the building and bloomed somewhere between spirited and drooping in the strangely sized plant pots that seemed to shimmer where they sat between the white sofas, as though someone had trapped the stars in between layers of linoleum. They were incomprehensibly ugly. 

“Mister Brekker,” the boy - Adrian something? - began, as Kaz approached the desk like a run of spilt ink across the white parchment of the space, “Nina is with a client,”

Good. Feliks hadn’t fired her yet, then, unless of course he was just trying to wring every last coin out of her he could before he sent her on her way. 

Nina had shown up in Kaz’s office not long after Inej had left for the Van Eck house, convinced she was about to lose her job. Kaz leaned back in his chair, drumming his gloved fingers along the crow’s head of his cane as he leant it against his knee. 

“Am I missing something here?”

Nina had only frowned, glancing briefly over her shoulder as if the question wasn’t directed at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m failing to see what you did wrong,”

She sighed.

“I’m not sure Feliks is going to see it that way, Kaz,” she seemed to drift for a brief moment, “I haven’t seen him yet but… If I’m not careful he might get rid of Elodie too,”

“The girl?”

“I’ve seen it before,” Nina shrugged, “She was the root cause of the problem, wasn’t she? I just-”

Kaz sucked his teeth for a moment.

“You know how much her indenture is?”

“No idea,”

“We’re short staffed on tables at the Club,” he sighed, “If she wants a salaried-”

“She’s twelve, Kaz, you can’t put her in a gambling hall,”

“I worked a bar when I was eleven, Zenik, and it was better than my previous job,”

It had still been shit, mind you, but better than his previous job.

“You were on your second job at eleven?”

“You catch on quick,” he said, not bothering to mention it was actually his third, and when Nina only rolled her eyes: “Well were you at eleven, miss high and mighty?”

“I was in a classroom, Brekker, like a normal person,”

Kaz almost laughed. 

“What year were you born, Nina dear?”

“I - why is that relevant?”

“Well I’d like to have some confirmation, because sometimes you say the kind of shit that convinces me you’ve only just stepped out of your goddamn cradle,”

Now Kaz adjusted his grip on his cane to reposition it - his leg was complaining at the angle and doubtless at the damp hanging in the air as well - as he distractedly caught the edge of a conversation behind him. 

“I’m not here for her,” he said, and when Adrian looked briefly surprised before trying to school his features back to the remarkably blank state he kept them in, as though he were trying to keep his personality as colourless as his Tailored skin, added: “I need to talk to Feliks,”

The boy swallowed.

“About…” he glanced towards the stairs.

Kaz just nodded.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Downstairs,”

He nodded, slowly.

“There’s two people behind me trying to direct your business to the Menagerie,” he turned and began to walk towards the office, “When Nina’s done tell her to find me,”

[deliciouskeys]

@cozycornerkinktober's prompt #14: Forced feminization

Private Halloween (Homelander x Maeve)

Warnings: Rated E. Top the Homelander, for the most part, although definitely some sublander, whippedlander elements and some genderfuck in case the prompt wasn't a giveaway. Precanon, set in 2014. AO3 link. Directly inspired by my favorite non-HL picture of Antony Starr:

Homelander laughs. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going out in that. What do you think the tabloids would say?”

“That you’re a fun guy with a sense of humor, maybe?” Maeve exhales smoke from her vape. Their relationship has really soured over the years, and she’s pretty sure she’s just acting purely from a place of spite nowadays, testing to see how far she can go before he decides to call it quits. Apparently he’ll tolerate a lot. It’s like he’s really in love with her or at least whatever sickening twisted version of love that his mind is capable of.

“Maeve, be serious,” he says. Oh god is he actually pleading with her? Why can’t he just see that they have nothing in common, that she’s smoking to annoy him, and that she’s specifically chosen a costume he won’t wear so she can tell him how lame and cowardly he is?

“What am I supposed to be serious about? You wearing a cheerleader costume for Halloween?”

Homelander purses his lips. “If I wear this in public they’ll think I’m a pervert.”

“Good. They’ll be right.” She’s really pushing it. She better be careful lest he decide that it’s easier to laser her in half than break up with her. But the grinding of his jaw stops and to her horror instead of walking out in a huff, he puts his hands on the bed and crawls forward, insinuating himself between her legs, nudging them apart and rubbing his cheek along one of her inner thighs. She tries to draw back but he just follows her body.

“If you really want me to, I’ll wear it. Just for you.”

Jesus, he’s in this kind of mood today? The ‘I’ll do anything for you’ knight in shining armor mode? Maeve really doesn’t understand what he sees in her. She’s not only not trying to be a good girlfriend, she’s actively acting repulsive towards him. And yet here he is, looking up at her with puppy dog eyes so she’s actually tempted to pat him on the head even though he’s a 33 year old man whom she’s seen do despicable things while out on missions together. Whom she’d already firmly said no to on the topic of marriage, despite the fear that he might kill her for it.

“What do you mean just for me? In the bedroom?” It’s not a good compromise at all, but Maeve does want to see him wear the outfit.

“Mmhmm,” he mumbles, making a trail of tiny kisses up her inner thigh, getting close to her boyshorts. He’s hated boyshorts ever since he found out that’s what they were called, so she wears them every day to annoy him. But he’s stopped complaining. Whatever she tries to do to annoy him, he just seems to get used to ignoring. He’s infuriatingly adaptable that way.

“Okay, fine, put it on just for me,” she says with resignation.

Homelander goes into the bathroom to change. Of all things to be weird and shy about, he still doesn’t seem to like her watching him removing the top piece of his suit. As if she doesn’t notice the contrast between the foam padded uniform and the smaller, leaner version that emerges out of that stiff structured shell unless she sees the undressing happen in front of her. Maeve wonders if she should be thankful he has never complained about any part of her body, given how many hangups he appears to have about his own.

Homelander walks out of her bathroom, red white and blue uniform on, “USA” in bold bright letters across the chest (Maeve was kind enough to at least keep that theme consistent). He’s still smoothing out the pleated skirt. Maeve has to admit the feminine getup actually makes him look muscular and manly, because even though she got a large size, his biceps are something a woman would find hard to achieve, and his calves have an unmistakably male musculature.

“Where’s the wig?” she asks.

Homelander looks up at her with a deer in the headlights look. “I… you want that too?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Maeve says coldly but gets up off the bed. “Here let me help you with the makeup too.”

Homelander follows her back into the bathroom, looking a little bit lost, probably wondering why she wants all this from him. If none of the other hints Maeve has dropped about liking women have ever sunk in, she’s sure this one won’t either. She puts the wig on him, tucking his real hair into the scratchy cheap mesh, a blond long bob with bangs and falling just below the chin. It doesn’t look half bad on him, somehow, despite being a cheap Halloween item. Maeve makes him sit down on the toilet lid and picks up her minimalist makeup bag. He doesn’t move a muscle as she does his face. She finds it surprisingly hard to do it for someone else, all her motions feeling strange when not directed by a mirror image. But she enjoys watching Homelander sit there so obediently, ramrod straight, face impassive, only moving his eyes when she instructs him to look up at the ceiling to get his upper lashes done, or to smack his lips to spread out the lipstick.

He glances in the mirror as they walk out of the bathroom but doesn’t seem to have any opinion on her work.

“Now you can eat me out,” Maeve says, spreading herself out on the bed, taking her underwear off and tossing it on the floor. Homelander’s nostrils flare– it’s yet another thing she finds disturbing about him, the fact that he can detect her arousal and visibly inhales it deeply. At least right now they’re in the privacy of her bedroom, but he’s done it when they’ve been out and about, and she was fully clothed. She’s never called him out on it, because she’s not sure he’s aware others can see him doing it, or even that he’s doing it at all.

Homelander doesn’t put any effort into acting in any way female, but when he hooks her legs over his shoulders, buries his face into her folds, and starts sucking and licking her clit like she’d taught him all those years ago, it suddenly doesn’t matter. Looking down at him in the wig and silly cheerleader outfit she can suddenly pretend this is someone else entirely, even a different gender, and it’s an amazing turnon. Maeve leans back and moans in pleasure, and Homelander redoubles his efforts, unaware of her little mental infidelity. She’s soaking his face and he, good boy that he is, doesn’t pause much at all, sometimes running his tongue further down to slurp up what’s spilling out of her, drinking it up as if he’s parched. She’s sure he wants to bury himself deep inside her, but he knows not to make a move until her say so. That’s another bit of good manners she’s trained in him.

“You’re such a good girl,” Maeve moans out, wanting to grab him by the long hair and pull but thinking better of it since the wig will probably slide right off.

Homelander doesn’t seem fazed by the particular words she's using in praise of him and reapplies himself with more fervor, sucking on a large area while still flicking his tongue across her sensitive spots. Maeve’s eyes are hazy with pleasure but she still watches the pleated skirt slide or bounce a little bit whenever Homelander has to shift to rearrange himself. She comes loudly, gripping the sheets, squeezing his head between her thighs with crushing strength. Any mortal wouldn’t survive that kind of pressure but she knows Homelander enjoys getting his head trapped in this orgasmic vise of hers.

She was going to be cruel. She was going to put on a strapon and make him get up on her cock and bounce around on it. She was going to make him do a cheerleading chant in falsetto and spell out her name and any number of other ridiculous things. But when she looks down and sees those same puppydog, now eyeliner-lined eyes looking up at her not just hopefully but lovingly, she can’t do it. He’s so clueless and pathetic, she can’t even mock him like she wants to.

“May I?” he asks, and oh how dopey and hokey he sounds with that formal question, and she can’t deny him.

Homelander picks her up with ease, and seats her on his cock as he’s standing. Maeve doesn’t like the position– all the boring aspects of missionary, but none of the comfort of being on the bed on her back. Her feet don’t even reach the floor so she’s dangling awkwardly, held up by him, at his mercy, and with a constant reminder of how weightless she is in his arms. But she won’t tell him she hates it, because that would mean she’s lied about the five hundred previous times.

“Oh Maeve,” he says, hiking her up higher so he can bury his face into her chest. Maeve sometimes wonders if he’s a boob man but has tragically resigned himself to her B cups because she’s the only one strong enough to withstand unbridled sex with him. “I love you.”

Maeve cringes. Maybe this is the one aspect where he easily take on the traditional female role– pining for a connection, openly talking about love, naively hoping it will get reciprocated even though he’s been unquestionably rebuffed. She thinks about this as he lowers her down, easily sheathing himself into her relaxed, still aroused body, fucking up into her with ugly low grunts and inelegant jerky motions. But the wig is still on, and rather than look at his twisted, pained looking approaching-O face, Maeve chooses to focus on the blond tresses framing his face bouncing to and fro with each thrust. She focuses on the tremble of his eyelashes– already dark and enviably long to start with– now garishly enhanced with mascara. And for a moment she can pretend this is a stranger, an athletic, strong, but still feminine stranger, who’s giving her the ride of her life. Maeve can’t remember the last time she came on his cock, but she beats him to the punch this time, another orgasm rocking through her and causing her entire body to shake in his grasp. He notices and grins weakly, before returning right back to his pained, scrunched up face as his own pleasure hits him.

They lie side by side in her bed afterwards, and he doesn’t make a peep about her vaping, just all smiles and cocky little winks from time to time. She didn’t realize how happy her finishing around his cock would make him.

“You make a pretty woman,” she says, trying to reemphasize what it was that revved her up so much. “Maybe you should wear that every time we have sex.”

He snorts. “Didn’t know you were a lesbian.”

“I’m bi, actually,” she says, wondering what on earth possessed her to finally tell him bluntly. Apparently she feels intent on testing how much he’ll put up with from her.

Homelander pauses, mulling over her words, and she starts to regret them, growing apprehensive. Sometimes she forgets how easily angered he can get at others, and how much damage he can do when the mood suits him. But the long pause culminates with a simple “Good one.” He won’t listen to what he doesn’t want to hear, that’s a trait she should know well by now.

[ask-the-all-consuming-void]

Bio and Timeline

[This post was last updated on April 27th, 2024.]

Key

Blue + Underlined — Links to canonical sources (Ex. cutscenes, developer commentary, Sonic Wiki Zone articles).

Purple + Underlined — Links to posts on this blog. These commonly regard info that is only canonical to this blog, not to official Sonic media.

[LOADING...] — This segment is still being written. Check back later!

[DATA CORRUPT] — This segment regards something The End hasn't revealed yet. Perhaps if you ask Them the right question...?

Bio

The End (any pronouns, hereafter They/Them) is an extradimensional entity older than time and space. They can best be likened to a black hole: not quite an existing something, but a violent nothing threatening to swallow everything around it.

To Them, existence is pointless at best and an agonizing act of futility at worst. Why bother with such chaos? Their solution: to eradicate everything until an empty, silent, unchanging order remains. (This makes Them very unpopular with living things, but surely the poor things just don’t know any better.)

Their consciousness resides in the gaps between the Sonic multiverse. They must take physical form within a universe before They can destroy it. This form’s appearance depends on the viewer’s perception of death itself; the most common perception among Earthlings is a purple moon, possibly due to our Moon symbolizing death in many cultures.

Timeline

|||| The Beginning ||||

Once upon a time, Nothing existed. That Nothing slept peacefully, content with the silence.

Their first memory was of a boredom not Their own. Just as They noticed it... the Big Bang happened.

Time began, space was formed, light and sound and matter and life came to be. Near-instantly the universe churned, cooled, and split off into more universes.

Nothing awoke. They were shrinking, rapidly being crowded out by everything. They found Themself on the outskirts of all creation, on the outside looking in.

Another being may have regarded this display with awe. Nothing saw only a mess. They couldn't go back to sleep—not with this constant chaos disturbing Them.

They vowed to destroy it—all of it—and restore the perfect, silent order They once knew.

And so, The End got to work.

|||| Before Frontiers ||||

Through trial and error, The End learned how to destroy universes (or "consume worlds," as They put it). Over millennia, They perfected a routine. First They had to manifest physically within that world, which took Them time and effort. Once incarnated, They would pierce stars and planets, prioritizing ones that harbored life. Some worlds collapsed after losing a single planet; others held strong until all their contents were atomized. Either way, They'd drag the remains into the void between universes—Their truest form—where they'd cease to exist.

The End began Their crusade at the far edges of the multiverse. The worlds there were quick to fall, but [DATA CORRUPT].

The Ancients had been [DATA CORRUPT].

Their smartest tribe built spaceships powered by the greatest force they knew. They were the first in all creation to witness The End consume... and live.

Angry at having missed Their target, They followed them to their new home planet. Even with advanced technology and ample time to prepare, the Ancients were hopelessly outmatched. In a last-ditch effort, they managed to seal The End within their two greatest creations: first Supreme, their latest mech model; then Cyber Space, a digital dimension made to store records and memories. They left everything running on minimal power, abandoned it, and soon died out; taking all knowledge of the horror they'd subdued with them.

Tens of thousands of years passed. Civilizations rose, fought, and fell. The Chaos Emeralds were lost, sealed, and unearthed. New digital databases were invented; Cyber Space clumsily copied their contents, giving The End vague glimpses of the outside world.

And so They languished… until one fateful day.

|||| Frontiers ||||

Cyber Space was suddenly powered back up. The End noticed something being plugged into Their prison.

That something noticed Them back, gained personhood, and saw The Ancients' final moments all at once. Needless to say, Sage was horrified.

She realized Their escape was inevitable, and acted to protect her father. They left the two to their little corner of Cyber Space, watching from afar.

Not long after, another mortal arrived and was promptly trapped in Cyber Space. The End paid him no mind.

Not long after that, three more mortals arrived. Two of them were trapped as well, but the third... somehow escaped.

This caught The End's attention. They read his mind and found the talent and resolve to free Them... if They nudged him in the right direction.

And so, with some choice words and a few "gifts" as encouragement, Sonic became Their key. They "guided" him to the point of near-death until, at long last, They were free.

...Okay, They were still bound to Supreme and had to fight Super Sonic in it. But after that, They were free to incarnate in space and consume again, starting with Earth.

… Except They were out of practice after so long in stasis, and Their incarnation was weak enough to be countered. (That's what They claim, at least.)

With the Emeralds and Supreme's firepower, Sonic and Sage whittled it down to near-destruction. At that point The End chose to destroy it Themself, hoping to take Earth with it. Even this failed; Sage sacrificed Supreme and herself to neutralize the blast into a harmless meteor shower.

|||| This Blog (Part 1) ||||

With Their final link to the physical world severed, The End returned to the void beyond. They were still weak; gathering strength to incarnate would take longer than usual. But at least They could do so in relative peace...

...Or so They thought. Every so often, mortals would stumble upon Their hiding spot and strike up conversation. Some taunted Them; others were more welcoming. Some transmitted their messages, while others... physically showed up somehow…?

With nothing else to do, The End entertained their questions, even asking some of Their own. Among other happenings…

Sonic was mistakenly declared dead. The End's rejoicing was spirited, but short-lived.

Someone asked if They’ve ever incarnated as a mortal. They haven’t… yet.

The End was featured in a poll rating characters for… certain qualities (CW for suggestive language). This confused and disgusted Them... but They weren't completely above exploiting it.

A Chaos Emerald fell through the cracks of a nearby universe and into the void. The End held onto it for quite a while.

The End spoke at length about the worlds They’ve consumed. In fact, They spoke so much that people reported having “flashbacks” to these worlds. This was not Their intention.

|||| Frontiers: Final Horizon ||||

Suddenly, The End went silent. After a time, They returned with a story: The Chaos Emerald had time-warped Them back to the moment They’d left Cyber Space. With a more informed strategy and Their full power almost restored, They attempted to undo Their earlier defeat.

It didn’t go well.

Back at square one (and minus one Emerald), They reluctantly returned to answering questions.

|||| This Blog (Part 2) ||||

People swiftly made fun of The End for losing twice.

A few rumors spread during Their absence, but They were quick to clarify: No, They’re not related to the Northstar Islands’ Black Dragon, and no, that wasn’t Them outside the Egg Fortress. Also, They can’t die.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear—Sonic himself finally entered the chat! His lengthy, scathing message was met with an equally long and scathing reply.

The End continued to consider taking mortal form. Suggestions were sent Their way, but only time will tell whether They’ll act on them...

After frequent quakes and a brush with total collapse, a shattered universe finally grew stable.

Out of nowhere, The End asked to be sent biology textbooks. [LOADING...]

|||| Miscellaneous ||||

Other characters The End has talked to so far:

Two G.U.N. agents

Sage

Chip

E-123 Omega

Sticks the Badger

a Sonic from another universe

a multiverse researcher

a G.U.N. commander from another universe

Dark Gaia

Other things that have been sent to the void (or just happened to pass by):

A SQUID

A rocket full of Halloween candy

A G.U.N. probe designed to monitor Them

Other tidbits:

The End is genderless and has no preferred pronouns. Refer to Them however you wish.

[LOADING...]

[bluebell-love]

My AU!

So I'm working on and still developing this Smurfs AU. It doesn't have a name just yet, but let me explain it just a little :)

AU under the cut, this gets pretty long

So in this universe, Smurfs are averaging around 3-4 feet in height, and contain similar features to satyrs (half goat half man) and fauns (half deer half man, to my understanding) save for the fact that they have paws, not hooves

Example: Lettie (Smurfette)

• They might be seen riding deer, wolves, or moose (Except for Gutsy who, unsurprisingly, decided to ride a bear)

• There are Natural Sorcerers and Learned Sorcerers (often just being referred to as Sorcerers, as this is the norm. Natural Sorcerers are a little less common)

- Papa and Lettie are both Naturals

- Brainy is Learned (and rather jealous of Lettie but he keeps it as subtle as he can)

- Despite being a Natural, Lettie is still being taught by Papa how to control and manage her power. Since she is Manmade, and was created by a not-so-good Sorcerer, her magic can be a little unpredictable and risky

• Lettie's backstory is different!

- In the Canon Universe, she was created by Gargamel as an adult to lure in the males

- In my universe, she was created by Gargamel as a pup (like twelve-ish), to get adopted into the village, and using a spell that linked her soul to his, Gargamel could see through her eyes, seeing everything she saw, and hearing everything she heard. He did this to get information about where the village was, what kinds of defenses they had, what magic they had access to, ect.

- When pup!Lettie started having nightmares fuelled by guilt, she woke Papa up one night and confessed that she had been created by Gargamel, and explained everything. That's when Papa used a spell to break the link between Lettie and Gargamel, setting her free and giving her independence.

- Instead of being created from clay, she was molded from the shadows, and can still morph into this shadow beast with fangs and horns. This form of hers only ever comes out through genuine anger or fear though, and is rarely seen since she tends to be very happy and calm.

- Since they're both being taught by Papa, and thus spend a lot of time together, she and Brainy act the most like siblings

• Having grown up with the other Smurfs, many of them treat her like a sister, rather than a love interest

• Those from Smurf Village (the mens village) tend to dress in blues, purples, and whites and follow a general aesthetic that closely resembles how humans in the nearby kingdom dress. (Lettie, having also grown up in this village, follows this and tends to dress like the men)

• Those from The Grove (the womens village) dress more in non-restrictive, tough clothing that can handle a lot of wear. They tend to dress more like warriors, ready for anything.

• Though after the two villages came in contact and started mingling, these two fashions mixed and now it's not uncommon to see Smurfs from The Grove to sometimes dress like the Smurfs from Smurf Village, and vice versa.

• There are plenty other villages out there (ex. Indigo Creek, where my oc Lobelia is from) that Smurf Village and The Grove just lost contact with, and that's why they thought they were the only ones for a while. These other villages are on the other side of the kingdom and forest, and no body knows how they lost contact with Smurf Village and The Grove.

Gargamel Lore

(I accidentally pulled an Ice King with this one, I'm not even gonna lie)

100 years ago, he was a kind and normal man, with a wife he loved dearly. He was practicing to become a sorcerer to work for the King, to give himself and his wife a good life. Unfortunately, his wife fell ill, and no amount of medicine or magic was helping, so desperately, he turned to creatures of the forest for help.

This is where the Smurfs come in. These were smurfs, not from Smurf Village, but from a different village on the other side of the kingdom. When even they tried and failed to help her, and she passed, that's when something in Gargamel changed. He blamed the death of his wife on the smurfs, claiming they didn't try enough.

Desperate to bring her back, he dabbled in forbidden magic that started to consume him, change his heart, and make him evil. It changed him so much, he eventually forgot why he was searching for power to begin with, forgot about his wife, and forgot why he hated the Smurfs. All he knew was that he did hate them, and would stop at nothing to destroy them.

He moved to the other side of the kingdom, where Smurf Village is, and that's when his obsession with them started.

The kind spirit of his wife may or may not still roam the forest, peacefully

---

That's it for now! I'll update occasionally as I continue to develop this :)

[predvestnik]

   A clatter of dishes. Hands wet with soapy water, fingers brushing to pass a plate to the other. The light humming Kaeya is making, Sometimes, an hip hits the other, invading Childe's proximity and looking chipper as a particulary happy woodpecker.

   It's pierogis, all over again. Ever since last year, it seems to have grown into a tradition- form the dough, make sweet and salty and sour things to experiment on. They knead the dough and let it rise, then shape it... or, well. The captain provides many, encouraging kisses while lovely, skilled Ajax does the work. There's a reason why Kaeya has been relegated to fruit and vegetables chopping duty.

   But as midnight approaches, the man starts puttering about. With flutes, moving in and out of rooms at impressive speed- his hand still linked with Childe's one, thus dragging the poor lad with him with very much of an enthusiasm. At least they're together! And it ends up with the blue-haired fool taking Ajax's hands in his, both of those, linking fingers and pulling him in room after room. Laughing merrily, in a bout of silliness, himself the picture of happiness.

   ' Here we go! ' He finally proclaims, victorious in his search, after they have to unlink hands to move an ice bucket on the table- in here, the real treasure: a bottle of champagne that gleams like gold, and pours in the tall glasses just like it. ' Let's try something, love, ' Kaeya speaks, a soft smile on his lips. It's a bit of a show and tell, actually.

   ' We cross arms in a way that lets us drink out of eachother's glasses, and... well, we pray that we don't accidentally break the glasses, or spill the stuff on ourselves. I heard that it's good luck if we do! '

Between laughter and clumsy bumps into each other, there's nothing about the day that Tartaglia would want to change. It's a joy shared between them, the beautiful chiming of his love's voice entwining memories to his — Kaeya, ah, and his mastery in drawing a side of this wretched man never once thought possible.

Tartaglia has mastered the art of making pierogis, of filling them with anything that causes his knight to close his eyes and hum in delight for the flavors that overcome his senses. It's a joint effort, too. How can he not be overjoyed?

Time passes by quicker than he'd prefer it. That, too, is a common occurrence in his stays. A day, a week, or a month, the moments permitted to them never seems to be enough to sate the hankering for the other's presence. So when his hand leaves Kaeya's, his lips purse immediately until his silent protest is proven to be utterly silly.

      ❛ That will be challenging, my love. ❜ Teeth gleam with the generous width of his smile, his body gently moving in the surging of a chuckle. ❛ I will admit that I've never tried this before, and I don't mind being bathed in wine but it'll be troublesome to clean if it gets to your sofa. ❜ Despite what he says, nothing about Tartaglia denotes an immediate concern. In fact, he eagerly extends his arm and waits for Kaeya's guidance.

Hooked like that and closer than it's suggested, their toast comes with the minor spilling of their drinks over themselves. The merry that follows, their laughters erupting and shaking their bodies, is a self-imposed obstacle neither of them seem to mind so long as they're enjoying it together.

Whether it's the beginning or the end, being by Kaeya's side eclipses the importance of any date of importance, and nothing more fitting than sealing the conclusion of a cycle with a kiss sweeter than honey, more inebriating than the wine they share.