#and still blend well with the uniforms of the horde

[antispopausandstuff]

i understand the audience at large wanting more fantasy-diverse casts in high fantasy shows ( largely looking at SPOP and the anti community here ), but even if the designers really didn't want to do that, their designs still could've been interesting by having an actually diverse cast.

like, look at pokemon. there's thousands amongst thousands of human characters, yet at least 90% of them look distinct and have features, colors, and clothing that make them stand out from their specific group(s). sure, there's patterns, but that's bound to happen with how many they make.

or, for lesser known media, kipo and hilda are shows with good character designs, human and creature alike.

even with low budgets ( which was p obvious in the show, i don't know why people still say it has a 'beautiful art style' when it's very generic ), it's not impossible to have good, simple, effective designs.

and! the concept art for SPOP had better designs! if you look up the concept art for adora's princess prom dress ( i don't have too many issues with it, i'm just someone who likes a little flair ), she has her hair down in most of the sketches and i'm p sure one of them is the dream outfit ( which means that they've had this design for ages and just didn't use it until s5, for some reason ).

and the SPOP bible just has a better look for adora, catra, and glimmer, imo, especially adora. her hair is so cute! and the outfit was the original with minor changes, so people who shame the original for 'sexualizing minors' ( they're adults, idiots, and they were never in compromising situations for no reason ) can shut their trap cuz nate literally did the same thing. by the looks of the designs, if i had to guess, they were older as well, at least 18 and up.

so, i don't believe that a lower budget means that they have to have a generic style or designs, esp since the show does have the occasional nice one ( young teen catra, lonnie, shadow weaver imo, mara, light hope ).

i don't know if i'm recalling this correctly, but i feel like one of the reasons mara is a good design to me is cuz she has a different nose.

[secretwhumplair]

Encounter

869 words | Zombies & vampires

Prompt | @writing-prompt-s

Content | Zombie apocalypse, mention of family death

Notes | It is here! The great vampire bloodbag in a zombie apocalypse cyoa is here!

>>The actual cyoa will go here!<<

There are no real choices yet because. I have not written them lol. But soon. I'll be sure to post updates here! Maybe let me know if you have preferences so I can get an idea where to focus?

Days were grey and uniform, blending together in Dale's mind.

In the mornings, they tried to get some sleep. The zombies became lethargic by daylight, unable to scramble up to Dale's neighbours' treehouse that had become their shelter, now that their neighbours, along with everyone else, were long gone in every way that mattered.

The zombies still assembled around the tree, but they were sluggish enough Dale could usually fight their way through them in the afternoon, going on a raid for whatever food was left in the supermarkets. They had tried to get their hands on some survivalist books in the abandoned bookstores, but they still knew desperately little.

Then, they had to make sure they returned to the safety of their treehouse before nightfall. The zombies would have dispersed, moving in a general Dale direction all day but never catching up to them, but come darkness, the real horror began.

They would have to move soon; they were, it appeared, the only living human left here, and sooner or later they would have attracted every zombie for miles around. Every night, it became harder to fight off the horde trying to get to them with almost-human vigour, and even fewer inhibitions.

They had put off leaving what little comfort their home could offer, but they knew they were running out of time. They had scouted out an unlocked bicycle for the task, but they didn't know where to go, not really.

This morning, exhausted to the bone by the time dawn finally broke, their arms sore from swinging their feeble baseball bat all night to keep them from climbing in, a vicious, throbbing scratch down their leg from where one had almost succeeded, Dale decided the day had finally come.

They needed rest, but they also needed the daylight, so after a breakfast of canned peaches - the last they had left - they packed what little they found useful anymore into their backpack, and grabbed their bat.

For a few minutes, they stared at the house that had once been their home before they climbed down from what had been their shalter for the last few months. They soaked up the look of the familiar streets under the dull grey sky one last time as they walked toward the bicycle.

And then they were on their way.

Making it to the next small town over should be doable in a day. They had overestimated their speed, they were so tired, but they were still making good progress. Once they had reached the outskirts of the city, it became eerily peaceful. All the zombies had been attracted to - if not created in - the city, and now all they heard was the birds and bugs going about their business as if humanity never mattered at all.

They reached the town they had aimed for with barely an hour of daylight left. They had hoped for more time to find shelter, but they would have to make do. They'd have to.

They were so tired the temptation was great to just drop in the nearest sort-of enclosed space and go to sleep, but they couldn't do that. They had made it so far. They were the last person to remember all their friends and family.

They'd have to find a good spot, and survive the night, and then they could rest.

They tried not to let their exhaustion cloud their judgment, but they couldn't be sure when they stumbled up the staircase of an apartment building whose front door hadn't been properly closed, their injured leg aching. Several of the apartment doors had been broken open as well, and Dale forced themself to check each apartment out.

In the end, they simply settled for the one highest up. They could see if there was anything in favour of the other when they had gotten some sleep.

The bathroom door was still intact, and it locked just fine.

This would do.

Dale dropped their backpack on the floor, put on their headlamp, and took up their baseball bat. They hoped it wouldn't be bad. Maybe, over the course of the past few weeks, all the zombies had wandered from here to where they'd come from.

Maybe they weren't the only survivor in this town.

The night started out so quiet keeping the light on felt like a waste of battery, but they couldn't be caught off guard.

And sure enough, after some time, they heard tell-tale steps outside, coming up the staircase.

To their surprise, those sounds were followed by something of a scuffle, and then a minute of quiet.

Then, something slammed into the bathroom door.

The door cracked open far too easily. This wasn't a zombie, not even many zombies.

The creature that entered did so with a grace that had nothing to do with the scrambling fervour Dale was used to. Its eyes flashed in Dale's direction.

Dale stumbled away from the door until their back hit the wall, gripping their baseball bat with white knuckles. Fangs glinted in the weak light of their headlamp.

A vampire.

And they had been fool enough to believe things couldn't get worse.

[entrapdaknation]

Incognito Hordak?

Most fan headcanons regarding Hordak involve him living openly as Hordak on Etheria, as well as being recognized by Etherians, after the fall of Horde Prime. However, his appearance at the end of “Heart, Part 2″ was identical to that of other Galactic Horde clones, at least while wearing a uniform. (Whether his skin still has vitiligo, and whether his cloning flaw will ever reassert itself, is never revealed.) What if the Etherians, except for Entrapta and Adora, could not distinguish Hordak from the other clones?

What if Hordak blended in with his clone brethren after Prime’s death? What if he chose to live incognito for his own safety, given that so many Etherians want him imprisoned or dead? What if Entrapta persuaded him to do so, rightfully afraid that the other princesses might imprison him if they identified him?

Imagine Hordak, white-haired and green-eyed, passing himself off as one of the thousands of clones now on Etheria. He lives with Entrapta, Imp, and several other clones at Crypto Castle, all of whom know his true identity, but who hide this secret from outsiders. He says little around visitors and townsfolk, fearful that someone will recognize his unique speech patterns if he says too much.

When he overhears a vegetable seller at an outdoor market tell a customer rumors of Lord Hordak’s death, does he secretly feel relief? They’ll stop looking for me if they think I’m dead, he thinks to himself.

When Queen Glimmer and her entourage visit Crypto Castle on official business, they remark that bounty hunters are still scouring the land for the Scourge of Etheria. Does he secretly feel a knot in his stomach?

Whenever an Etherian gives him a dirty look, does he ask himself if it was because he’s a clone, or because they recognized him?

When an Etherian tells him, “You clones are all so nice. Not like that monster Hordak!”, does he secretly feel amusement? Regret? Discomfort?

Does he control his every movement and facial expression when he and Entrapta go out in public? Is he fearful that he will accidentally betray his affection for her, and thus his identity? Does he always accompany Entrapta with at least one other clone in tow, to deflect suspicion?

What would it be like to live incognito among those who remember his sins?

[mxvladdy]

True Form- Mammon

The boys are cute in their devil forms I’ll give them that. But I want something more monstrous lol. Here are some headcannons of mine of what the boyos look like outside of their glamours. 

I’m not doing the gang in any particular order, all will be accounted for in due time. Just my favorites come first :p

No, I regret nothing and yes I would still 10000% smooch the monster.

Next up: Asmodeus 

Mammon

- Interestingly enough, his human glamour shows none of the wounds he bears from the celestial war. But his true form? It is a testament to his strength and a stark reminder that he is the second strongest of the cardinal sins. 

- Mammon takes the shape of a great winged beast. The original number of his wings have been lost to time but old records speak of ever shifting numbers. Should he lose one two would grow in it’s place type deal. All that remains of their splendor are three mismatched ones on his back. Since they are not even he is incapable of flying, but he can still glide for quite some distance and with tremendous speed. 

- He resembles a mixture of a crow and Strix. He has four large taloned feet that can carve through rock and slice though even demon flesh with ease. His multitude of eyes are bright and simply mesmerizing. Like the twinkling of stars in the night sky. His eyes are the only physical trait left of him from his time as an angel. 

- Old scars pepper his hide under his oily sheen feathers. When he shifts they flash the briefest hints of silver and faded pink. But, the most noticeable wound on him is his beak. The upper mandible is broken, the front half blasted away leaving behind a jagged mess of bone. The magic used against him makes it impossible for him to regrow it. He remembers clearly the blow that marred him. It is one of his recurring nightmares. 

- He keeps a den, hidden from the other brothers deep in the Devildom forests where he hoards all his most precious items from over the millennia. Whenever things get too much at home he will come here to lay amongst his treasures and reminisce of simpler times. 

Mini fic 

Mammon could feel the need brewing deep within him. The gnawing emptiness slowly eroding at his psyche till it was all-encompassing. His brothers possessions calling to him like a sirens song day in and day out. Goldie simply wasn’t going to be enough this time. He needed his cave, his little sanctuary, carved out in secret so many years ago.  

He sighs lovingly. Just imagining the feel of currencies from empires long since fallen and priceless treasures offered to him in sacrifice under his talons feet was euphoric. His second skin ripples under his glamour in anticipation. Humming under his breath, Mammon takes the steps to the main door two at a time. In his excitement, he almost collides with the latest item of his attention. 

“Oi!” He barks, skidding to a halt in front of you. He makes a grab for your shoulders stopping you before you toppled down the flight of stairs.  He can’t help the smile forming on his lips to match yours. His human looks up from the files overflowing in their arms. The emptiness inside rattles its cage. Add them to the horde. His molars crack under the strain of his clenched jaw.

“Oh! Sorry, Mammon! It’s kinda hard to see around all this.” You smile sheepishly, scooting off to the side for him to pass. “Are you well?” You notice his stiff posture, hands clenching, and unclenching over your school uniform. He hadn’t let you go yet. 

Unsurprising really, he was one of the clingier brothers. Not that you minded. It was nice sometimes to feel so wanted. Though it was different this time. You could feel the ebb and flow of his magic rippling in the close space. Usually, he had the best control suppressing it in your company. It would have been terrifying if it had been another one of the brothers. Last time one of them ‘lost their cool’ had ended badly for you. “Mammon?”

“What?” He twitches, head jerking to an odd angle. His eyes turn sharp as he looks at you appraisingly. Hungrily. “Oh right, sorry.” The demon releases you. “I’m fine, just need to stretch my legs is all.” He pushes past, for once trying not to give into temptation. 

“Can I join? I need a break from all this paperwork. I know I said I’d help Lucifer, but damn.” You laugh placing the stack down on an end table. He chokes on the idea. Yesss~ his inner beast coos in delight. You were making this too easy. He could keep you all to himself, tucked away where no one else could have you. Lucifer would never know.

“I-I don’t want the company.” He grits out, rolling his shoulders in agitation. At himself or you, only the devil would know. “Ain’t a place for little humans.” His response is short and sharp. He could feel his talons growing under his nail beds. Mammon hisses in irritation, he didn’t want to scare you away. Not after everything else you’ve been through. 

“Oh…” It hurts him to hear you so dejected like this. Perhaps- you had handled a lot so far. One more thing won’t kill you. 

“Look-promise not to tell and you can join.” Mammon turns scratching at his neck. "I don't need my brothers knowing where I go. Our little secret?" 

“Our little secret.” You take his hand with a coy grin. 

It wasn’t a long walk. It was pleasant your warm hand wrapped in his. The connection quelled some of the avarice brewing inside. He approaches the edge of the cliff with satisfaction. The precipice looks down into the wilds of the Devildom. It was a beautiful sight really. The heavy gloam of eternal twilight cast a purple haze over the treetops. In the distance, the downtown district twinkle. Mammon exhales happily into the breeze. The wind was picking up. Good. 

Mammon turns to you taking in your apprehension. You lean over the side, looking down into the abyss. "This isn't much of a walk." You chuckle nervously eyeing the deadly drop. A strong gush upsets your balance. Squeaking, you grip onto his sleeve. Your little human nails dig into the leather of his jacket. Cute. 

"Not done yet." He sheds his glasses and coat folding them neatly by the ledge. "It ain't much farther, but it is a ride." He could shred the pants and shirt. Luci owed him a new wardrobe as is. Stretching his arms over his head he grunts. His remaining wings practically vibrate in anticipation. "Promise not to scream?"

"Scream?" Your question is lost in the ruffle of feathers and creak of bone. You gasp back away from the massive beast in front of you. Mammon stood beside you, his body almost blending in with the darkness around you. Dozens of eyes blink owlishly at you, they glimmer like diamonds. They are bright and breathtaking, the depth in them almost sucking you in. He clicks the remnants of his razor-sharp beak expectantly. "Mammon?" You approach, palms outstretched. 

He cocks his head to almost disappearing into the night as he closes all his eyes at your touch. He adjusts himself as you pet down his large head. Overly carful of where your hand was to make sure you are not in danger of cutting yourself with his damaged beak. "How many more layers to you brothers are there?" He laughs in relief, cawing loudly as you bury your hands in his feathers. "Ok. So what's the plan?"

Mammon crouches low bumping his shoulder to you. You take the hint and clamber onto his broad back. Shifting awkwardly he squawks as you pull some feathers. “Sorry! Sorry!” He turns and pecks at your hand gently. Pulling at your sleeves, he makes sure you have a good grip at the base of his neck. Feeling you settle he leaps. 

Bounding for the ledge, his strong wings flex and catch the wind. He glides on the gust with practiced ease. Years of plummeting and failure made this success all the sweeter with you there as he carries them higher. He could feel your laughter through his body. Your shouts of elation get swallowed by the howling around them. Oh, how he revels in it. He wants more of this.

The flight was quick. Before long he descends, unfurling his legs as he lands. Long talons cut into stone as he grasps the side of the cliff. Effortlessly he slinks up the side. The hard coils of muscle on his back and legs bunch and pull under you body. The sinuous roll of it causes you to grip him tighter lest you fall off. He purrs at the feel of you clinging to him. Perhaps he should keep you here, all to himself. Mammon reaches his destination and allows you to slide off of him to look about. 

The mouth of the cave was cast in heavy shadows from surrounding trees. The moon covered by clouds flashing briefs glimpses of deeper in. You follow as the Great Mammon lumbers past you to delve deeper.  Jogging after him, you place a hand on his flank trusting him to guild you. What did he have here? This looks nothing like a place Mammon would go to. He chirps and caws trying to talk though it was impossible to understand as he lead you down deeper. His tail swooshing excitedly behind him. It was sweet, his palpable joy rubbing off on you.

As you reach the inner depth of the cave you left go of him to shield your eyes. The sudden light accosting you. The inner cave was huge, eternal sconces lighting as he entered to reflect off of a dazzling array of items. Mammon crows smugly leaving you to gape at the entrance. 

The demon crawls into a nest made of gold and bolts of expensive fabrics.  Yawning widely, he wiggles himself deeper into the coins. Large crystalline eyes drooping pleasantly at the warmth of his cave. While he dozes you walk around the large treasure trove. You run your hands over no doubt priceless jewels and sets of armor. Clothes and jewelry litter the floor as maps and pieces of art cover most of the walls and ceiling. Their golden frames glowing from the light of the sconces making the space glow richly. He even had some tomes stacked neatly in the corner, each cover embossed with gold and silver. You pick one up intrigued by the design of the cover.

"You sure you were a dragon in a former life? " You ask flipping though a few pages before putting it back. Mammon snorts rolling his eyes. You grin eyeing his bed of treasures. "Can I join you?" It looked rather comfy and he obviously wasn't going to be moving anytime soon. Knowing Mammon there was no way you could leave this place without his help. So might as well get comfortable.

Mammon is silent for a moment before clicking his beak, wings opening to invite you in. You scramble up close grabbing a few stray pillows as you go. Making a mini nest of your own beside him you tuck yourself in. 

If a bird could smile he would be beaming at the feel of your body resting against his feathered side. Draping a wing over you he settles in for a nap.

Yes, you would be the perfect final piece to his collection.

[pixielix]

୭̥⋆*｡ busker!au jisung

pairing: lovestruck!jisung + gn!reader genre: fluff word count: 0.9k warnings: brief mentions of a panic attack, reader having a bad day listen to: ‘수고했어 오늘도 (you did well today)’ by okdal

jisung starts busking on the busy street corner between the florist and the coffee shop for a couple days a week

he’s gone through the whole internet musician thing

uploading originals and covers on youtube that were actually pretty successful

and it was fun for a while, but he figures it’s not for him

he realises getting all those likes and subscribers can’t measure up to seeing real smiles

real people stopping in their tracks on their daily commute just to take in the music

seeing their faces light up just the tiniest bit before they blend back into the rush hour horde

just adding a little bit of sweetness to the weekday monotony

even though it makes him so happy, he still gets flustered every time there’s a round of applause from the crowds that gather

but seeing a few of the same faces cheering him on is always comforting

there’s mr jeong, the owner of the florist always dressed in clothes painted with bright polka-dotted colours

the elderly couple that walks hand-in-hand to the movie theatre early every morning

and the young pharmacy assistant that’s…… painfully beautiful

you work behind the counter at the pharmacy a few shops away from where jisung busks

it becomes a habit to take off your headphones as you round the corner between the florist and the coffee shop

you’re unconsciously walking slower as you pass the lone guitarist, even making the effort to stop and listen if you’ve got time before your shift

and swaying your head along to the acoustic melodies that flow naturally like warm milk and honey over jisung’s smooth vocals

even though you’ve never really spoken, for some reason he feels like a friend

your interactions have been nothing but casual and sort of harmonious

like mouthing soft ‘good morning’s to each other through tired smiles

and mutually acknowledging when the weather sucks through overdramatic body language

on one really cold morning you find jisung with his face wrapped snuggly in a thick woolen scarf, his cheeks and the tip of his nose turning a subtle shade of pink

so you grab a pack of hand warmers from the pharmacy and leave it in his guitar case with a little post-it note attached

thank you for warming up the cold mornings with your beautiful music 

- from a fan (.❛ ᴗ ❛.)

jisung can’t do anything but try his best not to stumble over his lyrics and sink even deeper into the scarf to hide the fact that he’s grinning like crazy

he spends the rest of the day hyping himself up to make a proper introduction the next time he sees you

he has the whole scene set out in his head 

when you turn the corner around 8:30am (as usual) he’ll play one of the originals he’s been working on, something dreamy... maybe something with subtle romantic undertones

and as the song draws to a close he’ll dedicate it to a kind stranger that he’d like to get to know a little better

if it all goes well he’ll invite you out for a coffee sometime

maybe he can finally buy that bouquet of white peonies from mr jeong’s shop that makes him think of the flowy white shirt you wear as a uniform

but don’t get ahead of yourself, jisung, he reproves himself, you’ve got no idea how they feel

and the next day that reality starts to sink in

you turn the corner at 8:30am, as expected

but your headphones are still on and your gaze is set firmly on the concrete, dragging yourself along with heavy, cumbersome steps

your eyes look puffy from crying and a lack of sleep

it’s not the first time he’s seen you like this, but it’s been happening more often recently

without stopping, you briefly lift your face to meet his eyes and muster up a weak smile

he cocks his head to one side as if to silently ask, are you okay?

you just shrug in response, not really

his singing falters a little as he watches you disappear into the crowd of commuters, feeling his heart grow uneasy in contrast to the light tune he’s strumming

why did he feel so worried about you? someone who he’s never even had a real conversation with, whose name he doesn’t even know?

jisung bites his lip in frustration

he had to get all these drafted words and bottled-up thoughts across to you somehow

but luckily............. jisung is a musician

you did well today...

a familiar voice chimes through the silence of the empty pharmacy storeroom, prompting you to lift your face from your hands where you had been curled up on the floor trying to calm yourself down

you wipe away a few stray tears and walk back out into the store

though no one cares that you’re sad...

a few customers join you in looking around curiously for the source of the music

“oh look, what a talented young man” one woman exclaims to her daughter, pointing outside towards the street

i’m still cheering for you...

you look out through the sliding glass doors and find jisung with his guitar set up across the road, rather than in his usual spot

he’s peering past the small crowd of people that’s gathered in front of him, trying to find you

and when he does he just smiles

the kind of smile that feels like a hug you didn’t know you needed, safe and cozy

while singing words you didn't know you needed to hear

...you did well today

m.list

[prince-toffee]

Fallin’ For A Fallin’ Angel II

His eyes slowly opened, struggling to keep apart as they adjusted to the bright light. A pained grunt escaped his throat as the clone began to regain his consciousness. HTK 218-666 did not know where he was. His mind was sluggish, trying to process whatever had transpired. The first thing he truly noticed was his comfort - not often did he awaken to softness, never infact. 218′s pod was hard, metallic, cold and jagged. With malfunctioning cables - they didn’t serve much real purpose now as the ex-general had used up all his Life Force rations. The cables that binded to his neck, back and arms were more of an ornament than a necessity - to make the the crashed wreck feel more... homely. It was a familiar feeling - not a pleasant one, but a one he knew.

But then it hit him, he wasn’t in his pod, was he. He opened his eyes to see something above him. Some sort of rectangular canopy of fabric, held up by four pillars which descended all around him. And a light pinkish red veil surrounded all the sides between the pillars. A force field perhaps. Was this a prison?! Was he captured?! The defective clone shot up, looking around his new unfamiliar surroundings. There was a sheet of thin fabric covering him, it was smooth and cool to the touch. 218 flanged the cover off. Only then realised that most of his uniform was gone.

Which wasn’t a novelty to him, back on The Velvet Glove uniforms weren’t gifted until after the cloning process and then taken away again when put into storage. Being bare wasn’t new. What 218 was worried about was perhaps they had searched him, maybe taken samples - his wounds seemed healed.

Who? Who was it? Who captured him? The memories slowly returned back to him, bit by bit as he strained his mind. There were attackers, creatures of the desert. He remembered he was near victorious, but his will power was not enough, he was knocked out. He was weak. Brother was right. ‘Near’ wasn’t enough. He failed, again. 218′s fist tightened and he grew infuriated at his own shortcomings, he had to make this right. He looked over himself, his wounds were tended to, strange. He had to make sure if all the injuries were sealed up right. But first, the forcefield.

He looked at the pink veil, it was see-through, probably taunting him with freedom on the other side, no doubt. He had to be careful, it could incinerate him on contact for all he knew. One of the plush stuffed bags that was placed under his head was thrown at the forcefield, but it did not react - it simply flew through it. Curious. Did someone accidently deactivated it? Was the plushie bag some sort of unlocking key? That could be his chance. He gently and slowly pocked it with his finger and pulled it back as quick as possible. His brain module took a moment to read what the nerve receptors had came back with - nothing. No pain. No resistance. No forcefield.

Now braver with the confidence of a survivor, he pocked his whole hand through, and even waved it around. Success! Next he poked his head through looking from side to side. No guards. A pitiful prison. He noticed the tattered remains of his uniform, no good, it was already worn out - past its time. 218 already had the lower half of the uniform already on him, he didn’t know why it was left on. He placed a foot on the floor then the next. His muscles screamed at him, but he managed to stand. It seemed his defection was getting worse. It seemed like his feet were the next to fail.

He did not like his defective form on display, so he reached for the covering that was laid onto of him and draped it around himself.

He pushed on, literally, and doors to the room weren’t even locked. Perhaps this was no prison. As the clone opened the doors he was hit by waves of incredibly bright light and loud noise. 218 was in some corridor or porch, because he looked apon a busy hustle and bustle of a town square at work. Few steps forward and he was holding onto an ornate wooden railing, he looked down at the society at work. The town was constructed at the foot of the mount on which the castle stood in which 218 was in. Marketeers selling, customers buying, children running through the streets. 218 did not know how long he had been unconscious, but it looked like a busy morning with the rising... moon... and suddenly he remembered why he hated this planet.

218 also noticed a strange statue at the centre of the town. Chiselled out of stone, a tribute, he was familiar with such things - countless worlds under the control of the Horde had erected tributes in the image of their holy lord and master. But what creature held dominion over this world?

The being was in the position of natural wings a part of her physique, it reminded him of the Horde insignia - the wings of the vampire. This was terrible. These people were living under a false idol, praising a pretender. This was unacceptable. He had to save these people - bring them into the light. Perhaps... this was it! The redemption he was waiting for! He could save them, direct them to their true saviour. He could save them!

He began to walk off, he was still in his capturer’s base of operations. He had to get out. The thought of rallying the people below briefly crossed his mind, but he shook it off - he clearly needed to get back to the crash site, return to the repairs. Fixing the warship and leaving that miserable backwater planet was imperative! But all the bots were destroyed, defences weakened, and his assailants knew where he would be - there was no more hiding. He wouldn’t be safe back there. So where now? He couldn’t exactly blend in with the local populace.

Just then his thought process was cut off as another person walking in the opposite direction bumped into him. 218 didn’t have much weight to him so he got pushed out of the way quite easily. The individual in question who was storming off was not of the same race as the invaders at the wreck. Their skin darker, shorter, no scarlet exo-skeleton over their body. The creature had short violet hair and what looked like oil and grease on her clothing. “Hey buddy, watch it!”

“...Watch what?” 218 asked to himself quietly under his breath. The passer by clearly didn’t hear him, nor did they care to. 218 reached large stairs, leading down to the town square. It looked like the guards occupying the top of the stairs were both distracted by some raving salesman. This was his chance. However, he was startled by a voice behind him.

“Ah, so I see you have woken up.”

The clone spun around to see a tall figure cloaked in shadow. The intimidating character set 218 slightly on edge. The figure wore a black cape and black uniform, body biologically the same as all the other native beings around this complex.

218 could have sworn that the mystery man’s eyes lit up with a spark of red. It was probably nothing - a trick of the light. The Horde trooper remained silent, so the figure decided to take the lead on the interaction. He stepped forward, into the light. 218 unbenounced to himself clutched closer the blanket sheet.

“Heh, welcome back to the land of the living, my friend. You slept like a log.” 218 simply listened and stayed quiet, partially because he didn’t know what to say, this wasn’t the way he thought the situation would play out. He did not know he was going to be greeted, not after what happened in the wreck.

He saw the creature look him up and down examining his form, as his chest lay bare. But there wasn’t much to look at, due to the defection he couldn’t keep on weight - all fats and necessary nutrients degraded quicker than normal, as did his body cells. He was a walking corpse. A shameful form in the eyes of his Brother. The individual stopped mere few small centimetres away from 218, their chests almost touching. The caped being was a head taller than him. “I’m glad to see you fit enough to attempt an escape.”

218 swallowed down on his heart attempting to jump out of his throat. His voice was not as deep as 218′s but held just as much authority. “Ah, I see had the splendid pleasure of meeting Princess Minerva, her winning charm never seems to fade with time, hmm.”

Her?... The clone guessed the creature he was referring to was the being that had stormed off, pushing 218′s shoulder. Her?... He did not know what that was.

The towering scorpion looked back at 218 looking as if he was expecting something. 218 didn’t get it. “Not one for jokes are we? Well, not every one is a zinger. I’ll work on it. Don’t let that discourage you. Come on. I can’t exactly let you go right now, but I’d rather we speak as civilised people rather than have those prickly gents over there force you to follow me.” The scorpion pointed with his claw at the two spear wielding guards whom had positioned themselves behind the clone. Ready to strike. That made 218 comply with the peaceful option, of course.

218 followed close behind as the individual led him through the corridors and hallways and down a stair well. The soldier memorised the whole journey backwards just in case he had to run out and escape. “Oh, Ra-dammit, haven’t even introduced myself. I just presumed you knew who I am, but well, you don’t look like you’re from around... anywhere. Do you know who I am?” He asked softly, and curiously. 218 just stared back without words.

“Yeah, course you don’t. Nobody does, nobody cares. I’m the King of this kingdom and what do I have to show for it? What do I truly have, huh?” He looked back at 218 with annoyance in his expression, the clone simply starred back. “Well, my name is Niro, King Niro if you want to be formal, I guess. But like I said, nobody cares.” Niro? Noted - 218 thought to himself. And a ‘king’ was ruler of some sorts, 218 was pretty sure, his troops had encountered all sorts of societies and civilizations on their voyages across galaxies. This was a figure of power standing infront of 218. He didn’t know how Niro compared to other worlds’ authorities - opposition to his Brother never lasted long. You never really got to know them before heads started rolling. 218 was not apart of guest accommodations, he was a general - a soldier. On the frontlines until the end. He didn’t ‘get to know’ people, he ended them.

“And what’s your name?”

“HTK 218-666. Top-General of the 218th Legion. Brother amongst the ranks of the Galactic Horde.”

“...Cool... So you’re not from around here, figured.” They approached a dark rusted door with two guards at it’s sides. They both bow at the sight of their king, and each pulled down a lever on the wall behind them. The ‘klank’ was heavy and loud. 218 then beard many gears and cogs turn and the rusted door began to raise upward. This so called Niro strolled inside, he of course followed. He briefly turned back to see the four guards remained outside as the door shut back down.

The clone quickly turned back, narrowing his eyes at the table that stood infront of them. The room’s walls and floor were all metallic, dark, from what 218 could tell, they were scorch marks. All around the room. “What is this?” Niro slowly made his way around and sat opposite the clone on the far side of the table. He gesture to 218 to do the same.

“So you do talk. Great. We’ll be doing a lot of talking. Please, my friend, sit.” He extended his claw towards the empty seat. But there were no guards in this room, he had no power over 218, 218 was weak, he admitted that to himself, but one on one, surely he could take him. But then what? Four armed guards still waiting outside, possibly hundreds more patrolling the complex. He was trapped.

“And please don’t try to escape, I know you’re thinking about it. You see this glass sheet behind me?” Niro knocked on the glass as he leaned back on his chair. “It’s one way glass, my ever so trusty Force-Captain is on he other side. One word and she pulls a switch and electrocutes this entire room. And don’t worry about me, I won’t feel a thi-”

“Because your hide is electrically resistant.” 218 recalled to himself the confrontation at the power core back at the ship - the scorpion soldiers were unaffected by a direct current of electricity from a dislodged cable. He needed to think of alternate offensive techniques.

“You’ve got quite the keen eye. So you know what’s at steak - you, getting fried.”

Fried?

“I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“You threaten me first, and then you want me to comply? Negative. I will tell you nothing. An assault on the form of Prime is a crime throughout the known universe. Unhand me and bring me back to my Brother and you will be forgiven.”

“Forgiven? Who- wait, universe? You mean that which is beyond the barrier?”

This conversation was puzzling 218 more and more he did not understand what this creature was talking about. Did- did he really not know what the ‘universe’ was? From the looks of this planet it was incredibly primitive, but THIS primitive? It could be that these naïve natives haven’t yet discovered interstellar travel. This idea led to more bad news, if so, then this world could not yet offer resources needed to fix the warship.

“You’re an alien, from outside. Please, tell us more.” The king leaned over more, clearly eager to listen, encouraging 218 with his captivation with the topic.

218 realised this was unsafe, he had already told those people too much, much more than they ever anticipated to hear. He couldn’t let the secrets of the Horde be taken from him by a backwater people. He could not fail his Brother again. “I will say no more.”

Niro looked displeased. “Opal.”

In that moment the room went red, the sound of... some thing veering up, a machine of sorts maybe. But 218 did not have time to think too much about it, because the shock came soon after. The air did not change, there was no heat, it was cold rather. The pain was quick to spread, started at the bottom of his feet and shot up to his brain. It felt like having nails hammered through his organs. He was weak. He only lasted a few seconds in silence, after three he let out a scream. The pain disappeared as soon as the first tear formed at the edge of his eye. The room lost its red glow and reverted its colour palette back to the dead still greys and silvers.

“Sit.”

He complied.

“I must admit that was a bit too much than I would’ve approved, Opal.”

“You cannot break me, for I am already broken. I will not fail my Brother again. I will have nothing out of me.”

In that moment of defiance 218 and Niro looked into each other’s eyes. The scorpion king saw the devotion and pride in the clone’s eyes, the willingness of self-sacrifice. Niro knew the man opposite him was going to die for whatever cause he believed in. That spark of determination. The same look he saw in the mirror every morning in his own eyes. Both of the men spotted the room once again turning into a dark shade of red. Niro watched the enigmatic man shut his eyes and took in a shaky breath. Niro knew very little about the man infront of him, but he knew in that moment he accepted his fate. A conviction and dedication few have.

“STOP!”

The Hillian king exclaimed at the sheet of glass behind him at his Force-Captain. The colour faded away, yet it didn’t completely disappear. The voice of the Force-Captain came through the window. “Sir, he took out an entire detachment, this is an interrogation room - he’s being interrogated.”

“Force-Captain, are you disobeying a direct order from your king?”

The Force-Captain did not respond, but the shade of red did veer and disappeared. The captain remained silent in that Niro hoped was shame. The king turned back to the frightened prisoner. 218 chose to reopen his eyes, he looked at Niro in confusion - weighing out his options. Was trust earned in this moment or was it a ruse?

“Why not just kill me?” 218 asked.

“Like I said: we’re here just to ask you some questions. I would only kill you if you were a threat to Scorpion Hill, you’re not.”

218 knew he shouldn’t have, but he kind of took offensive from that, he was dangerous.

“But trust me, she wanted to. You killed her husband, on that scouting party. Through those eight hours of unconsciousness I had to make sure she wouldn’t kill you. Best sleep you’ve had in a while I’m willing to bet, by the looks of that train wreck to live in. Do, you... live in there?”

“A ship wreck, and yes I have taken residence in it for shelter a- have you said eight cycles?!”

“Hours, but- sure.”

“This is unexpectable! I have already wasted six more cycles than usual! So much possible productivity gone! I must return to the repairs immediately!” 218 rocketed up onto his feet ready to walk out.”

“How- what? Hold on, what repairs?”

“I will tell you no more.”

“If you won’t tell us, we can’t help you, friend. Its simple as that. You appeared from nowhere - your a mystery. And so you are seen as a threat. People hate what they don’t understand. Help me understand.”

“Niro, was it?”

“Yes.”

“All you need to understand is - if you return me to my spacecraft, if you aid me, you will be rewarded and welcomed by my Brother. He can show you all the light. He can offer you a perfect world.”

“Who is your brother?”

“Horde Prime.

The Emperor of the Known Universe. The most powerful being in existence, his empire is endless - far superior to whatever your world holds. But give into him and he will take you in and make sure faction a jewel in his empire.”

“I’ll have to decline on that offer. I find that the more power people have, the more they see themselves as saviours. You’re not going anywhere.”

“But the Horde can gift you, reward you, the empire has collected and melded technologies from across numerous galaxies - he can give you interstellar travel, advanced communications, synthetic nutrition, biological enhancements, limitless knowledge of the cosmos, language, salvation, weapons-”

“Weapons?... What kind of weapons?”

Of course, should’ve known. 218 knew this might be his only way out of this predicament, he needed to tell this Niro what he wanted to hear, “The Horde has taken dominance over countless systems, many by force. To do this the engineers and scientists of the Horde had to develop instruments of destruction which could topple armies. I can give them to you. I was a general - I hold the accumulated knowledge of dozens of battalions I have commanded. Horde Prime needs me, I am crucial to the cause. Help me and the knowledge to conquer worlds, can be yours.”

218 saw Niro deliberating, thinking over everything said. He had a lot to consider, but 218 needed the answer now, he needed to rush him, make him slip up - act rash. 218 needed to return to his Brother’s side, his Brother needed him! He was one of his top generals. And bringing a world with him for the Horde to assimilate, an offering to show he wasn’t a waste, a failure. Brother would see that 218 was worth something - a useful tool, a loyal soldier. THIS was his redemption.

“This ‘Horde Prime�� is he really that influential? Would he have the might to liberate Scorpion Hill from the mercy of other kingdoms?”

“There has never been a mightier lord in the universe’s history.”

“And if I decline?” Niro decided to test the waters.

“Then my Brother’s wrath will rain down on you, and a different party would be blessed with the fruits of my Brother’s labour.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. Other kingdoms of Etheria are not so welcoming to outsiders from beyond their walls, not to mention from beyond this dimension. Scorpion Hill is your best bet. The others will simply label you - mad.”

“Than you accept?” 218 raised the brow at the talking king.

“I suppose I do.”

Niro agreed to aid the alien man, if he was a man, he was no fool of course, he knew that spark of devotion in those eyes meant he was telling the truth, but that spark had the possibilities to burn forests. Niro needed to watch his own back. But he also needed to see more - how good were these weapons - was this prisoner worth keeping around. Niro extended his claw to 218 in acceptance, however 218 did not quite understand the motion, he stared at it discombobulated.

“Am- am I supposed to do... something with that?”

“Oh boy.”

---

After a far too long explanation of what a hand shake was, the two did. 218 was lead off by the guards back to what was then labelled his quarters and Niro returned to Opal’s side behind the one way glass in the observation room. He could tell she was displeased, no, more like infuriated. Understandable.

“Your highness, may I speak freely?”

Here it comes. “[sigh] Opal if you want to berate me then just get on with it.”

“Are you insane!??!”

“Aren’t we all?” Niro replied calmly juxtapose to the loud bark of his Force-Captain.

“He killed a full detachment of our troops! I cannot even explain how untrustworthy he is! You don’t even know his name!-”

“Yeah, I do. It’s 321-123 or something to that effect.”

“You’re joking around? Why are you joking around?” Opal placed her hands on her hips eyeing the king waiting a twist.

“Cause the talk’s not over yet. First of all, you saw his physique, that man’s made out of match sticks, with all the guards clogging the corridors there’s no chance he’s escaping. Especially now that he doesn’t have the home advantage. He’s trapped and he knows it.”

“What if he wants to be there? The whole alien story, it’s- it’s out there. He could be a spy for BrightMoon, or the Salineas, the princess of Dryl wasn’t happy with the deal. Dozens of other smaller kingdoms too.”

“Second of all, Scorpion Hill is home to a multitude of races, from all around Etheria, I’ve seen them all. I know my people. I don’t know him. And those eyes? Eyes of a believer. He’s not lying, and if he is, you get to say ‘I told you so’. And we know how much you love that.”

“We’re taking a huge risk with this. The Council of High Priests will be hounding at the door the moment they find out. I’ve managed to hold back the paperwork’s circulation, but they will find out. And that man you just let out, interrogated in secret - is a walking omen of bad mojo to them. We could be- no, we are in serious trouble!”

“Third of all, he can be the answer. If what he says is true, and I believe that he is. Then this man, if he is a man, can be the way by which I can free Scorpion Hill from the parasites that drained it of its life. With those weapons hierarchy won’t mean much, and what do those crooked old fools have? A wooden stick, some holy water?”

“You- are you serious!? You’re planning an overthrow. Don’t get me wrong Niro, I hate the council, just as much as you and I’d stand by your side until the moons crash down, but it’s a spider web, the council is tied to dozen other kingdoms and unknown benefactors - you pull that string and heaven’s gonna fall on your head.”

“And last of all, we match out - war - kingdom after kingdom, until we’re truly free.”

Opal looked at Niro, his eyes narrow and his claw bending steel in its grips, the desk gave in under his claws strength. Niro grew more and more irritated with each day in his position of powerlessness. He knew she was worried, maybe even scared, but she knew why he was willing to risk it all. Niro would fight armies single-handedly, if he had to, his blood boiled for a fight - for his people. This individual, whoever he was, was in deed an omen of the council’s worst fear, but if Niro played it right it could be an omen of a brighter future.

Opal placed a hand on the king’s shoulder, she felt the need to persuade her old friend out of whatever crazy act he was about to write, she began, “Niro-” and ended, as a guard entered the room with an announcement and a pant in his voice from the urgent sprint.

“My lord, Force-Captain.” They bowed, “The scout survivor from the last mission has woken up.”

“Like I said the talk’s not over yet. Led to the infirmary soldier.” The three marched off with haste. It did not take long for them to reach the infirmary, all the medical staff bowed as their king entered. He ignored the gesture as he often did, he said countless times to treat him like anyone else, or at least no bowing. Niro hated the feeling of superiority, of being worshipped to. In his eyes he was just someone who wanted to make a difference. He got to the resting bed of the survivor, bruises all over his body, many blood stained changed bandages. The Hillian soldier attempted to salute to the royal, but pulled their arm back the moment they felt something crack.

“Easy soldier, rest. Can you talk?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fantastic.” Niro pulled up a chair next to the injured scout and sat down, “Mission report.” For the next half an hour Niro questioned about the mission and about the enemy they had met there. New details came to light: robots, traps, some sort of power core, a savage yet resourceful opponent. And their name.

“And then he proclaimed himself as - Hordak, my lord.”

“Hordak.” Niro repeated, the name lingering on his tongue. Curious.

[nocturnaladvocate]

An Archive Party

The night had started innocently enough. Sable’s roommate had reminded them about a party someone was hosting. It was going to be a proper party too, not one of the imitations gringos were always trying to pass as a party. Offhandedly Sable mentioned it to Tim, when he had stopped by for his daily story about the skull. Tim then passed it over to Sasha, who had been itching for a good drinking contest. Sasha knew she was going to rope Martin in this because the poor man had become Jon’s punching bag. As for how Jon found out, and came to them asking for an address was a mystery. At least none of them would stick out, all in varying shades of brown the entire archive staff would blend in with the crowd easily. Their shifts were to end at a similar time, Jon being the last who was meant to leave, but what Elias didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. They cut the day a little short in favor of piling together into the auto that Mercury had waiting outside the Institute.

“Sorry, Mercy. Entire team found out on accident.”

But the driver only laughed, before turning to the three archive workers in the back. “I’m the dd for tonight so don’t worry about anything.” Neb said with a smile turning back to the wheel and the group left the hellscape that was the Magnus Institute, coming to a stop a few blocks away from a nondescript house and as the group came closer the faint sound of music could be heard.

“Jon, it’s gonna be warm. You might wanna ditch the sweater vest.” Sable called over their shoulder, having already turned a work uniform into something applicable to a party.

“I will be keeping my sweater, thank you.” He responded tersely before the quintet came to the front door, opening it to be met with a wall of differing languages all spoken in such a free and casual way that English usually was forced into taking the place of.

Mercury grinned before diving into the fray, pulling Martin after neb, taunting the others as the pair disappeared. Jon bristled at the loss of a member, but was quickly pulled in but the remained archive workers, Sasha and Tim discussing plans and Sable smiling at him.

When  Sasha finally disappeared, lost into the crowd where music hung in the air, voices occasionally intertwining with the notes in that off-key way that always came with smiles and laughter. Sable wrapped a hand around his wrist, gaining the archivist’s attention.

“Take a breather, Jon. You look like you’re twenty seconds from a freakout. Come on, I’ll lead you outside, alright?” Silently he followed their lead, emerging in the cool night air where the crowd was just milling around and talking. He could smell a barbeque somewhere out there, but what it was cooking he couldn’t tell. The hand on his wrist disappeared, but now he was calmer and in a place with so much less noise. It wasn’t that he disliked parties or loud noises, no, it was just that it always overwhelmed him at first, head pounding and the ground swimming and bass throbbing in his chest. But then it became the setting and he was fine, it just took a few minutes. The music from inside muffled itself and he could breathe again, taking a moment to recollect himself. One of his workers seeing that momentary break irritated Jon, but it had been the one least likely to make comment on it, so that was a relief after all. And they were his friends, at least as much as he allowed himself to indulge.

Inside the home, however, the party was thriving. Sasha found the drinking challenge soon enough, the loud jeering called her over easily and really it was shots, tequila. A clean shot. Simple enough, but she would pull the Jaeger bomb at some point, coaxing out the real challenge.  But that could wait, for now. She flashed the group a wide grin, sliding in and stealing a shot from the end of the line, downing it in one and placing it on the table upside down. “Twenty quid says I can drink you under the table. All of you.” The loud and slurred consensus of agreement earned her another shot.

Tim wandered through the throngs of people, drink in hand amd flashing that smile that earned himself the title of most people's workplace crush. And in this moment, there was no exception, for he quickly drew the attention of all. Sable went between their friends before settling close to the music station, waiting for a moment. Waiting for the right moment. A mechanisms song. One-Eyed Jack. Our Boy Jack. Either would do. Both would yank.Jon to center stage.

They watched the crowd, and when that familiar sweater was spotted, Sable changed the music, the always familiar chords ringing in the air as Jon's attention was drawn to the source. He hummed along, despite himself, and upon seeing Sable's shit eating grin he knew this was no accident.

"Why, Mr. D'ville, I believe this to be your cue." They called, eyeing the table where the speakers sat above, mounted on the wall. Jon shook his head, his smile stupidly fond as he climbed the table and fell into his age old persona. His voice rasped as he sang along, becoming Jonny D'ville once more. If only for a little bit. And then the song ended and Sable offered a hand, helping him down. "Find your stride? Treat it like an old concert." They smirked before darting off, leaving him on his own. Amd his own didn't seem too bad, not with the confidence of an immortal space pirate first mate possessing him. And if he saw Sasha drinking and being passed notes of cash or saw Martin dancing with some random man, learning the salsa with a tie wrapped around his head or Mercury watched with a gleeful grin or Tim making his way through the circles of people or Sable causing their usual mischief or pulling Mercury and Tim into dances throughout the night? Well. He wasn't going to say anything. He was allowed to have some fun and so were they.

The night was coming to a close, most of the crowd clearing out and separating on their own paths. Most, but not the archival team and Mercury, not yet. In a couch hidden in the basement, just barely out of sight, Tim and Sasha and Sable had all squished together, the smallest of them in the center. Sleepy mumbles and terrible jokes. 

“Sasha. Sasha. Sasha,” Tim started making grabby hands over Sable before launching into one of his trademark jokes. “Statement Joe Spooky on the topic of Jimmy Magma-” was all he was able to say before the laughter overtook, pulling spams from the three assistants before they all squished more, trying to minimize any space between them because that’s what a friend pile was. It was protecting against being touch starved by virtue of becoming a pile of kittens, except with humans. 

On the upper level Martin, still with his damned tie wrapped around his head and cheeks flushed red, danced with Mercury, even if it was mostly just swaying side to side with music playing in the background. He was wrapped around neb like a kola, mumbling something in the hybrid language his family had created and making softly pleased noises, trying to show his affection in a way that could be accepted. Perhaps there was too much alcohol in his system, still, causing this stupor instead of the manic energy from earlier. But fuck, if he wasn’t pleased with the current events, swaying with a beautiful person in his arms and tangling his hands in nebs hair. 

Jon, still with remnants of D’ville in him, came to the basement, finding three of his archists laying in a pile of limbs and warmth. He sat in front of the couch that trio had collapsed on, legs folded together, and barely tugging Sable’s hand before being met with tired brown eyes. Eyes that sometimes glinted with mischief or knowledge they shouldn’t have. Eyes that outside of the dark and dust of the archive and in the sun held glints of tawny in the usual dark umber.

“Would you care for a dance?” He asked, voice still having the rasp that separated Jonny from himself, however minimal the presence was now. Groans of protest came from Tim as they tried to disentangle from his lazy grip, arms eventually falling limp as Sable emerged from the pile. Carefully he stood once more, leading them upstairs where music still floated lazily in the air, pulling them close and resting his head on their shoulder, for a moment at least before taking a step and leading a spin, Sable easily passing under his arm. 

But the night had to come to a close, the host finally kicking them out. Jon and Sable descended a level to the remaining archive workers, rousing them from slumber. Hands reached out for the normally third member of their group, instead latching onto both Sable and Jon. Sasha and Tim both draped over their smaller compatriots, allowing themselves to be led to the auto where Martin and Mercury waited, the former of which climbed in shotgun seeing the swarm.

The swarm of four then piled into the back, Sable and Sasha each half on Tim's lap and Jon nearby. Neb, made way to the one flat the location of was known for sure, Mercury's own. Inside awaited a fort built of most of the blankets in the flat, a remnant of the night before. Before it could be accessed however, Mercury would fumble with the key in the lock, surrounded by archive workers in varying states. The door opened and in fell the horde, piling into the flat and finding areas of situation inside the fort. Where shoes and outer layers were shucked did not matter in that instant, sleep did.

Inside the fort it appeared a tangle. A heap. But divisions were clear enough. Tim slept between Sasha and Sable, legs tangling with them both. Sasha had an arm draped over Tim's chest, hand curling into Sable's sleeve and keeping their hand close. Jon slept with his head on Martin's stomach, a hand outstretched and entertwined with Sable's. And Mercury slept in the center of it all, touching the entire entourage in one way or another.

When morning came, it would be different. The peace would be broken and everyone's lives would return to the typical, but the night would be remembered fondly enough. Morning would come and ruin the moment, but locked away and away from the Entities was a moment of peace. For now, at least.

[etherian-affairs]

For a fic prompt: Pygmalion/Galatea-ish concept where Entraptra finds Hordak (severely damaged cybernetics, powered down/sleep mode) & decides to rebuild him into the perfect Lab Partner (her umpteenth attempt at building one) w/o knowing what she’s going to end up with. Hordak wakes up to exquisitely repaired/partly rebuilt body, b/c Entraptra uses First One’s tech in the rebuild, so it’s that aesthetic blended w/Horde design (think Alita/Gally’s 2nd rebuild “angel” body in Battle Angel Alita).

HERE WE GO KIDDOS. I hope you like it friend.

This actually gets to be a crossposted with Ao3 because it’s long enough to meet my requirements for Ao3 posting.

Story under the read more.

Red across the board. Matching the state of the ship crumbling around Hordak. The would be Lord stumbles through collapsing metal corridors, barely able to keep his balance. The crash was devastating. He had tried everything to soften it but with so much crew already lost there was almost nothing to be done. Now it seemed the rest were gone too.

Soon Hordak would be as well.

He manages to get into the sanctum, the lab. A last ditch effort for survival keeping him moving. His body is ravaged. Beyond what even his species biology and his many augmentations can handle. As he steps into the sanctum his broken leg finally gives, the bone cracking and snapping. He howls in pain. So close to his goal. Slowly he drags himself with his one good arm to the secondary maintenance bay in the sanctum. 

He grabs at one of the dangling data cables and slams it into the port at the base of his neck, issuing commands quickly. Hoping the computers can still decipher them. As sparking damaged manipulators extend Hordak feels himself going under. His last moment of consciousness nothing but his diagnostic feed.

-WRNG: TTL_SYS_FAIL\\Fallback To Core Function Mode.\\Life Support Priority.\\Nanocyte Protocols Engaging.

…

The Fright Zone was dangerous they said. A lifeless land destroyed by the Dark Comet. A place that makes the Crimson Wastes look downright fertile! Hah! How wrong they were! You just had to know where to look.

Entrapta had been curious about this place her whole life. Years and years and years ago the Dark Comet fell out of the sky. It nearly wiped out the scorpion people entirely. They’re still a refugee people to this day in fact, with no land to call their own. The black Garnet Runestone was lost, presumed destroyed, at the time too. The Dark Comet’s crashing had changed Etheria a lot.

And from a distance it looked like it was made of metal. Refined metal. 

For decades it had been too dangerous to even approach the comet. People would get sick at the fringes. Further in burns and things would start to mysteriously appear! Even bots would fizz out and fail! but as time went on it appeared that the exclusion radius around it was shrinking.

Entrapta has been keeping track of the dissipation rate her entire life. 

Now her time had come! The energies that hurt people seemed to be mostly gone! And she had some extra protection she had developed just in case there were stray energies left on site! So Entrapta journeyed to the Fright Zone to be the first to see the Comet up close and live to tell about it.

It was wonderful.

Her theories were right. It’s metal. Not just that it’s constructed. Some sort of vast vessel! Larger than any person made structure she’s ever seen! She spends hours alone exploring the exterior. Falling back only as the light begins to recede from the world in order to rest, set up camp, and make sure she’s not getting sick. 

The next day she actually makes her way inside, and it is even more incredible than the exterior. It’s tech all the way through. Corridors apparently made for humanoid habitation. Dead terminals at regular intervals. Piled up robots of strange designs that seem to have run out of power years ago.

And the bodies.

It isn’t Entrapta’s first run in with the dead, in fact she has done her fair share of dissection and anatomy studies, but it’s still not a common occurrence and there are many here. That is unnerving even for the normally unflappable Princess of Dryl. Most of the dead are in armor or uniforms of different kinds. Their bodies eerily well preserved considering their age. Perhaps the energies that until recently made this place impossible to enter also stopped decay? That would be odd but anything is possible here. 

Entrapta takes her audio recorded notes and then tries to largely ignore the bodies that litter the Comet. They are admittedly interesting in many ways. They are yet more confirmation that the comet is some sort of vessel, and that many appear to be from species she has seen on Etheria. They are not something she likes very much though.

Inevitably Entrapta’s exploration leads her into a large throne chamber. An interesting place to be sure. The room off to the side is much more interesting however. The door is open and even from a distance she can see the many containment tubes within, some broken, others still standing with strange murky figures held within. Tools littering the floor. Bolted down tables some of which have items still on them somehow. This side room is a lab. She would know a lab anywhere.

It does not take long for her to see the body in here. It’s different from all the others in many ways. For starters this one is not like anything she’s seen on Etheria. Its species is completely unknown, some sort of batlike humanoid? It also clearly has tech integrated directly into its body! In fact there is a cable connecting it to… well the vessel itself Entrapta supposes. The cable leads into a mass of them up above and she can’t track where exactly it all goes.

The body is heavily damaged. The limbs are all in various states of destruction, there are what are clearly large gashes on the creatures torso. She suspects that numerous bones must be broken. Yet at each open break there is an unnatural silvery film. Like a sealant. It’s strangely jagged and irregular and seems to move around itself like a liquid. It’s kind of like something Entrapta has seen from some first ones tech experiments she has performed, trying to make self repairing robots. 

Except this isn’t repairing, more like it’s just trying to keep things from getting any worse. Could this person have been a scientist? Trying to integrate first ones tech into the body to save their own life?

That’s when Entrapta sees the nearly imperceptible movement. This isn’t a corpse. This one’s alive. Whatever they did worked.

The Princesses entire plan for this journey changes immediately. 

She spends hours examining every nook and cranny of the lab. Gathering everything she can. Making trips in and out of the Comet to her little camp. Her work extends out from there, picking apart and salvaging from other parts of the ship. She needs tech, their tech. 

She journeys to and from Dryl more than once. Readying herself for what might be her greatest experiment, and what will definitely be her most harrowing. On the final trip she disconnects the lab entity from the cable attached to its spine. It took her awhile to be sure that would not hurt it, and she waited until it was the last thing to do even when she was sure. It’s also just not a pleasant thing to move this creature as the barely held together limbs start to really come apart at the slightest jostle.

It does not wake from whatever stasis it is in.

The final journey to Dryl is slow and careful, but once safely in her own lab the work begins in earnest. 

This lab creature is probably a scientist as she has previously noted to her recorder, at the very least it is more intelligent than the others aboard the ship. It’s alive. Entrapta can repair it, she’s sure she can. Secretly, deep down, she hopes that maybe she’ll finally have that lab partner she keeps trying to create. They never turn out how she wants, she just doesn’t have the skills in making true thinking machines from scratch.

With that secret hope, and the theory that this thing must be a scientist, Entrapta decides on her repair strategy. She will give it the best science body she can! Which given that this is Princess Entrapta also means it will probably be a great body for warfare too! She seems to just make weapons on accident a lot of the time.

Initial exploration of the flesh is promising. There’s tech woven all throughout the body that she can piggyback off of. She has this creatures salvaged tech from the ship to make use of too. Thus the broken limbs are tossed aside, unneeded. Internal biological organs are atrophied and weak. Whatever is keeping this thing alive is focusing on the brain. Entrapta will lean in to that. Don’t need most of those then.

Still most of this will be original work and integration will be difficult. The Princess soon decides on a radical solution. She will use First Ones tech as a bridge, and an enhancement. Some of what’s going on with the lab creature looks very similar to First Ones tech anyway! So it will almost definitely probably work! 

At first Entrapta worries the creature will suddenly awaken, giving her a big startle, but that soon doesn’t appear to be likely as it just lays there half dead even as she digs into its body with knife and power tools. There’s a joke about being a heavy sleeper there somewhere.

Limbs, organs, and flesh are all replaced with tech and metal. The more she works, the more she realizes she needs to remake or else she won’t be able to integrate it all. The only reason she can do this at all is that the silvery film and the First ones crystal she has chosen as a base seem to be able to attach to each other. Soon enough though a repair job becomes a total rebuilding of the creatures body with First Ones tech at its core. The initial synthetic components within being almost all she can keep. 

It’s exciting. Princess Entrapta is pushing the boundaries of known science. She is combining First Ones, Etherian, and Alien technologies all together with biology she barely comprehends. She has no idea what the end result of this will be yet even that unknown is too fascinating to ever let her stop and think about the potential consequences of her radical actions.

When she’s finally done she realized that she has no idea how to wake the being up. It’s actually kind of funny. Still the creature remains alive, if non-functional, and isn’t going anywhere. She has time to figure out how to boot it back up.

…

-SYS_CHK-STS_UPDT\\Foreign Hardware Detected.\\Initializing Integration Stack.\\Compiling System Profile.

The diagnostic feed was all Hordak knew of the world beyond his own mental prison, and it was not much. A quiet eternity of his consciousness being occasionally fed an array of error messages and warnings he could do nothing about.

When one of the system checks finally detected a change he had a brief nanosecond of shock before his consciousness returned to the black box dreams that kept him sane.

-STS_UPDT\\Hardware Profiling Complete.\\Compatibility Registration Underway.

Profiling and Compatibility Registration?  Whoever was working on him wasn’t Horde. The checks wouldn’t be taking multiple stages to complete with approved replacement parts.

Again his mind falls away before he gets a chance to really ponder what is happening to him.

-STS_UPDT-SYS_RBT\\Compatibility Registration Complete.\\Rebooting Core Functions.\\Rebooting Extended Functions.\\All Systems Online.\\Re-initializing Higher Brain Function.

Hordak gasps as his senses return, as his mind can touch a world outside of the blackbox keeping it alive. His fingers curl and claw into the metal table he’s on. They literally dig into it. That’s not quite right. He raises his arm to look at it and finds an alien limb there. A completely synthetic arm and hand. Impeccably machined metal and tuned actuators. It looks like Horde tech, yet not. There’s foreign influence, clean lines and coiled strength. Gleaming chromium metal that glints in the light of wherever he is. 

Then he realizes that the rest of him is the same. Looking down he finds his body largely replaced. Metal plates interlocking and familiar combined with what seems to be some sort of memory alloy to create flexibility. He has seen nothing quite like this in all of his years. How did any of this integrate?

Before he can pull the hardware profile up and begint to try to decipher what has been done to him he notices he’s not alone. A short woman with ridiculously long hair is staring at him in surprise from near a large display. He’s about to speak when she gets the first word in. 

“WOW! I was looking in to how to wake you up but you just did it yourself! How? Why? Did you know you were being repaired? Did you know I was done? How though? Oh! Sorry! Welcome to Dryl! I’m Princess Entrapta I rebuilt you! What’s your name?”

Hordak is taken aback by the loud spunky attitude before him. There’s a lot to process here. Inevitably he decides to simply answer her questions. “Hordak. My name is Hordak." 

There is much for both of them to learn.

[overanxiousoutofmind]

What Only You Can Provide (5&6 pt.1)

This one got a little long and sorta blended the lines between prompts 5&6 so I’ll be posting it in two parts. First is in Adora’s perspective. Prompts: Habits | Fate Content Warning: Reference to Major Injury

           Adora wakes to the sound of the wind against their door and Catra sleeping on her arm. Far from the worst way to wake up, and for all that has changed in recent months she is glad that this has remained the same. As her eyes adjust she can make out only the fuzzy outline of Catra, the slope of her ears and the soft tangle of her hair. She traces the gentle curve of her jaw with her eyes and the freckles on her cheekbones. A gentle smile finds her lips as she follows Catra’s hair around the frame of her face to the errant strands running dark rivers between her closed eyelids. She stares, longer than she needs to, longer she should. She’s found herself doing this a lot, ever since Catra found her with her drawings. She still etches her face some mornings, and though Catra has told her she wouldn’t really mind if Adora wanted to sketch her when she was awake, she hasn’t worked up the nerve. There’s an admission in the act that Adora can’t name but is attached to such an overwhelming fear that the very thought brings to life a chill up her spine. It’s infuriating. Partially because each time she shies away from it, or anything else that could bring forth that feeling. And because she, despite that fear, there is such a deep longing within her that she feels so helpless to ignore. But without a name, she cannot be sure of how to answer it.

Removing her arm from underneath Catra is an agonizing process, both in the difficulty not to wake her and the urge not to disturb something so beautiful as her sleeping face. Her hand is numb once it is free and she can feel the pinpricks of the noise as the blood flows back. From the bed she hears a rolling chirp and Catra’s head lifts from the bed, eyes closed. With her other hands Adora smooths back her hair before scratching at her scalp.

“I’m headed out. Go back to sleep, Catra.” A loud purr is her only response, and Catra arches herself against Adora’s hand for a moment before returning to the bed.

Since the completion of the cabin, her daily routine has changed dramatically. Without a larger project to focus on she threw herself into different tasks, training herself in multiple fields. She covered strength and endurance training in her trips to retrieve firewood, which were just as long of a journey in the snow as they were before. If anything, the retrieval of firewood was more problematic since the first snow fall and nearly all of the trees they’ve taken have come from the northern side. Catra and her became more frequent visitors to the villages surrounding the Whispering Woods in the last few months as a result. And with turn of the year behind them and the promise of three more full months of winter it they are due for a few more trips.

Her martial training has turned to a balance between practicing and inventing moves with the various weapons she can transform the sword into. She pours herself into the staff the most, summoning one with two points that she can wield in the same manner as the batons they used for practice back at the Horde. Catra helps, where she can, and no mater how much stronger Adora gets she cannot hope to master the speed and agility of Catra. Adora has a much harder time practicing with the sword in its natural state. The blade is long and heavy, and though with her strength she can easily wield it in one hand she cannot decide if it feels more comfortable in either style. The Horde had no use for swords, and it is an unknown territory that brings frequent frustration.

She delights most, however, in the practice of drawing. After a life lived in martial practice she is terribly want for a creative outlet. It is relaxing in many ways, and is an easier fulfillment to judge than sword play or her physical strength. The improvement is tangible and though she has to resist the urge to critique herself on her craft she finds a thorough enjoyment in the task. As she turns to drawing more and more in her spare time her subjects grow from Catra’s sleeping form to the area around them. She draws the cabin from several angles and tries to capture the feeling of living within it. The simplicity of their living is difficult to portray in a way that satisfies her, and her attempts ultimately center around the implements she finds them using the most. She has a dozen drawings of their utensils, their bows, and the two chairs they keep by the fire place.

Adora puts on her winter gear at slow pace, taking care not to disturb Catra any further than necessary. In the half of a year since they left the Horde her old uniform and jacket are no longer suitable for her to wear. Her musculature is changed, her shoulders broader for the extra muscle and her arms thicker. Thus, the tight uniform shirt and jacket both are unwearable, seams worn down to bits by her growth spurt, never mind the blood that stained them both when she was gored by a boar’s tusk in their first month. She now wears a combination of clothing they have found in ruined villages and that which they made themselves. The simple, but thick trousers fit her nicely and their dark color matches well with the plaid and flannel designs of the shirts they found. She’s taken to wearing a coat made a mixture of deerskin and the fleece they got from a few trapped sheep deep in the woods. The fit is loose, intentionally so given her recent growth, and the ends of the hem reach down to her mid-thigh and are cut of by a cord tied around her waist. An elegant fashions statement, it is not, but it is warm all the same.

She secures the sword to her pack with a few loops around the cross guard. Though malleable in its other forms, the sword stubbornly refuses alterations to its natural state, which has only made transporting it more troublesome. The blade is sharp enough to cut with the barest touch and no stone, metal, or otherwise has been able to so much as scratch or dull the blade. Their attempts to make a sheath for it have been unwieldly at their best, and a terrible danger to Adora’s fingers at their worst. Adora would rather carry it in any other form, but, for now, she needs the sword.

She opens the heavy curtain they hung around the door frame and steps inside before opening the door to prevent the cold draft from entering the cabin. As it continued to get colder the need to properly seal the cabin from the elements became more and more pressing. Though the wood had been tightly slotted together, the aging and settling of the wood introduced gabs that had to be stopped up, and their door had to be replaced twice as the frame changed shape and it no longer sealed the frame. The curtain had been the latest of their additions, preventing all of the heat in their home from escaping each time they opened the door. A welcome and useful addition, borne of a friendship they made only recently.

Completing the rest of her gear with a knitted cap and thick boots, she opens the door and braces herself. The blast of air cuts a deep chill into her, and she quickly exits and seals the door behind her. The woods around their home is quiet today, besides the wind. Not many creatures could be found stirring so deep in the Whispering Woods these days, and it meant keeping their food stores secure all the more important. Every hunt counted, and every bit that they could save was another day they could stay in the safety of their home.

Today she walks the nearly two-mile journey to Madame Razz’s hut. Finding the old woman was chance; Adora was stalking a deer she’d wounded and followed it for more than a mile out of her way into the eastern woods, an are Catra and Adora have long tried to avoid for its proximity to the Horde. Never mind the visions the woods send her of monsters, great beasts with large bodies that glow blue under their grey carapaces, and of a tall figure standing ominously before massive spikes of crystal. Though she asks after the name of these creatures and the figure she is shown, the woods refuse to answer. They are in the habit of doing so whenever Adora asks questions like those. Whether or not they know the real answer, she can’t be certain. But there is an unmistakable tension that follows the asking that she can feel echo throughout all of the woods.

None of that followed Madame Razz. The woods tell Adora little of the old woman, though it is not a willful denial so much as a lack of knowledge. The trees here are old, yes, but they know the woman to be much, much older and stranger than them. Still, the Whispering Woods asks her to take care of old Madame Razz, as more of a favor to the woods than any tangible reward. While Adora is willing to humor the woods, Catra proves hesitant, at least until Madame Razz begins to teach them useful little things. Their winter clothes, sealant for their cabin’s walls, even the curtain that blocks the breeze. All of these they learn make from Madame Razz and Adora notices a growing respect in the way Catra regards the old woman.

And one day, on her way over to Madame Razz, she is delighted—and a bit disturbed—to hear from the woods that some kind soul had gathered up a couple of squirrels and left them wrapped and beheaded on the old woman’s window sill. It was hard to tell if Madame Razz was thankful or not, though Adora swore she could see a gleam of pride in Catra’s eye when she next saw her.

Before too long she arrives. The old woman’s hut is a strange, squat thing nestled under the roots of a large tree. The walls and top of it are made from thin, porous mushrooms with flat tops just below Adora’s head. The roof is a single purple mushroom top put askance atop the walls and the roots of the large tree behind dig into it from below like ivy. There is only one door, or rather, curtain that leads into the hut and another curtain is hung inside the window frame to its left, swinging freely in the breeze. It must be magic that keeps this place warm, or so Adora reasons. The air on the inside of the hut flows freely outward yet the hut is never, ever too cold on the inside. And when she focuses, closes her eyes and quiets herself she can feel the hum concentrating in a heavy vibrato around the hut and the old woman, singing in concert with the woods itself.

When she arrives, Madame Razz is up and about inside, curtain pulled back while she gathers her basket and broom. With the hood of her large purple robe pulled over her hair paired with her large bifocals she looks like a large purple beetle scurrying about with quick, hurried motions. As Adora nears the hut she calls out, moving her pack so that the sword is visible. Madame Razz’s face lights up immediately from under the hood, and she waves back eagerly.

“Oh hello, Mara! You’re just in time!” She is always just in time. Just in time for tea, just in time to help Madame Razz pick up her cauldron, just in time to drive away the illusive family of skunks that settled in the roots of Madame Razz’s tree. She is also always Mara, a name that means nothing to her, and another subject that the Whispering Woods refuse to comment on.

“Just in time for what, Madame Razz?” She asks, stepping in to the warm, dry hut.

The old woman smiles, shoving a bouquet of soft white flowers into Adora’s arms, “Just in time to help me take these flowers to my friends! They’ve been waiting all year for these to bloom, Mara, you should know this.”

She examines one flower from the bouquet, noting the way the bulb droops down towards the ground. “And why are your friends waiting for these, exactly?”

Madame Razz scoffs, drawing her broom to her chest while she shovels more bouquets into her basket, “Mara, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? They’re more your friends than mine.”

“I’m afraid I have,” she says. The insistence of Madame Razz of her knowing things she does not know has lost its novelty over the last two months, and she’s long since learned its more productive to play along than try and correct the old woman. “A bad habit. Could you remind me?”

Madame Razz thrusts the basket into her arms, eyes wide and grinning, “They’re singers! Good singers, with songs and choruses that could charm the world over. And oh,” she gasps, “when they sang. You could see the stars, oh they are so beautiful. You should bring your girlfriend!”

Adora squints, “Girlfriend?”

“Yes, the one who purrs,” Madame Razz squints back at her, “don’t tell me you forgot about her, too?”

“No!” she waves her hand, “I didn’t forget Catra, no way, I just—well….”

Madame Razz stares.

“…I just. Don’t know what a ‘girlfriend’ is…” Adora flushes, one hand at the back of her neck.

Madame Razz shakes her head, “Oh, Mara, you can’t be this forgetful. At least not until you’re my age!” She grabs her broom and the basket full of bouquets and makes for the door.

“Well, I won’t forget if you tell me!” Adora says, and closes the curtain behind her as she steps out of the hut, “I promise I’ll do my best to remember this time.” She wonders if Mara—if she even existed—had ever made the same promise to Madame Razz.

“That’s what you said about our berry picking! And you never came!” the old woman chides her and the pace she sets into the woods is quick, such that Adora rushes to catch up to her.

“And I apologized!” She had. In their first meeting Madame Razz was irate, and slapped her with her broom for leaving her alone. And sure, she never actually made those plans, but that hadn’t stopped Madame Razz from giving her a stern talking to.

Madame Razz hums in response, “Perhaps you should ask the one who purrs.”

“I’m sure she knows but if you could just tell me anyways?”

The old woman ignores her in favor of inspecting the exposed root of a tree with the end of her broom, brushing away the snow. “Do you remember the way, broom?” she whispers to it, and holds her ear close for a moment.

“Madame Razz? Did you—” she is cut off by a wrinkly hand poking out from beneath her robe.

“Quiet now, Mara. I have to think.” The old woman leans close to her broom, and scans the horizon for a moment. Through the bifocals Adora can see the strain of her eyes against the large lenses as she stares out into the distance, intent upon surveying the landscape. She comes to rest facing the south east, and startles when the root she was inspecting suddenly wraps itself around her broom.

“Let go of broom!” she says, smacking the root. Adora’s hand goes to her sword, but she does not draw it. Between the woods and the old woman, she is unsure of what to do. Never, in all of winter, has she seen the woods act like this towards the old woman. She takes her hand off the sword and puts in on the trunk of a tree, drawing deep. The woods respond with fear, fear for her, for Madame Razz, and the path she was to walk. She tries to soothe their fear, assuring them of her training, of her strength and ability. The woods calm, in time, and the root releases the broom. Madame Razz smacks it once again, grousing.

“And don’t you do that to broom again!” she says, straightening her hood and hugging the broom to her chest.

“What was that about?” Adora asks. Madame Razz sets off again at a brisk pace, shoulders hunched.

“Oh, that’s just the way of the woods. They’ve always been afraid of this place.”

“Which place?” she says, “I’m confused. And you never told me what a girlfriend was.”

Madame Razz smiles, wide and toothy, “Yes, yes, that can wait till later. We’re almost there!”

They walk and the woods become denser and denser around them. Even with leaves stripped their trunks retain their thick and knotted frames and Adora can feel the tension rolling off of them. The difference between these trees and those around their cabin is palpable through the whispers, spoken at once and far too low to hear individually as they become a thin layer of white noise. She walks, mindful of their roots in the snow, and tries to ease the tension that begins to mount within her. A strand of something, nearly imperceptible at first begins to take root in her chest and spreads thickly. It tugs, light at first but getting stronger with each beat of her heart as if it is a pulsing, living thing. Which each step they take, they get closer and closer and she feels the strand pulling her towards something. She holds her hand over it, her fingers shake. It isn’t painful, no more than an uncomfortable tingling that boarders just on the edge. Like static, it fizzles invisibly, sparking against her fingers and then the trees and then Madame Razz but the old woman doesn’t react to its presence.  She only smiles wider and her eyes begin to show just a hint of something at their edges as they draw closer.

When they step out of the trees into the clearing the first thing she sees is the single, massive spire of crystal in the very center of clearing. It towers, not so tall that it could be seen from afar and none of highest branches in the woods touch it. A perfect circle of trees surrounds the spire, the edges reaching the smaller spires around her height that stand just before it. All are covered in a thick layer of dead things, moss and vines that snuck their ways into the grooves and cracks in the crystal faces of the spires. The roots of the nearest trees are turned away from the base of each spire, as if repelled by the presence of the crystal. A moment’s pause and she can see the way the roots are all subtly roiling and writhing at the very edge of the spires.

With not a moment of hesitation Madame Razz enters the clearing and sets her basket down by the closest spire. Adora approaches, the sword drawn in one hand and lays the other basket down by the old woman. She turns, examining all of the spires and their storied faces. On each, she can make out only the beginnings of letters, short phrases here and there. They speak of many things and from the fragments she can only piece together that they all seem to form a story, unique to each pillar, but all working together to tell one complete story.

“What is this place?” she asks aloud.

“It’s yours, Mara!” The old woman says, placing the bouquets on strings and winding them around the spire, “This place was always special to you. You showed it to me before your left, when we made the plans to pick berries!” she cackles, tying off the string in her hands, “but we’ll have to wait until next summer for that.”

“I brought you here?” Ludicrous, yet here she was. And this place felt so, so familiar in ways there were no words that felt adequate to describe. Like a dream forgotten upon waking, and only the sensation remains.

“Of course, no one else would have known how to find it.”

“What do you mean, no one else could find this place?” Madame Razz finishes at the first spire and goes to the next, taking a cord from within her robe and twisting it over and over until its length more than doubled.

“A place like this can hide itself, cleverly, and if you don’t know where to look ,you’ll be walking circles for days. You should know this, Mara. You haven’t hit your head, have you?”

“Not for a while…” Adora mumbles as she takes a step towards the central spire. The script along the sides of the spire by far is the most complex, and the most broken. In columns across each face she can see paragraphs of lines. Written in circular prose are stories whose hearts have been eaten by the passing seasons. She touches the spire, feels the grooves of each word. Most lead up, strictly defined in their column. And others lead at an angle, off set towards the center of the spire before her towards a door made of crystal. It is sealed shut, with a single word etched upon its face.

“Eternia.” She speaks without thought and light fills the word on the crystal. The light travels up, through the words and around the curve of the door and slowly it pulls apart and disappears into the wall. Beyond there is a hallway made of polished crystal in light magenta hues, lit only by the daylight coming in from the door way. She takes a step forward, peeking into the darkness.

The sword at her side begins to glow. The feeling in her chest insistent, alive with an electric pulse. Like a heartbeat that hovers just above her own.

Madame Razz peeks over her shoulder, “Are you going in, Mara?”

She looks back at her. There is a possibility this is a trap. The woods are scared of this place, and they often have good reason for their notions. But this tugging in her chest is joined to all the questions the woods refused to answer, some part of her is sure of it. Surer than anything that she must go in.

“Will you be back for the singing, Mara?” asks the old woman.  

“I plan to.” she says, “just wait for me.”

She enters and the door slams shut at her heels.

[rxbelling-hxrald]

Timeline so far

// Long post warning, I’ll put it under a read more to save space but this is going to be a rough but overall flow to Dan’s story and interactions as a whole so far in his main verse over the years I’ve RPed as him. Not counting resets. So those of you more new to meeting him can get a taste of how far he has developed.

Seriously, You’ll be in for a long droning read. This is only if your genuinely interested in catching up how Dan got to the stage he is in now. This will probably sport several grammar errors and terrible pacing but I might fix that in time, right now my priority is just wanting something for myself and others to refer too as to where Dan actually is in his story.

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

Upbringing and Arrival on Mobius - After several years of torment and harsh training in the demon realm to become the next perfect vessal, Dan finally breaks free of his father’s influence over him and promptly begins fending off his demon counterparts in a desperate bid to evade being consumed. The battle lasts for a day as Dan constantly tries to flee before finally being beaten down by the hordes. His father permits the torture to continue believing it as the end before one powerful strike from an brute type abomination sends Dan flying accidentally into an abyssal portal. With the last of his remaining energy  Dan manages to block the entrance as he flies through it and sending him flying through the multi-verse pathways. His father immediately orders a hunt to reclaim the prize though it would take time to break the seal Dan left on the portal.

By chance he ends up roughly landing on green pastures and surrounded by trees. beaten, bleeding and clueless as to what he was seeing and spending several hours too terrified to even dare to move, All of the colors and plants were things he didn’t believe actually existed and with him fading in and out of consciousness it was tricky to assume it was even real to begin with.

With enough time his body was able to recover and he’d pluck up the confidence to actually try touching the flora, then when it seemed safe, he began trying to eat them....flowers, twigs....you name it. Some were obviously more edible than others but he was starving and didn’t care what it was as long as he could munch it down.

Discovery and In Hiding - It took several days for Dan to finally begin venturing out from his initial landing spot, in that time he’d learned the existence of wildlife and had ended up disturbing them frequently both due to his presence as a demon and the fact he’d also attempt to hunt them like a savage with his bare hands. Unlike the demon realm listening out for sounds caused by the surroundings and wildlife was much easier and night would prove little difficulty for him to traverse being used to the eternal void of space in the demon realm.

One day, Dan would eventually stumble across a collection of structures as he pursued some curious looking birds, hiding in the shrubbery he’d finally catch a first glimpse of the local inhabitants in the form of mobians. Of course initially being the next closest thing to a sentient creature like the demons Dan was actually more intimidated by them seeing their apparent mastery in every field given their well developed common life. who knew what powers they might also possess if they were capable of such decor?

Dan would spend a good period of time observing them from a safe distance, watching their habits and motions. These views soon enough revealed that mobian hedgehogs were a surprisingly common sight and so plans begun to blend in as one, which is what prompted the black hedgehog visage nowadays, their lack of clothing only made it easier to mimic their general physique and after a few tries, Dan was able to completely shift himself into a mobian hedgehog.

Even though most mobians seemed to prefer a lack of clothes, it was peculiar to Dan not to wear anything at all even if he was only used to dirty rags and scraps. So one night he’d sneak along towards the establishments again and stole one single uniform he liked the look of which was his favoured black coat. It also proved to be useful with his powers over shadow allowing him to blend into the night almost seamlessly.

First Encounters and Emotional learning - While he was now able to mimic mobian looks and even got himself some suitable clothing to go along with it, He still had little clue how to actually communicate like them and next went about in public, trying to pick up on certain mannerisms and how others generally acted.

It was difficult to even act like the mobians in a calm and casual manner due to his wary nature that they were still supposedly some unknown powerful group of creatures, like the demons or worse, though it was becoming apparent they didn’t appear to hold any frequent fatality gatherings. They simply spoke to one another.

As Dan had been trying to focus on learning, his demon brethren had finally managed to open up the abyssal portal pathways and quickly squads of scouts were dispatched at regular intervals, unable to perfectly align with the same circumstances their quarry had been sent through they figured exploring enough realms in enough quantities they’d find him sooner or later.

They were right. a group of these demon scouts whose speciality was infiltration would blend almost perfectly with the mobian locals. It didn’t take long for them to silently dispose of figures that were able to find them access to more information in mass and pose as them and with their nature to sense other forms of darkness it didn’t take too long for them to learn Dan’s position.

Another fight would ensue in the forests after Dan had decided to fall back away from the populations, he’d win with his foes not nearly being as deadly as others he’d fought, but he was injured enough for others to more clearly notice him which is how he’d eventually gain the attention of future lost friends in the form of Tails and Silver. Tails wanting to help the injured ‘hedgehog’ after Dan stumbled across his workshop and Silver after having witnessed one of the battles going on later on, thinking a capable but innocent civilian was being attacked.

Unfortunately, the failure of the scouts coming back to report told the demon lord all he needed to know as to where Dan was exactly.

New faces and Lost friends - During this period, the kindness shown to him by both Tails and Silver were what made Dan realise that the mobians in of themselves were not actively hostile, eventually Dan would come clean as to both who/what he was to the pair of them but they genuinely didn’t seem to care about his origin in the kindest way with him not being a threat. but with the danger of more demons arriving on learning his location they needed to find a means of keeping them guessing.

Tails was the one that introduced him to the concept of warp rings and after a few attempts of giving Dan a few to try out, the bright two tailed inventor gave him a custom warp ring device, allowing Dan to input any assortment of coordinates so that he could travel between the zones/realms of mobius near instantly.

While Dan never got the hang of remembering the exact coordinates, it gave him the means to keep ahead of his enemies while also allowing him to learn and explore all the more freely, this is what truly enabled Dan’s wanderlust and picking a direction with little care of where it might lead. It was during this time with the warp ring device Dan would encounter several others whom he’d befriend on his travels such as Voltage and Harmony . Things were a little shaky and Dan would frequently try to avoid coming into proper contact with people too often for fear that the demons would learn to focus the innocents down.

Unfortunately, One encounter with more of his enemies resulted in the warp ring device malfunctioning after sustaining damage. Silver would assist while Tails attempted to fix the device but the damage was worse than expected, while more hordes kept arriving to only further pressure the trio. When one demon attempted to attack the young fox, Dan would get in the way though it would prompt a collision, the device being dropped and activated...everyone was sucked in but cast across various locations.

Dan was alone again, until he was able to find his way back by another warp ring he was able to take for himself but not being a custom built design, the ring only warranted a one way trip.

Wandering and Training - While circumstances had changed, the plan did not as Dan had little else he could go for...evade capture, try to skip between the realms and zones, learn as much as possible and try to keep demons from terrorizing the public, especially his new found friends in the face of losing the duo who had previously helped him so much.

This is why he holds Tails and Silver alternates to such a high value, he wants to repay them for all of their help, so he views him helping them and keeping them happy is paying back what was given to him.

Realising that the threat of his father was constantly looming no matter where he ran too, the only way for this to end was for him to become powerful enough to destroy his kin completely, he was getting sick of running and he knew he had a potential with the darkness unlike most of his kind. Between travelling and the occasional act of thievery, Dan would train alone, honing his instincts, techniques and powers, weaponizing his anger and determined to inspire fear in his enemies by becoming an overwhelming powerhouse with his already impressive traits as a demon.

Most demons in Dan’s kind only respect power, at the same time they both fear and envy those with it. Only Dan’s father had such an uncanny level of power to hold such dominion over the hordes, being the collective consciousness of several ‘dark lords’ that were meant to be maintaining balance, instead they were twisted and wanting to end everything to end the constant struggles between light and darkness, what better method than to deny existence itself so there was no need for a balance in the first place?

Instead of a game of cat and mouse, Dan intended for it to eventually turn into a clash of titans but he needed greater access to power while also being able to spread terror amongst the demon hordes. Hence his travels would now begin focusing on any artefacts, traces of demonic energy any other ‘dark’ types within the zones/realms.

It didn’t take too long for Dan to become obsessed with the topic of one the mobians called Dark Gaia.

A Greater Understanding With A Hint Of Insanity - A long period would be Dan exploring, training and getting into encounters with his friends on their own adventures. He was happy to lend them a helping hand but it was becoming evident that his emotions were getting the better of him.

He wanted to protect them, to live with them but also stay away from them as fear of losing more close friends terrified him. He’d been alone during his younger years and he wasn’t going to allow himself to lose contact entirely. As much as he’d wish to live normally, he was a demon and it would be impossible for everyone to truly accept him so why care? He’d only bring more terror with him being present in their realm or fail in his mission and become another enemy of them anyway.

The paranoia and fear continued to eat away at him, getting increasingly agitated with the lack of success in finding anything he could work with to gain an advantage, Chaos energy proving to be something he had no affinity for, the Light would burn and deny him. Technology being either too frail or beyond his understanding, with a last ditch wish to summon and consume the being of Dark Gaia to further strengthen himself not being favoured by most he knew at all.

It was just not possible to apparently get the message across to those he did know why they should avoid him or help him in his mission, Their care for him was only proving to be a weakness....he was sure of it. If they wouldn’t see the truth then he’d both prove their doubts wrong while also saving them.

Another asset to this increased intense mentality was the essence of his defeated kin he’d began to absorb with each he slew. The most powerful of which was a particularly able and strong, yet failed earlier vessel attempt that had been discarded by his father for being too easily twisted by his power, the creature loved to refer to Dan as his brother. After the battle with the apparent brother was over....the tremendous levels of dark energy gained would soon begin to strain on Dan’s body.

Within hours his right hand that he’d used to impale his ‘false’ brother had become completely overwhelmed in demonic essence, the power was great but it had forcibly transformed against Dan’s will, even the so called perfect vessel evidently wasn’t entirely immune to the twisting power of darkness, it showed a small hint of what Dan truly was in appearance, reminding him once more he was not a mobian by any means.

The ‘Attempted’ Resurrection of Dark Gaia - At first it was just his hand, but the power flow was so great it too began to corrupt Dan’s forearm....then his elbow, his shoulder. Forcibly reconstructing his entire right limb to take the visage of the monster he feared to become and given that his veins would burn with a faint purple glow, it was soon clear that this new increase in power had only tainted him. He needed to win his battle against his father before this ‘infection’ took over his entire body and mind.

At the same time, with his friends growing increasingly concerned and wary of his new developments, Dan’s mind drifted deeper into doubt, assuming they still didn’t believe in him to be able to defeat dark gaia, which in turn meant he was still too weak to fight his father.

Determined to prove them wrong, Dan decided he’d go all out in allowing his new found powers to not only tempt the diety back into the world, but then crush it and add its strength to his own. the demon-hog had learned of a method he could use to possibly incite a reaction. By making use of one of Eggman’s old facilities and repairing a super laser aimed directly into a bottomless chasm, wishing to infuse the beam with his own energy, believing it would be enough to hit the centre of the planet and therfore awaken the beast within.

After managing to even capture a relic of Dark Gaia’s previous existence and successfully managing to control it albeit with some difficulty and resistance, Dan felt it was a sign that he was going to wipe out a future threat to the planet and then destroy the current threat to the universe.

The plan would never actually begin however, after weeks of trying and despite all of Dan’s methods and practice he was unable to get anyone capable of repairing the super laser or being able to infuse it with his own tainted energy. The corruption spreading across his body was reaching a boiling point and he was sure that he was going to lose it completely.

Avoiding Disaster and Return - Unbeknown to Dan this entire time, the ‘infection’ was simply the result of an overflow of darkness, to a degree not even his body was used to withholding. Dan believed it was a genuine demonic disease of sorts which would affect not only himself but others.

While there is a degree of truth to the transforming process to become a fully fledged demon, it was not a spreadable disease by common methods.

Expecting the end, Dan felt that the best course of action was to go out with a bang as he willingly opened up one of the abyssal portals he’d spent so much time closing before now, then entering so he could battle the hordes and his father.

The return to the demon realm was as you’d expect, violent but Dan was still not a match for the overwhelming reserves of energy his father had. Dan would take down scores of the lesser nightmares but would be unable to even land a scratch on the dark lord.

Eventually his father would take a hold of Dan’s demonic limb as they struggled, Dan’s physical prowess may have been stronger but even he couldn’t resist the several thousand worth of dense solidified darkness that his father had used to grip him and within an instant, Dan lost the limb...ripped clean off and promptly absorbed into the mass of shadow that was the dark lord.

Even after a year of fighting, training, nothing had changed in the power scale between them, even if he had become strong enough to reduce the other monsters to dust in minimal time, the fight that mattered? Was still beyond his abilities.

It seemed like that was it, the fight was lost as the demon-hog bled profusely over the soot covered ground, several lesser demons already eyeing the crimson liquid to enjoy once this was over. The father went to end this resistance by wishing to repeat the process on the rest of Dan’s body.

It was in these brief seconds that both father and son were reminded of their combined feats. Dan knew he could transform his body, but he’d never attempted to shift himself into a similar state like his father existed as, a gassy, ethereal like creature of horrors. the demon-hog uses his mastery of umbrakenesis to shift his entire body to gas. appearing as the same thick black smoke his father did as he’d phase out and away from his father’s grip.

Naturally the father roared and attempted to regain control by grabbing Dan again, but each attempt simply resulted in the same result of no physical contact being made on any plane. The difference in power was evident but they both had control over their own darkness and in the material plane of gas, any contact made would simply give space for more to float on by. The now ethereal demon-hog quickly floated on out of another abyssal portal that had erupted in sight nearby, repeating the same trick he’d done a year ago.

The father would unleash his rage by killing several of his minions in a single swipe, ordering the immediate retrieval of Dan. The sense of deja vu was aggravating to the dark lord beyond all else.

Dan would also have a similar experience as he’d hit the ground with a painful thud after emerging from the portal and returning to a physical, mobian form. He was armless but the one advantage of having an arm comprised of that twisted, writhing flesh the demons were infamous for, was that it was capable of regeneration given enough time and that right arm was already long tainted by his previous gains.

The New Status Quo - The battle and subsequent survival by going into a different plane took a huge quantity of energy out of Dan, as such he’d soon realise that his previous level of strength had faded but in doing so it had stopped the spread of the ‘infection’ his right arm might be forever tainted now but it was a blessing in disguise much like the rest of his origin being able to survive, endure and eventually regenerate into its mutated mess.

It took several weeks to properly regain its previous muscle mass and deadly array of protruding spikes, but Dan had time, time he spent practising his control over using the abyssal portals, both to seal and to travel so the demons no longer had a method of reliably tracking him down through them without the risk of running into him midway.

By the time they had once again regained access to the portal’s vast array of tunnelling pathways through the universe, Dan had already managed to lock off the majority of access points on the other ends too with his new experience over them. Now he had more time to prepare and plan, while also attempting to get back in touch with his friends and hopefully get past his entire phase of madness.

The Now - Dan has not given up his mission in eventually overcoming and destroying his father so that he can truly drop the threat of demon invasions across the universe. But he’s not as naive as he once was and he’s gained a lot more insight and power in the process even if he is not quite as strong as he was back when he wished to bring back Dark Gaia.

Not much can be said as to what he’ll actually plan to do in future achieve this, but he’s come to realise he should trust his friends more and will need their help and methods rather than relying solely on his own pure brute strength as the apparent ‘Heir of Darkness’  For now he focuses on strengthening his bonds with those he both tried to push away and make the most of his life on mobius, he’s come to understand that he’s not mobian and there’s no point hiding in the shadows anymore. He will be more likely to achieve greater help and strength should he be honest with the world around him.

Who knows, perhaps your muse will hold the key to his success? or maybe something else entirely. Compared to what he once was he’s no longer the anxious and clueless wreck, this was thanks to those he has met and gave him the time of day.

[letstotosite-blog]

Baseball, A Personal and Biased Perspective

"A wiener at the ballgame beats dish meat at the Ritz" - Humphrey Bogart

I don't know exactly when I turned into a fan. In truth, I don't think anybody ever does it. I don't think anybody at any point woke up on a Saturday morning and said to themselves, "Today is the day I pick up something about baseball." Baseball isn't that way. Baseball, it appears to me, picks you.

I know this: the greater part of what I found out about baseball is because of my father. Furthermore, I presume that most baseball-adoring individuals in the course of recent years would state something very similar. Baseball resembles your extraordinary granddad's pocket watch passed on to you with consideration. A sort of legacy, maybe, from your dad, granddad, uncle; frequently - however not generally - a male expert figure.

Baseball fans are a one of a kind breed. While your normal baseball fan can examine the better purposes of the game in extraordinary detail, the genuine love the game causes in the enthusiastic fan isn't anything but difficult to characterize. On the off chance that you invest any energy around baseball, it saturates you in a difficult to-clarify way. It's an associating string in a mind-blowing cloths. By one way or another, game by game, inning by inning, it gets in your blood, and once you have it there's no fix. Once truly presented to baseball, it will be, until further notice and consistently, a great contamination, profoundly instilled in your mind. In the event that the majority of this illustration talk about baseball sounds silly or excessively nostalgic, you are not a baseball fan. Be that as it may, don't stress, there's still trust in you.

My first introduction to baseball, as I referenced, was on account of my father. In particular, through the amusements we would go see played by Portland's small time group, the Beavers. I guess I was around eight or nine when I saw my first game. I don't review the score or who the rival group was. Perhaps shockingly, I don't much recall whether our adored Beavers won or lost. Being so new to the game, I didn't get strikes, balls, outs, takes, or whatever else that appeared to occur in some odd blend of peaceful, purposeful request counteracted unexpected, crazy confusion. There were cheers, boos, some running, some residue kicked up, some ball tossing, even some taking (when my dad said that a sprinter stole second base, I called attention to the self-evident: "No he didn't. It's still there.")

I didn't know any of the players, and couldn't tell the catcher from the mascot. I truly had no clue what was happening down there on that tremendous green and darker span. I was a baseball infant, seeing, hearing, smelling the bunch of tangible encounters interesting to this peculiar game for the absolute first time.

I can just review parts of the game that truly don't have anything to do with games or measurements. Check here  토토사이트

I will always remember my first sight of the baseball outfield as we entered the arena, blindingly green. I recollect the remote mixed smell of lager. I recollect the free pop of nut shells on the ground. I recollect the musky smell of grass and saturated soil, and obviously, the tempting aroma of franks, and salty popcorn. There is a fragrance to a baseball arena, and it very well may be discovered no place else. I recollect the break of a 33 ounce bat against a five ounce rough circle that seemed like a discharge resounding in the arena while the players took batting practice before the game. The vast majority of all, I recollect the ever-present clamor of the fans, similar to a sea, once in a while a tranquil automaton, here and there a rambunctious tsunami of cheers or boos scattered with shouts of "Get your glasses on, ump!" or, "He's going to hit!" or, "Draw that pitcher, he's done!" None of this sounded good to me at all.

In spite of the fact that I was a little kid, encountering a hundred absolutely outsider and unusual things on that day more than 30 years back, I was overwhelmed with a startling inclination - not of being in an awkward and new spot, however of being at home.

I realize that this experience of mine isn't one of a kind. Actually it's just about a prosaism. Converse with any individual who cherishes the game and they will probably have a comparative story to tell. In any case, while baseball has not been my life's energy, my valuation for the Grand Old Game has achieved a point with me where I must choose the option to look somewhat more profound at this odd wonder and investigate the game in my own particular manner.

"I see extraordinary things in baseball. It's our game - the American game. It will remove our kin from entryways, fill them with oxygen, give them a bigger physical aloofness. Will in general calm us from being an anxious, dyspeptic set. Fix these misfortunes, and be a gift to us." ~Walt Whitman

In 1979, the Pittsburgh Pirates, driven by Dave Parker and Willie Stargell, won the National League flag. Whenever I hear their signature tune, "We Are Family," by Sister Sledge, I can't resist the urge to imagine Stargell adjusting the bases in his dark and yellow Pirate uniform, similar to some abundant honey bee, after one of his acclaimed mammoth homers.

As it occurred, our neighborhood small time group, the Portland Beavers, were the ranch group for the Pirates around then. This brought about father and me meeting both Stargell and Parker when they visited Portland during a Beavers display game. Whatever they resembled in their own lives, I recollect that Stargell and Parker showed every one of the signs of the courteous disposition the organization of baseball some way or another appears to impart in such a significant number of its stars. Also, I review that them two, while generous grinning and signing a relentless supply of balls, appeared to have hands and arms of superheroes, which, as it were, they truly were.

"When they begin the game, they don't holler, "Work ball." They state, "Make a move."' ~Willie Stargell

It was at that point - having met a portion of its legends - that I started to focus on baseball. In spite of the fact that I was at that point a fanatic of ball and football, I ended up continually hypnotized - if not out and out befuddled - by baseball and its complexities. That appearing inconsistency among effortlessness and multifaceted nature is nevertheless one of the mysteries of the game. Baseball is, all things considered, one of a kind. How about we recall a couple of things about baseball that, in my psyche at any rate, set it apart from different games.

To begin with, the game is set upon a field organized in a fairly bizarre geometric shape. As opposed to having an objective or something to that affect on each finish of an extended field (as most different games) there is no such objective. No bin, no objective, no net. There is no direct development from one endzone to the next.

While the particular measurements and setup of the lines and bases on the field are steady in major and small time baseball, the fields themselves can shift fit as a fiddle. The good ways from home plate to the inside field fence, for instance, can fluctuate as much as 35 feet from park to stop.

Second, baseball is certifiably not a game depending such a great amount on consistent activity all things considered on minutes that can unfurl in a brief instant fastball strike, or a solitary swing that sends a ball over the fence and carries a home group to its feet (or leaves them reviling despondently). When the pitcher fires the ball toward home plate - a voyage that takes the ball about a large portion of a second - essentially anything can occur. Anything.

Pundits of baseball state the game needs physicality and hard play. This is similar to whining that tennis needs enough pummel dunks, or that golf doesn't include enough handling. In any case, as any individual who has played or given close consideration to the game can validate, there's a lot of physicality in baseball. The power it takes to smack a ball over a fence 410 feet away may just be obscured by the sheer superhuman exertion it takes to dispatch a clench hand measured hardball into a space the size of a hubcap sixty feet away...at about 100 miles an hour...100 times a night...accurately.

In any case, say commentators, the game is moderate, insufficient activity to fulfill the limited capacity to focus of the cutting edge sports fan. While the analysis appears to be lost to us baseball fans, do the pundits have a point? During a normal game, what amount of time slips by during which "something's occurring?"

To get to the base of this inquiry, Wall Street Journal correspondent David Biderman as of late investigated the measure of time spent in real life during a normal significant group ball game. "Activity," incorporates the time it takes for a pitcher to toss the ball, just as the more clear time a ball is noticeable all around after a hit, or a player is taking base, and so on. Biderman confirmed that the normal game had around 14 minutes of activity in it.

Be that as it may, as substantiated by Biderman, the time not spent in real life during a game isn't actually time squandered. Between pitches, a horde of choices and vital choices might be weighed out. Administrators might be occupied with counseling the hitting diagram on a restricting player before he even strides up to the plate. Catchers and pitchers are having a consistent quiet exchange with respect to what sort of pitch to toss and where to put that pitch, contingent upon a scope of elements. Furthermore, defenders may move positions relying upon the player, or the game circumstance to build their odds of sparing runs. While the easygoing spectator may become disappointed by "all the remaining around," in baseball, the more included fan realizes that this time spent between pitches is the place the genuine round of baseball is played. To put it plainly, there is continually "something occurring" during a ball game.

In any case, the commentators who persevere in anxiously drumming their fingers on their knees and yawning over the "moderate pace" of baseball may think that its intriguing to discover that Biderman likewise decided the measure of play activity during a normal expert football match-up. Only 11 minutes.

While it's intriguing to consider these parts of time where baseball is concerned, most fans realize that baseball has unmistakably more to do with timing. To the tenderfoot fan, baseball resembles a game fixated on the pitcher attempting to strike out the player, and the hitter attempting to stay away from such a destiny. In any case, to the prepared eye, the fight among pitcher and hitter is one of sharp basic leadership and split-second planning, an

[lordaeronslost]

What Once Was Broken

Lyyn stood at the back of the crowded meeting room, blending in with the other aides and staff officers as time dwindled down toward the beginning of another round of Command meetings, ones that seemed to go on endlessly from dawn until dusk and sometimes deep into the night.  The appearance of Argus in the skies over Azeroth had done nothing if not whipped the Alliance military into a greater frenzy, one unlike any she could ever remember seeing—even the Cataclysm hadn’t been this bad.  The spy hid in plain sight, dressed in the uniform of a unit of Theramore Irregulars, purportedly an aide to Colonel Nathan Terrace—which she had been in the past, albeit as an agent of her father, now years ago.

“I need quiet in this chamber,” the voice of one of aides-de-camp from Command called from the front of the chamber.  “Quiet in the chamber.  Please find your seats so we can begin.”

The cacophony of voices died down to a quiet murmur, then down to nothing but the sound of scraping chairs and shuffling papers as the assembled found their way to their appointed places—the officers commanding battalions and better at the table, others in the gallery above, and then the aides like her clustered around the walls, notepads and recording implements ready.  It was after their brief mid-morning break and would be hours before they broke for lunch if this followed the usual path of the last few days. Lyyn had managed to gather a bit of information from the meetings—but nowhere near what she’d hoped.

They barely know more than us.  Thank the goddess that Quin’s got my sister’s ear and is getting what the Kirin Tor know out of her.  Her jaw set. If the Alliance and the Kirin Tor didn’t end up on the same page—

Leaving aside the Horde entirely.  This is a fight for all of us, not just one side or the other. We all die together regardless of who hates whom.

There hadn’t been word from Whisper in months and it worried her.

“Sergeant Tulliver, if you please?”

Lyyn blinked, glancing toward the side of the room and the set of small double doors guarded by the sergeant-at-arms who’d been addressed.  The young man gave a short nod and reached for the doors.

“Yes, sir.”

The door swung open and in strode the last person Lyyn expected to see in the chamber.

Jude swept in as regal as a queen, dressed in the dark blue robes of a Kirin Tor battle mage and the darker still tabard of the old Argent Dawn, its silver and gold sun device stark against the blue-black weave of the fabric.  Her decorations for valor and bravery—among other things—were fastened to her pauldrons in the Kirin Tor style.  Her hood was up—also in the Kirin Tor style—though Lyyn could see her sister’s eyes flash dangerously as she strode toward the front of the room.  A few of the officers at the table stiffened, as if surprised—or afraid of what the mage’s presence represented.

She stopped at the foot of the dais where the highest ranking marshals and generals of the Alliance were seated—those that weren’t in the field with their commands—and lifted her chin even as she lowered her hood, flame-red hair spilling over her shoulders. “Present as requested, gentlemen.”

One of the marshals leaned forward, his gaze penetrating, focused.  “Judean Auroran, Viscountess Greymantle.  Unit commander, Argent Crusade.  Kirin Tor battle mage battalion leader.  Former Chancellor of the Retribution of Arathor, a unit of Alliance irregulars commissioned during the leadership of Magni Bronzebeard in the years after the Third War, decommissioned two weeks after the fall of Theramore.  Involved in the campaigns in Outland, Northrend, and against Deathwing.  Present at the defense—and evacuation—of Theramore.”

Jude regarded him with a long, cold look.  “Yes,” she said simply.

“There is a proposal that has been brought forth within High Command that your unit be recommissioned that you be awarded the rank of full Commander and all the rights and privileges involved.  You will retain autonomy over the decisions for your unit and undertake missions and assignments as you see fit but will have all the authority, rights, and responsibilities of a unit of Alliance irregulars.”

Lyyn pressed her spine against the wall, her stomach dropping.

She wouldn’t—would she?

Jude was silent for a few long moments.  “I see. And when was High Command intending to inform me of this proposal?”

“We are informing you of it now,” another of the marshals said.

“That you are,” Jude said, her voice low and deadly.  “In front of half of Command and their staffs, you inform a military leader that maybe, just maybe, you intend to recommission her unit, one that was utterly shattered by a singular tragedy, one whose members are now long retired or reassigned. I imagine that you expect me to reform a unit of the same effectiveness and fighting strength as before, correct?”

“That was our hope,” the second marshal said.

The mage’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps you hope in vain.  It would not be as you imagine it would be.”

“Not all of us are under the same illusion, Viscountess,” the first marshal said quietly.  “You can trust in that.”

“Can I?”

He nodded, once.  “Yes.  Yes, you can.”

“Very well,” Jude said. “But I think you realize that this is not a decision I can make lightly or without full knowledge of what is expected. Please send a copy of the proposal including all addendums by courier to Dalaran as quickly as possible.  I will review the proposal and provide you with my answer.”  She gave them a sharp nod, her shoulders square.  “Good-day, gentlemen.”

With that, she pivoted on her heel and walked out, lifting her hood as she went, leaving the assembly in stunned silence in her wake.

OOC note:

Anyone may feel free to respond or react to this that would have a way of hearing about it.  It’s the beginning of something larger for Jude Auroran, a military commander still wrestling with some demons of her past--and what her future might hold.  Trying to get a little more RP rolling for the Soldier of Seeker, Soldier, Spies and this seemed like a good option.  Available on Tumblr here or in game upon request unless you see me online, then just poke me!

[iamnotadamnedmonkey]

Hey Mikell ya old fart, can you tell us some of your rowdy adventures as Agent Cowboy?

His name was Albert Smith, and he was the Spirit of Peace. So, I killed him.

Well, that’s what he claimed anyways. Called himself Brother Earth, and said the hippies were his children, his idea. I’m not sure why anyone would want to claim that, so I’ve never really doubted him.

I was still an agent then, back in the Sixties. They called me the best of the best, though I like to think I didn’t have a swelled head. Like my Father before me, I fought against a horde of self-named terrors, people and creatures who had come into some modicum of power through freak accident, or sometimes, hard work, and sought to use those powers to subjugate the human race. It was before my younger brother died, but after we’d had to lock up the youngest.

It was an… interesting time. The Foundation had stopped trying to make deals, or live alongside these monstrosities, and started putting them away for good. No more seeing what we could use, now was the time to put things away, and put them away hard. If we couldn’t contain them, they had to go, for the safety of mankind.

I can remember some of them, when I stop and think about it. The ones that they sent me to… finish. I was the Foundation’s hired gun, their executioner, walking up and down in the world, and meting out justice to those who deserved it. The names of the dead read like a list of late night horror matinees. The Shrieking Sister. Crawling Mentality. Danny Devious, the Deadly Diva. The Winter Wolf. All of them had been powers and principalities in their own right. All of them brought low under the barrel of my gun.

I had a gimmick. I hate to admit it now, in a time when we strive to not stand out. When one agent needs to be as bland and unobservable as any other. Some days, I regret the need for it, the need to iron out the strident personalities, but it helps, you know? If it feels like you’re facing down a monolith of uniformity, you start feeling burnt out quicker, and find it harder to keep fighting. I understand why the Council did, but sometimes, I miss the quirky ones. Hell. They’ll take my hat from me when they pry it from my cold, dead hands, no matter how much they whine that it doesn’t fit the theme.

My gimmick was a whole southern theme. A long slow drawl, a tendency to slur my speech, and, of course, the proper accouterments. My deed name was known to show up in the most unusual of places, and very few people linked the Southerner who could wear a suit to the Foundation's terror. I could blend in damn near anywhere, and immediately make friends. Even if I had to kill them.

I got the order to take out Brother Peace on a day like any other. If I recall correctly, I was relaxing at the ranch, a hard won break after dismantling the Scarlet Ghoulade. I remember, I was surprised that I was being offered the mission by Six. Usually, I got orders from a handler, or occasionally, my father. Six was the second member of the Council I had met, and he didn’t impress.

Six was a big man. Fat. The kind of fat you get by never doing anything. He was dressed in a silk black suit, and sweating in the heat before the choppers rotors had even stopped moving. If it had been a normal agent, or my usual handler, I would have given him shit for landing so close to the cattle pens, scaring my stock, but one look at this guy was more than enough to tell he had no sense of humor.

“Agent Vivid?” he asked, like he would’ve disembarked without knowing exactly who I was. I nodded my assent.

“That’s one of the names they call me. Can I help you mistah…” Letting my voice trail off, for him to fill in the blank.

“Six.” He said it like he expected a reaction from me, like I was suddenly supposed to kowtow before his great and mighty self. I shrugged, and stuck a dogeared cigarette in my mouth, taking the time to strike a match and light it. When he saw I wasn’t going to respond, he continued. “I am here with a mission of, utmost importance. We have a rogue asset that we need you to remove, immediately.” Always with the double speak, and weasel words. I just nodded my head, ready for him to continue.

He shoved a manila folder into my hands, clearly uncomfortable under my gaze. “Everything you need to know is here. The target is unrecoverable. It is to be removed with extreme prejudice, do you understand?” He wrung his fat hands together, more nervous than a hen at a meeting of Coyotes Anonymous.

I flipped through the briefing, picking up the important bits, here and there. Absently, as I took a drag on my smoke, and mostly just to annoy this man who was grating on my nerves, I drawled. “He.”

“What?” He looked at me like I was a bit of dung on the bottom of his shoe. I wasn’t going to tell him he’d already stepped in a pile when he got off the bird.

“You said it.” I flipped up a picture of the soon to be deceased. “Target’s a he.”

"Ah, no, Policy change. We've found it allows our researchers to experiment with less sense of guilt."

I pondered taking a stand. Doing something brave and stupid, like shooting a hole in his stupid coat, or spitting in his face. It’s the type of thing my admirers will tell you I did do. Sadly, I’ve always been a Company man, so I just lazily saluted, and stalked off. I could hear him blustering behind me, like I should have given him more, but I didn’t really care that much. I heard the chopper take off as I was grabbing my to-go bag. Thank god. I was happy years later when the fat man got torn apart. Less happy when they picked me to replace him.

I didn’t pack much. I never do. I’ve always been a little impetuous. Not planning, that’s the plan. The paperwork said Smith had run away from Site 19. Well, walked away. His particular little reality twist was that no one could take violent actions in his presence. Guns didn’t fire. Bombs didn’t explode. People refused to wield knives. He’d been real good at keeping the D-class in line, until something made him run.

Repeated readings of the info packet gave me no reason behind why he should run. Guess it didn’t really matter, but I do like a little inside knowledge of who I’m working on. Info said he’d found himself a little commune in California, and quickly risen to Godhood, at least in the eyes of the hippies there. I don’t normally fit in to hippy culture, but that was easy enough to fix. Let my hair hang loose, don’t shave for a couple of days, switch my jean shirt for a leather vest, and bam, instant hippy. The cowboy hat may have been a bit off, but I never worked without it. And of course, my trusty ivory-handled six shooters. I never go anywhere without them.

Getting into the commune was easy too. Just a matter of walking up to the gates, and saying I wanted to study with the master. I wasn’t the only one. Hundreds of people had started flocking to this place, having heard that Brother Earth was the new Guru of True Peace, or some shit like that. The guys at the entrance just waved me in, not worried about guns, or anything else.

I listened to Smith preach for a while. It wasn’t anything new, or different. A couple of times it sounded like he was talking about the Foundation itself. The Walls of Ignorance, the Jailers, the usual tripe you hear from those bastards in the Hand. I figured some of them had slipped into his retinue. I didn’t care. It wasn’t my job to look into that stuff.

Instead, I walked the camp, finding all the ins and outs. His sleeping place, the gardens, the quickest path away. It looked pretty simple. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. I knew I could kill him at any time, and walk away in the confusion, but…

So, I snuck into his tent that night. People were in and out all the time, asking his favor, kissing his ass, sucking his dick. All the girls wanted to screw him, and all the boys wanted… much the same. Everyone gets tired, and he was no exception. Round about the time his close people were sending everyone away, I was slipping into the back. So when the good Brother Earth finally got around to heading to sleep, I was already sitting in his bed.

“I’m sorry my child,” he said, with a sleepy smile. “I am already exhausted, I need no company tonight.”

“But the Foundation misses you, Albert,” I replied with cool aplomb.

He paused then, looking me over, really taking me in. The sleep left his eyes, but he didn’t seem worried. “So. The Hand Sinister of the Council Itself. Come to drag me back to your den of depravity and evil, hmm?”

I arched an eyebrow at him, smirking despite myself. “After watching you and your followers, I believe you have the market cornered on depravity, Albert.”

“Brother Earth!” he hissed. “I am Brother Earth. And I am not going back. I have seen what they have done to those poor, deluded fools, and I will not be part of it.” He strode towards me, glaring down at me in a poor attempt to intimidate me. “And you can’t make me go back.”

“I’m not here to make you go back, Al. They don’t want you back. They want you dead.” He waved me off, as if I was inconsequential. “I’m just curious as to why you ran in the first place. You must have known they’d kill you.”

“I ran because… Because I am the Spirit of Peace. I was born on this world to help mankind grow, to turn their back on their murderous ways. I am here as a promise, that the Earth has not forgotten her children, that we can live together. We do not need to kill each other to survive, we can work together!” He stabbed a finger at me, glaring imperiously. “And you can do nothing to stop me, Hand Sinister!”

I hated that name. Of all the code names I had, that one always struck me as the dumbest. Hell, just calling me Left Hand would’ve been better. I was frustrated, and bored, so I shot him in the foot.

He dropped to the ground, shock written on his face.

“How… how…” He gasped, unbelieving. I grinned, absently stroking the handle of my revolver. I could have told him the guns were special made, I could have let him know who the bone that was inset in the handle was actually from… But I don’t monologue. I simply lowered my gun to press against his forehead. He shivered, clearly afraid, his eyes crossed to look at the gun barrel.

I noticed some of his people pushing into the tent. They froze, staring dumbfounded at the scene, and I ignored them. The biggest one stepped forward, then stopped, the veins standing out on his neck.

“I know! I know what they do to the D-class, I saw what they fed them to! I would not be that thing, not anymore! Kill me if you must, but-” And I shot him. I’d heard enough, and he was just going to keep ranting, hoping someone would save him. Better to end it now, when I had what I needed. The big guy dropped to his knees, tears in his eyes. The rest of his followers ran in terror, expecting to be next. I couldn't help but pat the big man on the shoulder as I left. After all, he did his best.

I left the same way I came in. No one stopped me. I could hear the wailing rise as I passed through the front gate. My admirers would have said I smiled, but death is never something to smile about. I heard they enshrined him, hoping the peace effect would linger. Good luck, I say.

Six was grateful for my actions. Gave me a raise. And the standard admonition not to talk about it with anyone.

When I became O5 in his place they told me what they did to the D-class. I didn’t like it any more than old Albert had. The difference is, I didn’t run away. I did what I always do. I studied the problem. I set pieces in motion. Everything I’ve done since then, the increase in containments, the Keter breach in 19, the up scaling of the MTFs, and, yes, even Pandora’s Box, all of it has been towards the goal of removing something most of the Council still sees as a vital necessity.

And you are the last part, the very last piece I need. A very special blood flows in you, Miss Argent, my brothers blood, and, more importantly, you’ve had all the training you need. So tell me.

Will you take up my guns?

http://www.scp-wiki.net/rip

[nmp-rebeccacallaghan]

30/03/17 - Tutorials

During today’s tutorial I showed Matt the photoshoots that I had done in the two weeks since we last met. Matt really liked the portraits and praised me in terms of how far I have come and what I have achieved, considering I don’t class myself as a portrait photographer. For additional research for the project Matt suggested on looking at the final outcome and how I would want to present it. As I want my photographs to be quite large, perhaps life size Matt suggested that I create a test strip which featured the faces of people in my photographs, and I should also consider what paper I would want to use. As well as printing Matt was asking what framing, if I was to frame my work what would it be, and to think about colour, depth and glass. To research this Matt suggested that I go to the Manchester Art Gallery and to have a look at the exhibition ‘Strange and Familiar’ which was curated by Martin Parr. 

Seeing as I had nothing to do today in University apart from the 30 minute meeting I had with Matt I decided I would do all of what Matt had suggested today. 

First of all I went to the printing room in university and tried to print some test strips off. When doing this I had to resize my image to roughly 6 foot high, which is 182cm by doing Image > Image size and then entering 182cm into the height box and keeping the resolution at 300. After this I had to crop the face of the photograph and paste it onto an A3 size page on Photoshop.

I also added a few of the other participant faces on to the page in order to see how they would look printed.

When printing I printed on Satin paper (270) and found that the image wasn’t as clear as I liked and looked a bit digital, so I decided to change the sizing from 6 foot, to 5 foot. 

Even when changing the sizing to 5 foot I found that the images still weren’t as clear as I’d like them to be so I will be trying to print the photograph at 4 foot. 

After the printing room closed for dinner I decided to go to the Manchester Art Gallery to go to the exhibition ‘Strange and Familiar’ curated by Martin Parr which displayed work from international photographers and how they perceived Britain. At the gallery I was focusing on the prints, how they were framed and displayed, I only had my mobile phone so some of the photographs aren’t amazing quality. Below are contact sheets of my photographs and I will be picking out certain photographs and talking about the framing/displaying. 

I found a lot of the photograph had a thin black frame which is often the preferred choice of photographers as it isn’t too distracting from the photograph. Also it depends on the colour of the wall, if the colour of the wall is black and so is the frame then it can help the photograph stand out on the wall.

Bruce Gilden

My favourite work in the exhibition had to be Bruce Gilden’s portrait series, the large scale portraits scream to you as soon as you turn the first corner of the exhibition, their large colourful nature drew my eyes straight to the selection of portraits. What I enjoy about Gilden’s portraits is that they are largely unflattering with their immense quality, you can see all the little imperfections and pores on the person’s face. As well as the photographs the frames are slim and white which worked really well because of the colour of the wall which let the image stand out. Although the frames do stick out and make the photograph known it also isn’t too distracting and blends into the wall to give the photograph all of the attention. 

Hans Eijkelboom

Additionally a piece of work in the exhibition that really corresponds with my project is that of Hans Eijkelboom. In his work ‘ People of the Twenty-First Century’ he looks at the relationship between appearance and identity in contemporary society. In the writing which came with the work it states ‘Eijkelboom focuses on the ways in which clothing and behaviour construct and reflect our place within society, as individuals and as members of subgroups and communities.’ This is saying that Eijkelboom looks at the clothing we wear and how we behave gives us our place within society, and that everyone, including those who are known to be in subgroups all adhere to a dress code within society. Eijkelboom’s repetitiveness makes you question whether there is such a thing as individuality, or are we destined to be alike? I feel like Eijkelboom’s series shows us that we all wear a uniform, whether we know it or not and it is often constructed by what society wants us to wear, and what clothing is popular. What was also interesting about Eijkelboom’s work is the way that it was displayed, the photographs were being projected in a small room onto a screen which was on a constant loop. I feel that the way that Eijkelboom has chosen to display his work was a really clever way of visually showing repetitiveness with the constant loop of his photographs.

Rineke Dijkstra 

Another one of my favourite photographers was featured in this exhibition which I was really pleased about, Rineke Dijkstra’s series ‘The Buzz Club’ which involved photographing young women in Liverpool’s club, ‘The Buzz Club’. The series involved setting up a makeshift studio in the back of the club and asking the attendees to pose for her, out of all the women who posed for her she picked three images to make up her series. In the written aspect of Dijkstra’s work she speaks about why she chose these three women in particular, it states ‘She chose three to form the series, drawn to the way the three young women were wearing a kind of uniform, with their blonde hair, and dark clothes, but were still completely individual. Dijkstra says of her work ‘People think that they present themselves one way, but it is impossible to have everything under control’... The three women standing in for a vast community of adolescent clubbers who are more often depicted as a foolish or dangerous horde, rather than individuals worth of focused attention.’ In this quote Dijkstra is taking about the way she perceives these club goers as wearing a uniform to go out in as that is what is expected when you go on a night out, and that even though they all wear similar clothing they are all individuals, they’re all different people. Additionally the way that Dijkstra talks about how these women are wanting to present themselves in a certain manner but it is impossible to control everything I feel is about their individuality and that although they are wanting to be perceived as a club goer and that they must dress in this certain manner to fit in but their own individuality will always shine through. The really important part in this extract to me is the way Dijkstra talks about the ‘women standing in for a vast community of adolescent clubbers who are more often depicted as a foolish or dangerous horde, rather than individuals worth of focused attention.’ I feel that this is really important as it shows that these clubbers are often thought of as foolish or dangerous who are often not given any attention, like the metal community but Dijkstra saw past that and realised that these subcultures are special and should be documented. I really love this extract as it backs up everything that I was trying to portray in my work.

Also the way that these photographs are framed was quite disappointing to me, I feel like the photographs got lost in all the white of the card and the white/grey frame as well as the white/grey background in the photograph itself almost drowned out the photograph, however due to all of these dull colours the subject in the photograph really stood out and perhaps that is what Dijkstra was wanting, as in her text she said that these people were worthy of focused attention, and your eyes do go right to the subject in the photograph, giving them the attention the deserve. 

Axel Hutte 

Another photographer in the exhibition which interested me was Axel Hutte, I had never heard of him before but in the writing next to his photographs it said he was a graduate from Dusselforf School of Photography which immediately attracted me as I knew he would be focusing on repetition like the Bechers. The series was about documenting London’s social housing estates, and with the precision and neutral tones provided my an overcast sky results in quite dull looking but interesting architecture. Hutte’s work didn’t disappoint and I feel like this was relevant to my work mainly because my photographs are quite repetitive as they are all portraits whilst using the same lens, the same height of the tripod, the same focusing points and with the same agenda. Additionally the use of flat lighting within these photographs are what I was trying to replicate in my series which is why I thought it would be useful to look at Hutte’s work. 

Shinro Ohtake

Another photographer’s work which caught my eye was that of Shinro Ohtake, not because of the subject of his work, but how he presented it. However Ohtake’s work was mainly him trying to document what a foreign country was like, and the lifestyle. As well as photographs Ohtake’s work included scrap books filled with mundane British objects like transport tickets and sweet wrappers, something fascinating to someone who had never seen anything like it. Ohtake had his work displayed in a grid formation and had no frames, but were attached by what appears to be magnets. I like how raw the images look, and that they are just there, however an issue that I have with this method is that the prints weren’t mounted and they appear distorted as the paper has not been pulled tight before the images were placed on the wall. However the reason for this could be deliberate because Ohtake’s experience when first visiting England could have been very distorting and strange for someone who had never experienced western society and wanted to replicate this in the way that the photographs have been displayed.

When thinking about framing I was unsure mainly about what certain frames would be suitable for different photographs, I decided to research into the art of framing and found a 2014 article on the Independent which featured an interview with Keith Andrews, a ‘Framing expert in the art world’ so I decided to have a look and see how he frames certain photographs. Below is an extract from the article:

‘Take cue from your picture - Frequently framers will identify a dominant colour within the artwork, print or photograph and replicate it in the frame. For example, to intensify a sombre-coloured painting I would choose a dark colour. Also, the subject can be used as inspiration for the frame. A typical approach to framing a seascape or beach scene would be to use rough-looking wood with jointed corners and a speckled or whitewash finish.’ 

From this extract I would be tempted to have my frames black as that is the most dominant colour throughout all of the photographs, as every single one of my participants are wearing black. However due to the nature of this project being about challenging the negative perceptions placed upon the metal community I feel that black would be an obvious colour and reinforce connection of the colour black with the metal community. 

Another extract below talks about coloured frames and white perspex boxes:

‘Think inside the box - Because a coloured frame has a great presence and is dominant over the painting, it is easy to get it wrong. But a neutral frame rarely fails. A white Perspex box frame is very simple and there is an honesty to it because it shows the whole work and all of the paper or canvas. The artwork has to be interesting, though.’ 

In this extract Andrews talks about how coloured frames tend to be distracting and overbearing, which is possibly why I didn’t see any at the exhibition, additionally despite wanting to challenge perceptions placed upon the metal community I don’t think a coloured frame would suit my series, referring back to what Andrews says about finding a dominant colour in the photograph, there would be different colours dominant in each different photograph so that would mean different photographs would have different coloured frames. I don’t think having coloured frames would work for my series and if I was to use coloured frames I feel the series would look really unprofessional. 

However the idea of having my photographs in a white perspex box sounds promising as I like how Andrew talks about it being honest, which is what I want my work to be, and it is simple and wouldn’t take too much away from the photograph. As my project shows individuals belonging to the metal community just how they are and them being themselves I feel like I would want my photographs to convey honesty, however I feel it would be an issue and costly to get 4 foot high white perspex boxes, and at least 5 of them. 

I’m unsure whether I would like to use frames at all, as when I was at Manchester Art Gallery I really liked Shinro Ohtake’s simple images and how they didn’t have a frame, the fact that there was no frame made the images interesting amongst the many that did have frames. I feel like having no frame would be appropriate for my work as it is quite confrontational of the print to just be on its own, and I want my images to be confronting the viewer and challenging their beliefs. Additionally I didn’t want my images to be dressed up as something that they’re not, which links to the subjects of my images having to dress up in a uniform that takes away who they are. 

[mirovoi1]

Embarking on a Massive Journey

(March 25 2017. I’m sitting on a balcony in the spring sunshine in the middle of Anatolia, almost at the end of my trip)

22,000kms of driving, three continents, twenty+ countries over a span of six months with many hours to contemplate life itself, the natural world and more importantly, human beings and the world that they think they live in.

Over the course of three seasons; an autumn, a winter and a spring, my gray Nissan Primera station wagon and I snaked our way across many mountain ranges; the Transylvanian and Swiss Alps, the Pyrenees, Caucasus and Atlas Mountains, through snow and sunshine, fog and potholes. We followed the Mediterranean coastline and slept on beaches on the Black Sea. We lay awake on the sand looking up at the stars above listening to the surf crash down on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. We had afternoon naps in the sun in deep valley gorges, under palm trees in desert oases and in sleepy village parks. I fed the car petrol, and it fed me the chance to dream. Together we came face to face with exotic and thought-provoking places and vocabulary such as the Sahara Desert. Europe. Cappadocia. Communism. The Middle East. The Côte d’Azur. Dracula. Africa. Islam. Asia. Nazi Concentration Camps. Casablanca... I gave the car oil changes, and the car gave me changes in perception...

(My buddy in action - Nissan Primera from Georgia)

But putting big numbers, fancy names and poetic writing aside, it was one quite incredible journey. As I went along everything seamlessly blended into another leaving me feeling that I had made three key discoveries: 1> despite differences, everything is the same. 2> Nothing is ever what it appears to be 3> Reality is all in the head; it does not exist.

So, is this what I got from this trip? After traipsing around for six months I come to the table with nothing but three little sentences? Yes, for the essay at least, as this is because I believe they may just be the what religious scripts have been trying to say in their eight thousand pages. Oh, yeah, and ‘love one another’ (that’s their one) – ‘love your life’ would be my one…

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, my stories of travelling never include recommendations of where to go, what to see and what to eat, because who the f**k cares. One could be dressed to the nines, pretending to be as rich as or richer than the next fake person on board a luxury cruise liner, meanwhile having a shit time vomiting over each wave. On the other hand, one could find extreme pleasure with a stick of bread on a park bench. Instinctively, different things appeal to different people and that’s the reason recommendations don’t really work and it is always the mood of the moment that makes or breaks it. Recommendations also set people up for expectations and disappointment and we don’t want any of that here. Besides this, if one really needs recommendations for everything it means one’s been lazy to seek out what would appeal to them personally. Or worse still, is that they are displaying self-unawareness and still have a way to go in knowing their true desires and the reason they were born into this world…

(I am sitting at the table enjoying a Turkish coffee and Little Maryann comes along and asks me to recommend something to do in Europe) Me in reply: “There’s a public carpark in central Milan where there’s this big Nigerian guy and if you give him a couple of euro he keeps the police away from your car (it’s cheaper than paying per hour in the parking machine). I would quite appreciate it if you would cure my curiosity about how he manages to do this. If you really want a modern day European experience, well, there are more dark, tall and tough immigrants around than Eiffel Towers these days, and figuring out what is going on there will be more useful to society than a selfie with a baguette. Little Maryann, recommendations are out of fashion, go make your own discoveries and come back and share with me what you have found! What you discover alone will be of the most value.“

(Little Maryann didn’t quite grasp what I was getting at) Me: “Well, Little Maryann, if you want a couple of stories and if I must, a ‘recommendation’, then here you go: you could visit the famous Sagrada Família, a big Roman Catholic basilica in Barcelona – I visited it! As for a story that is more interesting, then this will be a suitable one. One afternoon my driver’s side window decided it was going to stay down and not come back up. Well, that’s not OK, because when you’re travelling you never really have any safe place to park a car and you do not want to leave the windows down when you’re not there and all your stuff is inside. What made it worse is that it was Sunday and even worse than that was it happened in France. And what’s even worse than that was it was raining that Sunday in France. And even worse than that is the frickin’ French don’t work on Sundays. And even more unfortunate is I was driving along the Mediterranean coast and I was not only getting blasted through the window by wind and rain, but by sea waves too.”

(Little Maryann’s expression is like ‘so what?’) Me: “Little Maryann, if we look into these two activities we come to a conclusion. The Sagrada Família has taken 135 years to build (and is still not finished), but to me, on that particular day, it was a worthless tacky looking piece of revered junk which pissed me off for wasting my time queuing up and paying for. I took no photos of it! I wondered if I was being an arrogant spoilt brat for even having negative thoughts toward something so overly ‘recommended’, or whether I should feel guilty denying my camera a look for itself, but it is ugly, Little Maryann, just like the look on your face right now. One thing I do not do is hum and ha over something just because that’s what all the other people do. One lesson humans have given me is that if one behaves like the masses, one doesn’t often get very far.”

(Little Maryann begins to smirk and looks intrigued) Me: “So, if I must make a ‘recommendation’, which one shall I recommend? The Sagrada família in the Spanish sunshine with hordes of gits dressed in socks and sandals with their tour guide telling them how brilliant it isn’t… Or driving with a wet shoulder and lazy, emotional window, that is obviously trying to be French? The answer is clearly the latter. The experience of tolerating a cold shoulder brings more rewards than marveling over an object, particularly a big Christian stalagmite that should be moved back to a cave somewhere”

(Little Maryann gives a little giggle and after relieving me of my last drops of coffee, she leaves)

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You might not have given it much thought, but windows can also bring very important lessons on 1> Creativity. (Trying to bag up a window in the wind. (Hint: it doesn’t work!) 2> Communication: (How can I shout: “Someone please stop the rain!” in French, and 3> Problem solving skills (“If I twist the car up this curb facing that direction with that tree there will that keep the seat dry?”) But the Sagrada Família might do it for you if it was safety you were seeking. But if you it was safety you were seeking, then you probably would not have left your front doorstep in the first place. So, if you’re seeking life’s real adventures, leave the Sagrada Família to the art lovers and geologists, and seek out something scarier (other than socks and sandals). If you’re going to get anything out of travelling (or life), then it should not, by any means, be easy! You don’t need to go far to have a stick of bread on a park bench to feel happy and probably less far to find a window to learn from, but the advantage of travelling is that it brings new ideas that may have otherwise never come to mind.

This facetious window, taught me about the power of women - It took a woman three seconds to fix it after asking two random men to help - both of whom had no clue what to do with it. Somehow her magic female hands managed to slide it up and I still don’t understand how, because I definitely tried that, and so did the other two men. I also now finally understand why Romance languages (i.e. French and Spanish) divide nouns into feminine and masculine genders - la fenêtre (French for window), la ventana (Spanish for window and ‘la’ being the feminine form of ‘the’) may possibly prove that windows share feminine traits of being both vicious and emotional – the early Europeans were clearly on to something there). I also learnt about what the French and windows have in common – they obviously don’t like working. Life could also be viewed like a window; sort of as transparent or murky as the owner allows it to be, as open or closed as the owner chooses it to be, or as friendly or bitchy as the window itself decides to be.

But jokes to piss off the PC police aside, ‘travel’ is an abstract idea. For me, I can no longer distinguish between what’s ‘travel’ and what’s ‘daily life’, and what’s ‘work’ and what’s ‘fun’ because they are intertwined, as they should be. I’m not a fan of tacky clichés (because clichés are like religions that have been so overused that the real meaning has been lost), but, here goes, ‘life is a journey’ (ew!) really has some sense to it. Unfortunately, though, despite life’s rain and windows that many people may have battled against, they still live their days more like a trip to the Sagrada Família… following the masses in their uniforms admiring stalagmites in disguise. Or in other words, putting emphasis on the most insignificant things and being blind to the most important things.

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Now I think Little Maryann may have got the point. It’s almost nightfall and I’m still here on the balcony, and I can see her in the distance stumbling up the side of a hill in the direction of the moon. I don’t know where she is going but maybe she’s on her way to discovering something of her own. Well, she’s packed her bag and not in socks and sandals, so there’s a good start. But she never mentioned anything about a hill, not least how to climb, why to climb or which hill to climb. She is just going. She’s just doing it. Maybe she’s on her way to the Milan carpark in Nigerian custody to get some answers? Or maybe she’s just trying to get the f**k away from me… She could possibly be on her way to the Sagrada Família to form her own opinions of it, and fair enough! But I don’t need to know. I could shout at her to come back and give an explanation, but she probably doesn’t fully know either. A person is never quite sure what they are looking for, so I’ll just let the world flow because that’s what the world does best. Little Maryann, like everyone, is in pursuit of her own window to battle against, her own waves to vomit over, her own goals to fulfil. In the meantime, that black hill under the moonlight can be as dark or as bright as she wants it to be, she will determine that. But she seems to be on the right path and I hope she will come back someday with her own stories to share.

[ecotone99]

[SP] Mariana's Dreams Ch 5

[Ch 1 - 4 here](https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/h8xcvk/sp_marianas_dreams_part_1/)

Preface: (not included in previous post):

On a cold Monday afternoon there is a small girl playing alone at a bus stop. She's older than she looks, and she has noticed that recently she has been running into strange people more often than not. People that want to hurt her, or take things from her. However she looks at it, it all works out the same. She has disrupted something. Some balance. And it is like the entire cosmos is rising up in mutated forms to stop her. Either that or perhaps she just moved up a grade and is now more aware of what's going in the world, and the world is really sick.

She doesn't remember when it started exactly but she can swear that it happened after she started dreaming. That is the only thing that changed. Because before that, she had never dreamt a night in her life. And then one day the curtains were opened and there was new world before eyes. A world so much like her own that sometimes she would see both worlds blend together in ways that were more frightening than she liked. After it began it never ended. And she began to wonder if there was any difference between the two.

Her parents are here to pick her up from school and drive to a family gathering in New Mexico. She doesn't want to go because she dreamt that she would never make it. She dreamt that she was eaten by rats on the side of the road a long, long ways from home.

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Chapter 5:

As Nathan gazed starry eyed up into that cosmos up there, he wondered about where all the aliens were. He knew they were probably out there, zooming around in their fleets of organic spacecrafts or something. But if that was true why weren't they here? Why wasn't he already beaming up there like in Star Trek, and accelerating towards Jupiter at half the speed of light? Shouldn't there be at least a whisper? At least one sign that they're here?

And then he thinks of somebody giving a small child an extension cord and an electrical socket and advising them to figure it out.

They probably didn't want to be seen.

"Nathaaaan!"

His mom was calling out for him. He rolled out of his hammock like a true professional and landed on his feet, it felt like he had just done a wicked trick on his skateboard. There was a light sprinkle everywhere, and humungous clouds hung lowly in the air like massive gray sponges.

When he went through the backdoor to his kitchen he saw the warm food was already laid on the table. His mom sat down and he sat across from her. His little sister crawled up onto a chair and stood just a couple feet off it.

She gleefully yelled "Food! Food! Food!" and stomped her little pink fists on the table with about as much vigor as a viking demanding mead in the Halls of Valhalla.

"That's right cupcake!" His mom said to her "we have mash potatoes here" she pointed, and before her mother could say another word the girl interrupted

"Ya! Mash Tatoes!"

She got a good scoop with a gracious amount of gravy and began wolfing it down with that delicious sense of delight that is only found in small toddlers.

Nathan was already helping himself to the food as well. He packed on a couple of turkey legs, stuffing, and about twenty eight pounds of mash potatoes with avalanches of gravy bubbling over the top.

They were all very quiet for a few minutes as they worked their way through the hard task of putting away a thanksgiving dinner with more food to eat than either three could possibly consume, but which nevertheless made everything much more exciting. The bubbling sodas in their cups made Nathan feel like he was at a carnival.

"So did you apply at the movie theatre yet?" His mom asked.

Nathan was just old enough to get his first job. He had applied at the local theatre that played B rated films and scary movies. It was his job to sell candy and popcorn and clean up after the hordes of mongrels that rushed in and made everything a disaster. It was unbelievable when he really thought about it. How could people be so gross? At one moment they were dressed up nicely, working at a bank, and then afterwards they brought their kids to the movies and treated it like their own personal litter box. Did they actually throw popcorn all over their house and dump soda and slushies all over their floors? What kind of mass hysteria came over people when they were all mashed together staring dumbly at a big screen?

"I started yesterday." he answered his mom.

"Oh that's nice." She took another bite off her plate, and after chewing asked "How do you like it so far?" She held up her fork.

Nathan knew how he liked it. It was weird and gross. The theatre gave him the creeps. It's large spaces and dark corners, the long curtains and the creepy projector camera that cast a ghostly light, all of it made him feel like he was on the edge of something bad when nobody was around and he had to correct the film reels. He had already done every job there on his first day. It was exhausting. He wasn't looking forward to growing up if this is what he had to look forward to.

After they finished dinner Nathan put his dishes in the sink and then prepared for bed because tomorrow he had day 2 after the holidays.

The next day he was up at 8am, threw on his shoes and his uniform and forgot to take a shower because he was so anxious about his second day. He was thinking about using the cash register again. He hated it last time because he forgot how to add up the change for some reason. An elderly woman was glaring at him as he fumbled around with the change, trying to subtract the total amount from what she gave him, which suddenly seemed like an impossible problem he was trying to solve on an abacus he had never learned how to use.

"$2.51" he gave her back and she just stood there with a little glob of spit on the bottom of her lip.

"$2.59" she said in a deadpan voice.

"Oh sorry, yeah here" and then he dropped eight cents into her hand. He didn't actually know if she was right, he just wanted her to leave. And he was grateful that he could at least count to eight.

The theatre was making him stupider too, he thought darkly.

He was walking over to work now. Even saying that phrase made him feel a year older.

And then there was Mr Edison, who always made him feel like he was a little kid at show and tell, one who stands up and takes out the thing from their backpack, and when they expose it to the crowd they can see from the look on everyone's faces, with heavy embarrassment, that what they brought was foolish and made them look very stupid. What child would not want to sit down sadly by themselves and gloom over the failure?

He could never do anything right on that first day. Mr Eddison kept jabbering at him about how to do it a different way. He wasn't sweeping right, he gave someone too much soda, did he really drop out of school when he was in first grade because he couldn't figure out where the syrup went in the soda machine.

No, Mr Eddison, he wanted to say, but it sounds like you sure did.

He was at the heavy glass doors now and was looking at a poster about superheroes. He thought it was the same one he saw a few days ago, but then he noticed there were small changes in it. Some of the people were missing. And one of them had missing a head. He thought that was weird because it didn't seem to fit, and he didn't think there was someone without a head in the movie. He had seen it at least 4 times that day.

Nathan gave a little prayer of thanks that Mr Eddison was not at the glass panels where people bought tickets, he was usually over there wearing his creepy black mustache and round glasses, looking like a member of the gestapo rifling through a dreadful clipboard.

Nate was only two minutes late but he didn't think Mr Eddison would use the word 'only' to describe this travesty. So he bustled in looking as serious as a lawyer on wall street, and took his post behind the cash register.

It was still very early so he wasn't expecting a lot of people to come in, and fortunately he didn't have to work the night shift which would bring in more people than wood stock, he thought wisely, as if reading about it was like being there.

But then someone did walk in and Nathan cursed under his lips about how the universe wouldn't give him just a couple minutes to get prepared.

She was a girl, maybe a year younger than him, with light brown skin, and eyes that seemed focused on everything they saw. Those eyes were so brown they were almost purple.

They were purple.

Nathan blinked. No, they were brown.

"Hey!" she said to him happily.

"H-Hi." he stuttered "Uh-what could I get you".

It was then that he saw Mr Eddison walk around a corner, behind her, and then pass out of sight.

But that couldn't be right, it looked like Mr Eddison had a tail sticking out of the back of his pants. A thick black tail that had something like an arrow at the end of it like he was a dinosaur stuffed into human clothes. Nate saw how it swayed back and forth like a flagellum, and then he was gone.

Okay Nate, you need to take it easy, he thinks to himself. He was way too anxious about his second day.

The girl asked "Can I get a Snickers?"

Nate handed her the snickers and took her money, it was exact change, and when he put it in the register and looked back up, she was gone.

He was going to ask her what movie she was watching. Something in him wanted to talk to her. She seemed nice. And he was a little sad that she hadn't stayed a moment longer. Then when he looked down on the dollar bill, still in the open cash register, instead of seeing George Washington, it was the girl's face staring up at him, and there was something bound over her mouth. Her eyes looked terrified. And in black marker, written in large straight letters, it said

"Find Me"

And then he flipped the dollar bill over and on the back side, written again in black letters,

"News"

Nathan woke up to his alarm. It was squealing like his room was on fire. He smacked at it and wiped the sleep out of his eyes, thinking about that girl. It was time for work. He had to hustle. So this time he really did get over there, at least he hoped so.

He had read about false awakenings and it kind of scared him, but it scared him about as much as it fascinated him too.

This wasn't the first time it happened. Sometimes he would wake up at least three times before actually doing so. And each time he was back in the same world but it was twisted in a different way. His mom might walk into to wake him up and when he opened his eyes she didn't have a face. Or he'd hear his sister fall down the stairs and running out, cringing at each loud thump, he'd see her down at the bottom. Each time it jolted him into another false awakening, like rolling ever over the wheel of Samsara.

Maybe the false awakenings were behind this anxiety, he speculated, as he stepped through real doors leading into the theatre. Or perhaps he really didn't want to have a job. He didn't want to grow up. Could anyone blame him?

For the second time he thought about that girl. She had seemed different than other parts of the dream. The two of them were the only clear things in a room that was blurry and ever changing. Who was she?

He started to feel silly thinking so seriously about a girl in his dreams. And although the part of him that was turning into a man was trying to veer his mind towards another direction, the part of him that was still a boy pondered the mysteriousness about her.

What did that all mean?

Towards the end of his shift, and after Nathan had watched that super hero movie another three times and was convinced there were no headless people in it, he had been walking towards the back room where they kept the machine for his time card. A door flung open and a kid ran out. Nathan caught just a glimpse of a wet face running by. Then Mr Eddison came out. Nathan turned around and saw that the kid was already outside. And then before Nate could get the stamp on his time card, Mr Eddison demanded he come into his Office.

"Nathan. Come on into my office." He snapped. Mr Eddison didn't wait for Nate to respond, he took it for granted that Nate would follow orders, and he did.

"Is there a problem Mr. Eddison?" Nate asked politely.

"Yes Nate, there is a problem. Sit down."

Nate sat. The room felt hot.

Mr Eddison was gritting his teeth as if he had caught Nate performing the best prank of all time, like peeing all over his sheets.

"You were late today Nathan."

"Um, yeah sorry sir, I -"

"You're fired."

"What!?" Nathan was shocked.

Suddenly Nathan felt very silly for still sitting there. It didn't feel right! What a mean old man! He was counting on this job. He needed to make five hundred dollars.

"You were late on your first day too. I told you I would not tolerate laziness, Nathan."

Mr Eddison pulled out an envelope and handed Nate twelve dollars.

"Here's your pay" He said in a prissy voice. "You don't need to come back. You can go."

Nate took the money and walked out of there feeling ashamed. On his way home he pulled out the money and counted it. As he was flipping the bills over he caught his breath. Because the bill that was now in his hand had big black letters written over it's face. It was the same message in his dream.

"Find Me"

"News"

Except now it was just George Washington staring off to the side.

Nate folded it carefully and put it back in his pocket like it was a precious map.

When he got home he saw that his sister was watching T.V. She had the remote in her lap and she was pressing buttons like she was playing the piano. Sometimes the volume would go up or the channels would flash by. Suddenly he snatched the remote away from her and she gave out a cry.

"Mine!"

But Nate had seen something. He flipped back a couple channels and there was a picture on the right corner of the TV. It was near the head of a news anchor describing, in somber tones, an abduction somewhere. Nate did not believe what he was seeing. This was no dream but there was something that looked like a gas station from the view of a helicopter, and a picture of a dark skinned girl with blazing eyes was looking at him from a five by five white card.

Nate had sold her a Snickers.

When his mom came in the room she was surprised at Nate's severe expression. She thought it made him look years older, and a part of her was struck by a feeling of great loss that anticipated his flight from the nest one day. Another part felt pride.

"Oh, that's very sad" she said when she drew closer.

"That poor girl. I hope they catch'em"

And then took the remote and switched it to a cartoon.

"You need to get to your homework now."

Nate walked slowly out of the room without talking to her. His head felt like it was under water while he listened to the muffled sounds of his heart slowly thumping. He was in his room. He didn't tell his mom he was fired. He would do that later. He needed to know about that girl.

She had sent him a message.

She asked him for help.

But that's impossible! He says to himself. That's crazy.

He fired up his computer and searched for the name he saw above her face.

"Mariana Herrera Cruz"

He found a website with information about her.

She was eleven. Four feet eight inches tall. Missing for 3 days.

It was her. It looked just like her. What are the odds?

He pulled out the dollar bill just to make sure he was not insane. It still had the message on there.

A feeling of great responsibility settled on him. He had to find her. But what could he do when there's a whole police force looking for her? He couldn't do anything but look stuff up online! He didn't even have a learners permit to drive.

But she had found him.

Nate was startled to see that there was something to that. Maybe the message was more like a riddle?

Find Me.

Find Me.

An epiphany blossomed in Nate's mind.

Find her. She wants him to find her in his dreams.

Their dreams must connect.

It was all racing behind his eyes.

Of course, she wasn't asking him to go on a search party for her. She wanted to talk to him. Maybe she could tell him something and then he could alert the authorities!

It all sounded totally nuts and part of him felt like he was play-acting. It was ridiculous. But that dollar bill. His dream. It could not be a coincidence.

It was late when Nate could actually get to bed. He was so full of adrenaline, up to the point expected from a twelve year old kid who finds they are part of something great and inexplicable.

It was in the dark morning when Nate woke up in his mind, thinking all the while that perhaps that was not too much different than waking up in the real world. It was just another world. But in this one there was a trail to Mariana.

The trail was made out of dollar bills. When his eyes opened, the slight warping in the walls was the first clue that he was probably sleeping. But if it wasn't that he guessed the dollars would have convinced him. They were spaced-out in regular intervals, starting from the foot of his bed, going out the door, and it was anyone's guess after that. He stood up and put on shoes, thinking, why does he even need shoes? But it felt better to put them on anyways.

It was amazing how realistic everything was. And it blew his mind how much information could be stored in his brain. How did it reconstruct itself like this?

He followed the trail out of his room, down the steps and to his front door. When he opened the door he saw that the trail went over the porch steps, onto the sidewalk, and then down the road as far as he could see. The trail was getting a little bit longer than he had expected. He thought he could see a million dollars.

He shook his head wondering how this would turn out and when he would wake up.

He stepped outside.

And then everything changed.

It was no longer his street. His house was gone when he turned around. And he looked up at the black sky and saw orange bolts of lightning. Grey trees with dead leaves around them grew up in twisted form out of the sidewalks. They appeared to have broken through the pavement, leaving a small crater in rubble about their base.

Nate turned his head in panorama to get a full sense of what he was looking at.

There were disheveled piles of rubble that looked like old houses, and there appeared to be a black factory about a mile away. It was pumping dark plumes of smoke into the air, and there was fire that looked like small candles hovering over black pipes that were scattered about. The trail went in that direction. He began to walk down the street noting the uneven ground.

Huge gashes in the earth that cut the street in half appeared towards the end of his neighborhood. There was hot air blowing up out of them. He didn't want to step across since they seemed very deep, but he had no other choice, so he found the smallest gap and leapt across. He felt brave.

Then Nate saw where he was. He was downtown and that factory was right where the movie theatre was. The trail led there.

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