#and suffering to live within a narrow and controlling path to please another is also not love

[rum-and-shattered-dreams]

More and more I am convinced that the religious right has been fooled by the devil pretending to be their god.

[it-stheaulifeforme]

“I didn’t say kill the damn boy!!”

“You said to break the bones in his body---”

Sakharine aggressively shoved Allan against the wall of the cabin by the front of his long coat. “You simple minded---” he spat, “there’s a difference!! I still want him alive!! You think I can get a scroll from a dead wretched little brat??”

The man in red let go, trying to remain calm and adjusting his own jacket, still with a glint of fury in his eyes as he looked at the other man. He sighed exasperatedly, briefly glancing away. “Did you manage to get him to say anything important?” he asked, a rigid firmness in his voice.

Tom, standing behind Sakharine, exchanged nervous looks with Allan.

“Well??” Sakharine angrily insisted, looking very expectantly at both of them.

There was a small silence. “Nothing, boss.”

He looked at both of them like they’d just lost their entire minds. Not that he didn’t always think that, but this was baffling enough as it is for even these two.

“What do you mean, nothing?”

Another silence.

“He said nothing.”

“You beat him within an inch of his damn life and he said NOTHING??”

Sakharine was more infuriated than ever, mainly showing it in his eyes, before his voice leapt up louder and more aggressively this time. Allan and Tom practically jumped out of their own skin at his raised voice before trying to stammer out a reply. Predictably, they were cut short.

“I’ve had grown men break before they’ve hardly had a finger laid on them but you couldn’t even get a teenage boy to crack??”

Sakharine wondered who he had more problems with; his idiotic crew who couldn’t get answers from a literal boy to the little brat himself. He didn’t understand how such a young person would not give in despite the physical suffering he was put through. What had this ginger brat been up to that made him that defiant to remain quiet through that?

If the simple minded crew couldn’t get an answer out of him, he’d do it himself. He couldn’t refuse to say anything forever.

They were interrupted by a noise outside the door, followed by a low growl and barking. How in god’s name had that stupid mutt of the boy’s manage to get onto the damn ship??

The door swung open to reveal one of the crewmates, the small struggling bundle of white fur snapping at him with the fur of his neck in his right hand. “Found this mangy dog looking around, boss,” he remarked snidely, trying to avoid being bitten, “must have been searching for its young master.”

Before anything else happened, Snowy managed to wriggle free, landing on all fours with a thud, baring his teeth and barking ferociously at the people that surrounded him. Sakharine was about to bat the damn dog with his cane to get it to shut up before it stopped, bounding over to the metal cage on the other side of the cabin.

Sakharine narrowed his eyes at the sudden change in the behaviour of that dog. It had gotten all the way here and the first chance it got, it had leapt straight towards the boy, a curled up bruised and bloodied figure. It whined, pawing through the bars, standing on its hind legs to get him to wake up. Clearly distressed, it eventually poked its head through, pulling on the boy’s blue jumper to get him to respond.

“What on earth---” Allan made to say, taking a step forward before his path was blocked by Sakharine’s cane who was fixated on the dog’s behaviour around the boy. There seemed a particular thought running through Sakharine’s mind as the dog desperately tried to get his owner to wake up. A noticeable shift in the latter’s movement despite his injuries caught his attention.

“Snowy...?” It was quiet and cracked, but audible. The crewmates observed a more malicious glint in their boss’ eyes almost as if to know what he had in mind. It didn’t help also observing the particular sickly, self satisfied grin that formed soon after on his face at this vocalisation.

Perfect.

Not looking back, he took the cane from in front of Allan. “I’ll handle this,” he remarked, “unlike you lot.”

He strode forward towards the dog, obviously named Snowy, who turned to him defensively, growling viciously under its breath. “Oh for god’s sake,” he muttered, batting at the dog with his cane, “will you shut up---”

He finally kicked it and it responded with a yelp, managing to tumble over into the metal cage. “Finally, you dirty little mutt,” he dryly remarked and stepped in, slamming the door with a loud clang behind him.

Tintin, the boy, flinched in surprise and managed to lift his head, displaying the mess that had been made of his face. Sakharine wasn’t one for hands on work - his henchman did that for him - so naturally he felt the physical inclination to recoil. Of course, despite the bruising along his cheekbones and the blood that had run down mainly from head wounds and especially a vivid dark purple bruise around his right eye, there was still a sense of defiance in his face.

Whether that was by the curl of his split lips upwards in an expression of disgust or fire that seemed to burn in those clear pupils of his, he could see it. He was almost endeared by it.

Almost. Unfortunately, it was an obstacle and he wasn’t about to be a victim of sentiment. Maybe what he was about to do next would make him see sense. Not like those traitorous crewmates back there managed to be of any help in that area.

Snowy almost darted forward but Sakharine was quicker this time, abruptly yanking the dog with a grip on the fur of his neck. He yelped again, but this time he was more whimpering than growling, flailing his legs. He turned down to look at Tintin, whose eyes seemed to burn with a new kind of anger but also remained cold, reading almost like a new level of fiery disdain specifically for what was happening to his dog.

Sakharine raised his eyebrows in a faux affable gesture. “Why don’t we try this again?” he asked, a sickening politeness in his words. Tintin merely glared at him.

“Put him down,” he stated through gritted teeth, a sneer across his bloodied lips.

Sakharine wanted to laugh. This felt like Marlinspike Hall again, but with more control over his side. This brat wouldn’t be able to walk away with an attitude like that this time.

“Perhaps you’re forgetting something,” he continued in a conversational manner, as if to ignore that rebellious tone in Tintin’s voice, “I still need to know what you’ve done with that scroll.”

“I said I don’t---”

Tintin was cut off by a vicious kick to his ribs and he practically choked out a scream, eyes widened from the unbearable pain. Not long ago he felt like he’d had one or two broken and the kick did enough to make the pain flare up, but he was not able to do much about it apart from a choked scream that tore itself from his throat.

Snowy was now throwing up more of a fuss, though quietened into whimpers as Sakharine singlehandedly ripped his sword from its holder, an agonised cry coming from Tintin as the blade was held to the dog’s throat.

“Don’t play games with me, you stupid boy,” he seethed, watching Tintin’s clear eyes appear to set alight with multiple emotions in the dimness of the lower decks, “you knew exactly what you spoke about earlier, so unless you want your dear dog you love so much to die, I suggest telling me where the scroll is.”

Tintin didn’t think he could get any angrier, or even show more of it with how much pain he was in. “You’re sick, you know that?” he spat, hints of distress clearly making themselves known with the shake in his voice and the shine of his eyes, “Don’t you even dare!”

Sakharine laughed, amused. “Only because I know how to get the job done, you insolent child,” he remarked, the blade glinting underneath the dog’s jaw, “so would you rather let your dog live compared to remaining secretive about scrolls that were none of your damn business in the first place?”

The sickly grin appeared back on his face, and Tintin couldn’t help but flick his eyes between the other man’s face, the blade and the black, pleading eyes of his beloved dog, Snowy. He wasn’t remotely in a position to argue, emotionally or physically. He wasn’t just a boy though, even though he knew he was always that despite everything that he’d done. He couldn’t possibly let this man get away like this; he just wanted a nice ship and he’d thrown himself face first into this mystery with the criminal dealings underpinning it all.

But he couldn’t bank on solving this mystery and catching criminals at the cost of his own dog. How much could come close to how much Snowy meant to him? Even if he wanted to figure out the means to stop these people. Not like he didn’t know that these kinds of people had many ways to play dirty. Of course they would.

Of course he would.

“It’s be a real shame to stain such lovely white fur...” Sakharine trailed off with faux sympathy in his voice, before the cracked voice of the boy spoke up, fervently.

“Stop!” he cried, feeling nausea in the pit of his stomach at the description, “just stop! Please, don’t!”

Sakharine stopped, moreso at the distress in the boy’s voice, however much he tried not to. Not like he had the strength, anyway. The shine in his eyes was very clear, as if something was going to fall from them. He was grinning now, contemptuously, self-satisfied, as if the mere idea of reducing what appeared to be a strong-willed boy almost to tears was enjoyable, in of itself.

“And why is that?” he asked, that grin not budging in the slightest.

“I...” Tintin started, hating himself for saying it, “I don’t have the scroll on me.” Evidently putting emphasis on that last part. “It’s still on the mainland, because it’s in my wallet that was stolen from me.”

Sakharine raised an eyebrow. That explains why the brat didn’t have it on him. He frowned; it was frustrating enough that this was the case without it being back where they started. But he appeared satisfied enough, pulling the sword away from the dog’s throat and dropped him as if was diseased. Predictably, the dog scampered over, now more concerned for the worse state his owner was in, licking him and whining in his face. The boy was more or less zoned out now, eyes bright with tears, a hand absentmindedly stroking the mutt’s head.

He looked down, patronisingly, though his voice remained clear to the crewmates outside. He could see anger and hurt boiling behind that deadened expression. “Never underestimate the influence of the bond between a boy and his dog,” he spoke, his voice once again sickeningly polite, “especially when he forgets to value the life of the animal over business that had nothing to do with him to begin with. Anyone can be influenced if you just do it right.” He glared over at his henchman, but didn’t say anything else.

He left the metal cage, putting his cane back together, the boy and dog barely flinching as metal hit metal. “It’s a real shame,” he said aloud, his thoughts wandering with a malicious undertone, “Killing that damn animal would’ve been frankly enjoyable.”

[dimancheetoile]

of stardust and galaxies

Written for @shikasaku-week Hanami 2020 Day 2 Prompt 1: of stardust and galaxies

Read on AO3

I had an absolute blast writing this, you have no idea. This story is set before another that will also be posted for ShikaSaku Week.

Yes I did re-use the parents I invented for Sakura in Withered Flowers but they're really not important enough in this story to warrant me spending time researching names for them.

Please tell me what you thought about this one, I'm truly interested given how much I like it!

•

The war went on for much longer than anyone could have ever anticipated. The losses were massive, in scale of destruction and in numbers. After a particularly violent attack from Madara, Konoha was simply razed off the map. Entirely and thoroughly destroyed, until not even the foundations of the buildings remained.

The scope of the fire jutsu Madara used went far deeper than simply destroying the entire history of their village and every single memory kept in those narrow streets and green parks. His black fire, raging and wild, scorched the earth deep into its own core. They tried to rebuild, for a while. Tenzō's mokuton had been vital to the reconstruction effort, but it quickly became apparent that it wasn't worth the chakra exhaustion. Nothing would grow on the cracked earth left behind by Madara's madness.

Driven out of their own homeland by starvation, Konoha's remaining population began its exodus.

Having lost most of the people who used to lead Konoha no Sato, and a good chunk of the people who would have been considered successors to those leaders, the citizens were aimless for days as they regrouped and gathered the very few items they had remade for their new homes that they were going to abandon one more time.

In the end, things settled in the way things always settle after a disaster. Desperation and urgency bred to create exceptional circumstances and someone who wanted nothing to do with power ended up with way too much of it on their hands for their taste.

Haruno Sakura was born to civilian parents in the Farmers' Guild, who only had one expectation for their daughter, which was to marry a nice civilian who owned a reasonable business or worked a reasonable job and live a reasonable life together until they died at a reasonable age only a reasonable amount of years apart.

Unfortunately for Haruno Hashiru and Uzumaki Noroshi, they would both lose their life in a raid of their small property in the farm lands around the village. Having no living relatives and her inheritance barely paying for the funeral arrangements and handling of their property, Sakura was put in the orphanage, and that was that.

Sakura grew up in one of the worst orphanages of the Five Nations, surrounded by children who suffer just as must as you and whose bitterness and malice is proportionate to how poorly they're, in turn, treated by the people supposed to care for them. You don't grow up in that kind of environment and have huge expectations for your life.

Had Sakura not met a clan heiress and her clan heirs friends when she was at a turning point in her life, she would have remained a low-life, desperate kid who would have grown up on the streets of a village that never had the emotional capacity to care for its civilian population, given that it was born out of the desperate attempt at peace of two historically warring clans that treated its own, very rare civilians like cannon fodder.

She would have grown up starved and angry, desperate to put food in her plate day by day. She would have begun selling her body at the age of twelve, to the highest bidder willing to pay for her virginity, and the money from that sale only would have put food on the table for three months, in the underground squat where she would have lived with a few other street urchins, leftovers from a government feasting on its weakest population.

(in another life, she would have kept her eyes shut, round, childish face crushed against the pillow and thankful that she didn't have to look into the beady eyes of the man paying for the last shreds of her hopeful innocence, his white mane moving in rhythm to the thrusting of his hips. She would have thrown a shaking hand forward when he was done, feeling cold and clammy inside, numbly wondering that he kinda looked like a frog, from this angle, then closed her fist around the money before leaving in a rush. In another life, the man would have pulled his loose pants back up under his yukata, feeling good about himself because he just gave a girl enough money to feed herself for a few months. In another life, it never would have crossed his mind that he could have simply given her the money and offered her a shoulder to cry on)

(in another life... right?)

She would have eventually joined a gang, on her knees as often as she would slit throats in back alleys, and a few days before her seventeenth birthday, she would have bled out in the backroom of an unregistered club, throat torn open by a masked figure in a grey uniform the gang members knew too well. As her life would have slowly poured out of her, she would have looked at the back of the ANBU that just killed her and was giving a highfive to the one standing closest, and she would have died with a smile on her lips because the figure smelled like the ramen from Ichiraku that she had never gotten to taste, too expensive for her and her crew.

But Sakura met three clan heirs and after living for ten years in the orphanage, she had been taken in by the Akimichi Clan, when the three friends had taken one look at her shared bunk, on the third day of knowing each others, and had unanimously decided that this would not do and their new friend needed a better place to live.

(Ino had stomped her feet and Shikamaru had pleaded and Chōji had cried a little and eventually, Chōza had caved in and took in the girl. None of the three sets of parents had told their children that their actions didn't solve the problem. None of the three sets of parents asked their heirs why they didn't insist on bringing back every single child from the orphanage, or asked them what they thought would happen to the other children who hadn't made friends with clan heirs. None of them asked anything, because as kind as they are with their own children, willing to give in to their whim of playing heroes for an orphan, they ultimately don't care enough to change a system that benefits them first)

Sakura grows up learning two very important lessons: no one cares about the civilians, and she'll never be in control of her own destiny.

So she's not surprised a single bit when, as the last surviving member of the inner circle around the executive powers of Konoha, she's eventually pushed to the top under the guise of “honoring the deceased” and “giving her the position she deserves for her heroic actions in the war” and named Nanadaime Hokage.

That night, as the slow caravan of Konoha survivors comes to a stop for supper and rest, Sakura crawls into her tent and cries herself to sleep.

A few days later, they finally reach Kiri and Sakura negotiates asylum with the Mizukage. In those few days, she's named herself a cabinet made of the last remaining experts amongst Konoha's sparse population. There aren't enough people in that cabinet for her liking but she can't afford to be picky, so she brings all three of them into the negotiations and they come out with the least worst deal they can hope for, one that is still considerably better than anything they would have managed before the days of the Alliance and better than anything Sakura could have come up with on her own.

The Konoha survivors are put in the deserted district where people who died in the Mist coup used to live in. It's a bit cramped, but they can't afford to complain, so they adapt. At least they have a roof over their head and enough food to feed everyone. Kiri was just as affected by the war as the other nations, though the village itself didn't suffer much in its infrastructure. But they're lacking the numbers lost on the battlefield, and that's where the Fire citizens come in.

People just fill in the gaps left by the war, integrating seamlessly into Wave's economy. They're not naturalized, keeping their Fire citizenship and Sakura remaining their leader. The way it works is that the workers build a wall to close the district off, with a big gate that remains, more often than not, open. Sakura lives in an old administration building, having transformed the top floor offices into a few bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom, two empty rooms waiting to be converted to a kotatsu room and a shrine.

On the ground floor, she has meeting with her advisors, she does hearing for her people and she forges the basis of what promises to be the Fire-Mist treaty, a cooperation and integration policy that would make Konoha's survivors into what amounts to a foster village of Kiri. If this thing comes to pass, they would essentially be a separate state-entity, with its own laws and government, but with privileged relations with Kiri in terms of right of passage, trade, taxes, imports and exports, as well as an equal share of the land.

An equally beneficial treaty, then, but a text of law that still takes a long time to redact and hammer into shape to be certain that no one is getting screwed over by poor wording. The main thing that her village-within-a-village brings to the table is the proposition of an Academy of Medicine and a House of Health.

In short, Sakura would open what amounts to a carbon-copy of Konoha's Academy, training kids to become genin. From that point on, the children would get two options: either continue on the path of becoming a shinobi of Kirigakure, or join the Academy of Medicine and train as a medic-nin. All children of the village would go through the first part of the training, not only Konoha kids, and would receive complimentary medic training so that every genin, even if they don't go on to become medic-nin, have a solid understanding of chakra control and healing, in hopes of reducing field-losses.

The House of Health would be civilian medics, in every specialty, all in one place for convenience. Classes would be provided for Kiri citizens to learn first-aid or more in-depth knowledge. It would double as relief for the overcrowded Kiri hospital, taking in all non-threatening cases so that the hospital could focus entirely on its surgery division and two research labs, as well as the paediatric wing.

The House of Health would have a sub-division for monitoring pregnancies and offering a more casual environment for labour, with a few empty houses around the House, fully furnished and waiting for the soon-to-be parents. They would spend the entirety of the labour in the comfort of the provided home, going at their own pace and being on their own or with their family. And if anything goes wrong, there would be an entire House of professionals right next to the houses to give a hand when needed.

Those propositions are basically what sold the treaty to the Mizukage, despite a few clauses that she was a bit iffy on, but agreed to in the end because the prospect of a fully-functional, advanced medical system and healthcare administration, alongside trained professionals under the tutelage of the greatest medic in the world is one of those things you don't say no to, under any circumstances.

So the treaty is signed, the old Kiri Academy building is remodelled to host the new courses and the House of Health is built right next to the Konoha district. Happy endings, right?

It's another morning, another day of working a job she frankly wants no part in and that she only performs to the best of her abilities because she's aware of the weight of the enormous responsibility placed on her shoulders. You know. A typical morning.

There is a rasp on the door, barely a knock before the bamboo panel slides open. It's not meant for privacy anyway, simply there to protect the inside of the house against Kiri's weather. Sakura looks up from her paperwork, vaguely surprised to see Shikamaru standing there. Vaguely, because he's still her Councillor and they have a lot of private meetings without the rest of her advisors, and because she's way too exhausted to question anything more deeply than with mild curiosity and vague surprise.

“Hey, Shikamaru. What's the new disaster?”

Half-fallen over her desk, legs starting to sore from the extended kneeling, it takes her a moment to realize he's not moving, and he's not answering. She looks up, frowning, but what she sees on his face is enough to have her up and right in his space, taking one of his hands.

With Ino and Chōji, Shikamaru is amongst the three people she's known the longest in her life. Only her parents beat that record, and they're dead, so the three clan heirs are probably the people she knows the best as well. Living with Chōji might have made her slightly more attuned to his emotions, but the difference is inconsequential. So she knows for certain that something is wrong.

“Shikamaru?”

His lips are pressed into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowed. He's not looking her in the eye, instead looking down at their feet, still quiet. She dares a hand forward, brushing against the side of his arm before retracting, a small comfort for both of them, she hopes.

“I need your help,” he finally says through gritted teeth. With that, it seems like all the tension is drained from his body, and he looks more defeated than anything.

“You have it, always,” she answers, trying for a soothing voice but knowing her own anxiety at this weird situation is slipping through the cracks. Shikamaru has always been the stable one, the rock, and she knows, as sure as the sun rise and sets, that if he crumbles, he'll be taking her, and the entirety of Konoha with him.

He scoffs at her answer. “I never wanted you to know this. This is mine and I don't want you to know.”

She flinches a little, surprising herself by how much that hurts. For one second, Shikamaru catches it, and guilt joins the frustration and anxious expression on his face.

“I'm guessing you don't have a choice,” she says softly.

“I really, really don't.” He sighs, a sad, depressing little noise that Sakura feels all the way inside her bones. “I need you to- I need a surgery.”

Sakura's eyebrows rise in disbelief. “You... need me to operate on you? Why? What's going on? You know I can't just perform surgery on you based on your words, I need to do, at the very least, a physical exams, and maybe a few scans depending on where the problem lies.”

Shikamaru's smile is feral, self-deprecating, and she hates it so much. “Oh, trust me, you won't need to do scans.”

Sakura sighs, leaning against the way with a leg propped up.

“Would you consent to a physical exam right now? We can go to the House.”

Shikamaru shakes his head. “I don't want anyone to know there's something wrong with me. You don't need an exam room to see the problem anyway.”

She bites her lip in consideration, then nods seemingly to herself. “Alright, follow me then. We'll go to my place.”

The tension seems to bleed out of Shikamaru's shoulder and he accepts easily. Sakura leads them out of her office and into the corridor that leads to a staircase. After climbing it, Sakura slides the door panel open and walks into the part of the building that serves as her home.

Shikamaru follows her without a word until they reach one of her unoccupied bedrooms. Or that's what it used to be anyway. Shikamaru raises an eyebrow, looking at her questioningly. She gives him an awkward smile, gesturing at the miniaturized operation room and the drawers upon drawers of medical equipment.

“Look, you have no idea how many people just barge in through my window after a mission, Mist and Fire alike, just because they don't feel safe going to the hospital. Post-mission paranoia is real enough that I'm willing to indulge them, and I refuse to let a disaster happen at the hospital just because I want my beauty sleep.”

He nods, the reasoning sensible enough. It's not like she needs the four bedrooms anyway, given that she lives alone.

(silently, he wonders about that, why she's never dating, why she's never showing signs of being interested by anyone. He wonders how anyone can work as much as she does and not want to come home to someone who wants to take care of you. Dating, post-war, is awkward. No one wants to actively seek out partners, because everyone is just a little too depressed to be able to make the efforts required to have a healthy, communicative relationship. But on the other hand, a good bunch of them are getting desperate. He can't really talk, he's single too, but at least he's dated before, civilians and shinobi alike, and he knows how important it can be not to be alone)

(she's always been alone)

“Well, we're alone and I've got everything I need. Do you want to tell me what's going on, now?”

The knot is back in his stomach, and Sakura looks like she knows exactly how little he wants to talk about this. Not that any of her patients is ever easy, unless they're civilians, but she doesn't tell him that, because she wants him to trust her sometimes this year and not worsen the situation.

Eventually, Shikamaru sighs, and begins to unhook the clasps of his flack jacket. Sakura nods, satisfied, and brings the tray with her basic equipment closer. She already has her stethoscope around her neck and the monitor for his blood pressure, when he takes his shirt off, and really, she has to put down everything now, doesn't she, because it's obvious what's going on.

Shikamaru self-consciously crosses his arms in front of his chest, but it's not enough to cover the two scars running across his upper torso.

She sighs, dropping the monitor back on the tray, and looks at him, head slightly tilted.

“Does anyone else know?” she asks, more to get him to talk than because she needs to know. She has to get him to relax, to trust her with this.

“My parents, obviously. Ino's and Chōji's parents too. And the surgeon who did this, he was one of the first to openly do those surgeries, so my parents brought me all the way to Kumo to see him. He's- like me.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Shikamaru. It does me great honor to know you find me worthy of who you are.”

“I- Sakura, I need to know if... will you see me differently now?”

She's never seen him like this, so uncertain, so out of place. He's so confident and calm, such a driving force for their people. She hates to see him like this. Sakura offers her hand, in the space between them, and Shikamaru uncrosses his arms to take it without even pausing. She smiles softly, touched.

“Do you see me differently for my own scars, Shika?” With her free hand, she bunches her shirt up to show her midsection and the seven, thumb-long scars scattered on her skin. “Sasori skewered me like dango on a stick. His spikes were thorough and touched all of my lower organs. I have a fake portion of small intestine and I'll never be able to have a child. Do you see me differently, knowing my scars?” she asks again.

He's looking at her with wide eyes and a deep, bleak sorrow that they all learned from the war, when grief and tears could put you in danger and you needed to get over things quickly on the outside, only to break down on the inside later.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

She shrugs. “I'm not. I killed an akatsuki member, someone who would have kept hurting people again and again, and both Gaara and Kankuro survived because I was a part of this mission. I won't ever regret losing a few pieces of meat if someone's life is on the line.”

She squeezes his hand, a small smile on her face.

“So, about that surgery. Were you asking about a cosmetic procedure, to make all the scarring disappear? Or were you thinking about bottom surgery?”

Shikamaru frowns, and she can see the cool, confident guy coming back little by little, putting a happy smile on her face. “I didn't know you could do something for the scarring. In that case, both I suppose.”

“Why come now? Why not before the war, or right after? Did something change?” She hates to ask personal questions when he already seems so uneasy, but she can't agree to anything without all the facts.

“Before the war, the surgeon we went to used to send me parcels with shots and creams. He stopped, I don't know if it's because of shortage, or not knowing where to send it, or-” Or maybe he's dead, she thinks but doesn't say. “I ran out of shots two months ago and I was fine for a while, but I- it came back,” he says awkwardly, a plea in his eyes for her to understand without him having to say it. She nods quickly, refusing to let him worry. “I can't live like this. I'm miserable, Sakura.”

To hear those words, from the kind of man Shikamaru is, is heartbreaking. He deserves nothing less than happiness and fulfillment, after everything he went through being the youngest chūnin, then the youngest jōnin, then a War Councillor. Someone as calm and reliable and smart as Shikamaru shouldn't be miserable. Not on my watch. Maybe being Hokage will finally do her some good, if it means she gets to help him feel good again.

Sakura nods, weighting her words carefully before speaking. “Well, the scarring I can take care of right now, it's quick and painless. However, for your surgery, I need to know what result you want. Size, shape, do you want to be able to have biological children, all of that.”

He doesn't try to hide his relief when she doesn't push or try to have him talk more about his mental health. Not that I won't later, she thinks, but she can cut him so slack right now, given hos vulnerable he must feel.

Shikamaru is silent for a long time, eyes downward on his hand in hers, looking deep in thought. She wraps her other hand around his, pressing gently to show her support.

“I have a feeling you're exponentially more competent than the man I saw when I was younger. He only had one option for me, and a pretty scary one. But I'd like to reduce the scarring now, yes. I haven't taken my shirt off in public my entire life.”

Sakura smirks, dirty and unashamed. “Oh trust me, it was for the best. You have no idea the talk I've heard in the onsen about the comparison some of the kunoichi and jōnin make. I think a good portion of them is keeping a tally and you staying as cool as a cucumber whenever they try to get in your pants is making you the grand prize of their little competition.”

He grins, a small blush on his face that Sakura doesn't comment on. “I'm not Sasuke or Naruto, I don't have an urge to flash everyone when I'm fighting bad guys.”

Sakura bursts out laughing, the joke so unexpected it releases all the tension she hadn't noticed was left in the room. It's the first time she laughed thinking about them ever since the war, and being suddenly the last living member of a cursed team. Feeling almost giddy with being able to laugh again, she raises their joined hands and kisses his knuckles. He looks at her with wide eyes, his blush even more noticeable now.

“Right, options,” she says, wiping a tear. “Lay down for me, will you? I'll start working while I explain.”

He obeys, laying down on the examination table while her hands light up in green. She gets closer, bending slightly over him to have better access, then her palms slowly swipe over his chest, her chakra coaxing his cells into duplicating faster and cloning the genetic makeup of the older, original cells around the scars. Slowly, the two raises lines begin to smooth and loose their color.

“So there's an invasive procedure, and even more invasive procedure.” Shikamaru snorts in nervous laughter and she gives him a wry smile. “The first one involves using the unneeded tissue from what's already there and constructing a penis using what your body knows to be his. With implants, you'll get testicles, and connecting nerves will give you sensation. You will be able to get a full erection, but because I'm only using pre-existing tissues, your result will remain small compared to the average.”

She can see that he's listening intensely, but his blush has crept onto his neck despite her using very clinical language. She finds it absolutely adorable but she doesn't fancy being choked to death by her own shadow so she doesn't mention it. She doesn't say it either, but she's so proud of him it warms her up from the inside.

“The more invasive surgery starts with me collecting sample from you to be grown in lab so I can get enough skin and nerves and muscle made of your genetic makeup to basically construct a penis of the size and shape of your choice. Once attached, just like the other option, it'll be fully functional, sensitive and responsive. Now in both cases, you'll have a choice between implants to give your testicles the appropriate shape, or they can also be grown in lab and I can use your eggs to synthesize sperm glands and make you fertile.”

Sakura leans back, her hands loosing their green tint. Shikamaru sits up, staring down at his chest with wide eyes, tracing with his fingers the smooth skin where his scars used to be and where nothing is left now but an absolutely normal chest.

“Now bear in mind that I've only theoretically managed a successful transplant to make someone fertile, but I was doing the opposite procedure on a woman. When you break it down, it's exactly the same process and I've synthesized it all before, but I've never done it on a man, simply because I was never asked to. I'm certain I can pull it off, but you know, warnings and all thaaa-wow!”

Sakura can't stop the shriek of surprise when Shikamaru draws her in for the strongest hug of her life. She flails for a moment before she manages to wrap her pinned arms around his waist, his own circling her shoulder and crushing her against his bare chest. Shikamaru hides his face in her neck, and she stops the words that were about to leave her mouth when she feels the first tear drop into her neck and roll down her chest.

He's crying silently, face scrunched up enough that she can feel it against her skin. She caresses his back, drawing patterns over his warm skin, and she hums gently, rocking them together to the rhythm of a song she can barely remember.

“Thank you,” he manages, his lips moving against the fragile skin of her neck.

“Always, Shikamaru. I promise.”

She doesn't move any more than her rocking his large, warm body, waiting for the storm to pass, for the clouds to part enough that they can see the stars. Finally, he releases her, rubbing harshly on his skin until she gives him a tissue. His eyes are red and puffy and his cheeks rubbed raw, but he's he most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

“I'll take the second option,” he finally says, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. “Including the fertility package. Do you do a price for family?” The joke is weak but he's trying and she's so proud she might just choke on it so she laughs and she draws him into a side hug, his head resting on her shoulder.

“Put some clothes on, exhibitionist. Let's get out of here and we'll talk more about this later, yeah?”

He nods silently and complies, following her out of the house and into the streets of Kiri. Time passed quickly and it's already well into the night. Without saying a word, Shikamaru takes her hand and laces their fingers together. She gives him a smile, shaking with excitement and giddy with the novelty of simply walking hand in hand with someone. The people of the Konoha District give them long looks, but their eyes are kind and their smiles wide, happy to see their leader finally take something for herself.

Kiri's night sky is beautiful, so different from the one in Konoha, often hidden in clouds. Here, they can see every single star winking at them from their shimmering clusters, count the constellations drawing patterns into the darkness of the void, watch galaxies form and die as they live day by day in their new normal.

“Hey, Sakura?”

She hums in response, looking away from the beautiful canvas of the sky. He's looking at her like she's personally responsible for every star shining above them, and her heart picks up.

“Can I take you out to dinner?”

She breathes in the joy, grins wide. “Of course you can.”

He blushes again, and it's her new favorite thing, she could watch him for hours. She's so happy and humbled that he trusted her with himself like that.

“On one condition, though.”

He does his best to hide his nervousness when he answers, “What is it?”

“Money upfront for the surgery, Nara. I want a kiss before the fourth date.”

He giggles, high and pretty, and even he seems surprised by it. “You've got yourself a deal, Hokage-sama.”

[thetimelesscycle]

Tales of Arcadia Wizards Fanfiction: Hope Dies Last - Chapter 2

Merlin makes an appearance, nothing is really explained, and canon doesn't know what hit it.

Chapter 2

If in Doubt, Blame the Wizard

Hisirdoux Casperan was not the first apprentice Merlin had taken under his wing. There had been others over the years, though less had attained the role than had simply wished for it. Morgana could make all the claims she pleased about his prickly demeanour and unreasonable standards; None of her acerbic observations changed the fact that, before Arthur’s war against magic, hopefuls had been lining up for the chance to study beneath a Master Wizard.

Most of them had been nothing more than tricksters and conjurers of meagre ability; Useful for dazzling the masses and emptying the pockets of the gullible, but with little to offer in the way of contributions to his work. Others had proven themselves more capable; As assistants in his workshop, a second pair of eyes in the field, and — somewhat rarely — as capable spellcasters in their own right.

It had not always ended well, even for those who had not strayed from the narrow path mastery carved between madness and mediocrity. Magic was as much a burden as it was a gift. Some of those he had trained believed their powers gave them a responsibility to stand up for their kind, a path that inevitably led to the same dire end for all who chose to walk it. Others had left as soon as their tutelage was complete, eager to pursue their own interests and simultaneously make their escape from beneath Arthur’s lengthening shadow.

His king’s stance on magic had cost the Master Wizard more than one competent assistant, one way or another, and Morgana had proved herself a poor substitute. Too strong willed and frank with her opinions, she spent as much time arguing with him as she did helping. With all of that in mind, it had seemed nothing less than a miraculous stroke of good fortune when he had inadvertently stumbled across a magical prodigy.

That probably should have been his first warning.

On the surface, Hisirdoux had been no different than the dozens of others who used their paltry gifts to take advantage of the ignorant. Except for the fact the boy had been stupid enough to ply his craft on the very doorstep of the king who had sworn to destroy all magic, of course. Remarkably bad judgement had not been on his required list of virtues for a new apprentice, and he might not have chosen to intervene on the idiot’s behalf at all had it not been for that single, panicked spell.

‘Real magic’, he had called it, and meant every word. It may not have been the most impressive spell, or the most well executed, but Hisirdoux had cast it under duress without fumbling his words and with no training other than that provided by his dragon familiar, along with what scant knowledge the pair of them had been able to scrape from the few spellbooks Arthur and his Knights hadn’t yet burned to a crisp. There was talent there, untapped, and it had been his focus on that which blinded him to the fact it was wrapped up in the disastrous form of an adolescent boy.

It wasn’t common for magic so powerful to manifest in someone so young. Hedge wizards were known to discover their talents at an early age, but the recklessness of youth was tempered by the limits of their abilities, any harm that they might cause to themselves or others mitigated by the mundane nature of their magic. It was different for those with a true gift. Merlin’s own magic had come to him later in life, and the mastery over it that allowed for immortality had sadly not been in time to save him from perpetually popping joints and thinning hair. Morgana, too, had been an adult before she began to show any aptitude, and its emergence had been triggered by a traumatic event.

According to what little Archie had shared of their lives before the Master Wizard took them in, Hisirdoux had been practicing for years before he wandered foolishly into Camelot’s maw, guided by nothing more than his own instincts. Given that the boy was most certainly not a hedge wizard, that fact was simultaneously impressive and terrifying. His own ignorance, coupled with that level of raw ability, could have easily ended his life long before Arthur’s knights drew their swords.

The fact that it hadn’t was convenient for the Master Wizard’s need for a new apprentice, but entirely the opposite when it came to trying to teach his student the dangers of the powers he wielded.

Hisirdoux had never suffered at the hands of his own magic, never shown Morgana’s tendency to lose control when emotions were heightened, never hurt someone he had meant to help. Whilst the gentle nature of his gift had no doubt protected him from the more dangerous pitfalls of self-taught magic, it had also made it that much more difficult to drum caution through the boy’s thick skull. Magic was the one thing besides Archie Hisirdoux had always been able to rely on in a world that had offered little in the way of shelter; Trying to convince him that it carried its own dangers and should be utilised only as needed was like trying to convince a knight his sword might bite and should be locked in a cage.

It was an uphill battle. One he had assumed he was winning, right up until his workshop was overtaken by a wave of unfettered magic in the middle of the night.

Within the space of an hour, his plans for a peaceful evening spent without apprentice or familiar underfoot had been turned completely on their head. What should have been precious minutes dedicated to his research were instead spent undoing the various enchantments his apprentice had cast to lock seemingly every door in the castle tightly closed. No sooner did he have that particular issue in hand then he was waylaid by a pack of agitated guards absolutely certain they were under attack. He hadn’t even begun to address their concerns before he was accosted by a furious Arthur, the king leaving no doubt as to who he deemed to be at fault for not properly controlling the novice wizard in their midst.

The latter confrontation had turned into a one-sided shouting match that had intimidated the knights more than the castle’s magically induced antics, culminating in a forceful reminder that Arthur relied rather heavily on his Court Wizard, and therefore executing his apprentice for what had harmed no one would be a remarkably bad idea. By the time Arthur had stormed off to stand down his panicking soldiers, Merlin had developed a pounding headache and the firm intention of giving Hisirdoux the longest lecture of his young life.

Another plan he was forced to abandon when he burst into the boy’s room without knocking and found himself immediately subjected to Morgana’s icy wrath.

“Don’t you dare!”

The king’s sister somehow managed to look poised even kneeling on the floor in her nightwear, clutching a trembling, tear-streaked mess in her arms. Her glare was enough to stop him in his tracks, and he closed the door without question on her command. Hisirdoux had yet to even acknowledge his arrival. When uttering the boy’s name summoned no response, he turned his irritation onto the room’s other occupant.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I found him like this.”

Morgana shook her head helplessly as Merlin drew near, illuminating his staff in deference to the lack of light in the room. His apprentice didn’t react to the glow or to Archibald settling against his legs with a loud, nervous purring, the familiar’s agitation evidenced by the whiplike motions of his tail.

“And that?” Not satisfied in the least, he gestured at the cloth wound about the boy’s head, stained red near the edge of his hairline.

“Archie said he fell.” Morgana squinted against the brightness of his staff, eyes flashing to the door and back again. “Where is Arthur?”

“Handled, for the moment, though who knows how long that will last.” Long enough for him to sort out whatever this was, hopefully. His king’s patience was not a thing he would trust to stretch far as of late.

Morgana cast him a dubious look. “I could hear the shouting from here.”

“The entire castle just got turned inside out.” He still wasn’t sure whether to be more impressed or angry over that fact. “You’re lucky he wasn’t the one kicking in the door.”

“It wasn’t Douxie’s fault.” Even not knowing what had happened she managed to sound certain of that, holding his gaze with a challenge painted in her own. “You can’t let Arthur punish him for this.”

“We don’t even know what this is, yet,” he pointed out. “Archie, do you…”

He trailed off upon realising the familiar had finally managed to coax a reaction out of his apprentice, though the hesitation with which Hisirdoux was touching his friend’s feline form was unusual in and of itself. There was a stiffness to the motion that was at odds with the way the boy was leaning bonelessly against Morgana, and the irritation at the back of his mind gave way to a spike of alarm.

“Hisirdoux?” The boy swallowed convulsively, but didn’t look up, focussed with single-minded attention on the cat crawling into his lap. With a sigh, the Master Wizard crouched beside the trio, ignoring the loud cracking in his knees as he reached out to take his apprentice’s hand in his own. Hisirdoux’s skin was icy to the touch, fine tremors running through his fingers. Merlin frowned as he repeated the boy’s name.

“I don’t think he’s all the way back yet,” Morgana interceded, not moving herself, though the position could hardly be comfortable.

“You don’t say?” He spared a moment to give her a disparaging glance, then turned his attention back to the object of this ridiculous conversation. “Hisirdoux, look at me.”

There was no visible reaction to his words, though the hand held in his own clenched reflexively. The slight hiss from Archibald suggested the familiar had been subjected to the same treatment, even if he didn’t voice any complaints. Patience thinning rapidly, Merlin set his staff aside so he could use his hand to guide his apprentice’s eyes up to meet his own. There was no real focus in the gaze that greeted him; Hisirdoux looked right through him with only a vague spark of recognition, and the realisation hit with all the force of a dousing in ice water that this was something far more serious than an overreaction to a bad dream.

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with, then.”

Ignoring Archie’s urging to be careful, he gathered his magic, letting it travel in a wave along the physical connections between himself and his apprentice. He’d already been aware of the turbulence in the boy’s aura, tangible even now it was subdued, but examining it directly in this fashion offered a far more haunting perspective. Hisirdoux’s magic was churning violently, seeking an enemy to fight, yet even that couldn’t hide the jagged lines of shadow etched into the boy’s soul, spiderwebbing outwards, drenched in the distinctive stench of dark magic.

Pursing his lips, he reached out to prod the edges of that darkness, trying to identify what spell could have caused it. Hisirdoux flinched away as soon as he extended his energy, reacting with all the reason of a cornered animal.

He was flung backward in an instant, landing on his haunches. He hadn’t been expecting the magic to be that strong after the vast amount of energy his apprentice had already expended, though predictably the boy’s efforts were not without a price. He collapsed onto his side without Morgana there to support him any longer, curling in on himself as his familiar hovered in ever increasing worry.

“I told you to be careful!” The admonishment was given and forgotten in the same breath. “Douxie? Douxie! Can you hear me?”

The answer was too quiet for Merlin to hear, but he saw his apprentice reach for the familiar, tugging him close.

“I’m here. We’re here.” Archie’s voice was trembling. “Can you tell me what’s wrong, Douxie? It’s important.”

He already knew the answer to that. If they were lucky, Archibald would be able to coax the ‘how’ and the ‘why’ out of his wizard. Moving to retrieve his staff from amidst the carnage of Hisirdoux’s room, Merlin turned back just in time to watch Archie go into a full blown panic as his familiar fell limp.

He crossed the space between them in three strides, dropping to one knee and spending a few fraught seconds verifying the boy was still breathing. It was shallow, and Hisirdoux was too pale and cold to the touch for comfort, but his chest was still rising and falling. Positioning himself above the boy’s prone form, Merlin placed a hand on either side of Hisirdoux’s head, stretching out his sixth sense once more now that his student was in no position to fend off his intrusion.

“What’s wrong with him?” Archibald’s voice was plaintive, the young dragon back in his natural form as he stared up at Merlin with naked fear, seeking answers where none were to be found. 

“That magic was defensive,” Morgana pointed out. “He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, he was trying to protect himself. Something or someone caused this.”

Her eyes went to the door, a dark expression on her face, as if she was already putting a visage to her imaginary villain. Merlin could easily guess where her thoughts were going, but he didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with royal squabbles. His attention was needed elsewhere.

Hisirdoux’s magic was quiet again now, drained in that last, frantic effort to ward off danger. It flickered briefly as he extended his own, but with no more strength than a guttering candle fighting to stay alight in a strong breeze. He was better able to assess the damage without its interference, the knowledge his examination brought him cold comfort.

The shadows remained, a blemish on what had always been bright; Heavy and thick and not his main concern. They were only a symptom, stemming from terrible cracks rendered directly upon the boy’s soul. As if something had reached within the very heart of what made Hisirdoux Hisirdoux and tried to tear him to pieces.

Not tried, he amended, succeeded.

He was careful as he studied the torn edges. Hisirdoux shuddered beneath his hands anyway, whimpering softly and prompting Morgana to reach out and close her fingers about the boy’s in an irrational attempt to provide comfort. Merlin very much doubted his apprentice was aware of her efforts, or of Archie’s determined rumbling as he practically adhered his body to his familiar’s. He let them be regardless, not about to divide his own attention to tell them so. Not when he was just coming to the chilling realisation the harm that had been inflicted here was meant to be fatal.

Even as he reached that conclusion the damage was spreading, the dark stains growing larger as the cracks expanded, like a tear in a taut rope slowly succumbing to the pressure. Hisirdoux’s aura dimmed just a little more with each minute that passed, his magic thrashing weakly in its final throes.

His apprentice, who had left his study only a handful of hours before, spellbook in hand and practically skipping with glee, was dying.

It was unacceptable.

Healing magic was not his forte. He knew the incantations, but each wizard’s magic had a mind of its own and his refused to bend towards such arts. It had never seemed such a shortcoming as it did now, Hisirdoux’s skin frigidly cold against his fingers as shallow breaths marked an uneven rhythm against the boy’s lips. Fortunately, he had not spent decades guarding the mortal realm to panic at the first sign of trouble. He was nothing if not resourceful, and it took but a few seconds to arrive at a solution.

Weaving his own magic this close to an injury inflicted directly on the soul carried its own dangers, and he pointedly shut out the voices of the room’s other occupants as he carefully laid a stasis field over the expanding edges of the spreading corruption. It would not last forever, particularly not if Hisirdoux’s own magic recovered and saw his meddling as a threat, but it would buy him some time to find a more permanent solution before his apprentice’s condition deteriorated further.

The chamber was utterly silent when he emerged from his trance, breathing heavily from the concentrated effort. He glanced up to find Morgana and Archibald both watching him with equal parts trepidation and curiosity. Ignoring the silent question they posed, he glanced about the room, frowning at the open window swinging gently in the breeze and the haphazardly scattered furniture.

Hisirdoux couldn’t remain here, that much was clear.

“Archie, my staff.”

Thrusting the weapon at the familiar and waiting only long enough for Archie to clumsily seize a hold of it, he gathered the limp form of his apprentice into his arms, gaining his feet and whirling towards the door in a single, smooth motion. Morgana raised an eyebrow at him but did not question, holding the door open and then hastening to keep up as he set a punishing pace through the castle halls.

Flying above them, Archie swooped in close to demand answers, “Where are we going?”

“My tower is the most strongly warded part of this castle,” Merlin answered briskly, not slowing his stride even when it forced an uneasy patrol of knights to skitter out of his way. “We’re going to take Hisirdoux to safety, and then we are going to find some answers.”

Author’s Notes:

Alright, so this chapter definitely includes a few head canons regarding magic which will probably be nullified as soon as canon addresses them, but for clarity’s sake I’ll just include the reasoning here.

1. ‘It wasn’t common for magic so powerful to manifest in someone so young’

Of the four true wizards that we see, Hisirdoux appears to have been the one who got his abilities the earliest. We aren’t given an age for when Merlin started using magic, but given that Hisirdoux went 900 years without ageing over 19, it seems reasonable to assume that Merlin’s magic was something that came to him later in life. We’re never told how old he is, but even if the canon explanation is that wizards age really slowly instead of stopping at a certain point Merlin would have had to be thousands upon thousands of years old to look the way he does.

Morgana is also an adult when she gets her abilities, and they manifest after Gwen dies. I have seen a theory floating around that the Arcane Order gave her that magic because it is golden and Arthur also has golden magic once possessed, but Excalibur’s magic was always golden, so it seems more likely that’s just the Camelot magic colour. (A point of interest, Archie’s form shifting is also a golden flash). So, for this, we’re treating Morgana’s magic as her own, and she was an adult when it manifested.

Claire did get her magic earlier, but only after first stealing the staff and then being possessed by Morgana and absorbing all her knowledge. It wasn’t necessarily something that came to her in the natural course of things. That could just be because modern world=less magic, but still. There was a trigger.

The hedge wizards we do see in the show all seem to be on the younger side, and we never really see what they are capable of; whether they are limited by the scope of their power or a lack of study. For this particular story I’m running with the theory that the ability to magic electronics into shape and charm objects etc is not at all on the same level as the literal powerhouses we see in Merlin, Morgana, Claire, and Douxie. They can fight, certainly, but not on the same playing field as the Arcane Order.

Douxie, by comparison to the other three wizards, especially if you go by Teny’s concept sketches, has his abilities from a very early age, hence the line above.

2. ‘…never shown Morgana’s tendency to lose control when emotions were heightened’.

Morgana and Claire are both crystal clear examples of the ‘magic is emotion’ theme. The scene with Morgana in Merlin’s workshop. Claire’s nightmares and her argument with Merlin in HexTech all have magic responding to the emotions of their wielders. Douxie, by contrast, only exhibits this once, when Merlin is killed. Even his younger self, who is a bundle of anxiety and enthusiasm and disaster, doesn’t appear to exhibit emotions with magic in any obvious way. The closest thing we see to his younger self losing control is his broom turning on him when it realised Merlin was coming. Maybe it’s just because rage is the predominant cause of those outbursts and Douxie’s anger is a relatively quiet thing by comparison, but it was still an observation I wanted to work into the narrative.

[gothamdetected-a]

an idiots guide to gotham.

sim, i hear you say, what the hell are you doing? it’s gotham. everyone knows gotham. batman’s hometown. arkham asylum. what more is there to know?

surprisingly, a lot. 

for example, did you know that the it has been described as "Manhattan below Fourteenth Street at eleven minutes past midnight on the coldest night in November." which i think is one of the coolest descriptions of an aesthetic ever. thanks dennis. anyway, there’s a lot more to this city and it’s mad confusing history than first meets the eye, so in true sim fashion, i’m here to whoop dc into shape and attempt to make sense of it all. in the immortal words of coldplay “oh take me back to the start.”

as a geography nerd, i’d like to begin way way back. like continent forming era. star wars’ a long long time ago has got nothing on this. because really, why is gotham so plagued with crime and corruption? why is it perpetually cloudy and gloomy and dark? why is this tiny patch of american coastline continually the stage for insane events while everywhere else around it seems perfectly fine and chilling. 

it’s because of cthulu. 

well, kind of. seriously. apparently trapped beneath the actual earth of gotham is a lovecraftian-esque being who’s been chilling for 40,000 years. yeah, bet you didn’t know that. it even takes to calling itself “doctor gotham” after long enough, but that might just be a writer taking the piss out of dr manhattan, which honestly, im here for. so there’s some ancient slumbering god just poisoning what will become gotham, with it’s “evil essence” or whatever. there is a native american tribe who lives in the area - the miagani. in a croatoan-like fashion, they mysteriously disappear one day: no one knows exactly what happened to them, but there’s speculation of black magic and an insane shaman who goes all caesar on them and tries to develop a tyrannical rule, but they seal him in a cave and flee only to be slaughtered by a neighbouring tribe/a mysterious natural disaster. already this place is giving off the Not Good Vibes.    

some time later a bunch of colonists arrive, one of whom is named hiriam arkham. he tries to build a chapel, but it ends up being the site of a murder and so that idea is abandoned. the colonists later accidentally open the cave and release Deacon Blackfire (nasty shaman man), who is fairly immortal, definitely a shithead, and also becomes a batman adversary and a black lantern corp member/zombie in a few hundred years. fun. the colonists are never seen again. wonder what happened there.   

so the ground keeps being corrupted and drawing the nasties to it. one of these nasties is a norwegian mercenary, captain jon logerquist, who lands there circa 1635 with his crew, feels the heeby jeebies vibe and goes ah yes. this is where i shall settle. utter weirdo. so suddenly we have a city being formed - you guessed it, gotham city, also known simply as gotham. and everything is fairly chill for a while. the city is known to be a hideout for ruffians and smugglers, has a fairly higher proportion of stabbings and burglaries, but other than it being a bit of a lawless wasteland, it’s not, you know, any stranger than other pre-civil war american towns. at some point war for independence ( 1775–1783 ) rolls through, and there’s a fairly large battle that is long and bloody and doesn’t look like is going to be won so the founding fathers decide to do something extra stupid, and summon a bat-demon. yes, literally, a bat-demon. that they think will help them turn the tides of the battle. instead they realise it can’t be controlled, panic a bit, and end up trapping it beneath gotham, nice and snuggled next to fucking cthulu’s cousin. so gotham is now especially Cursed, and also starts gathering a large number of bat colonies in it’s underground cave system, because they’re all coming to worship this demon thing or w/e. 

next step is the civil war ( 1861-1865 ), and this is the first time we get a cobblepot in town - colonel nathan cobblepot to be precise. a couple of generations happen, and the town is growing into a city - at this point five of the families truly “found” gotham as a metropolitan and industrial hub, building bridges to connect the islands and forging the path to gotham as it is today. these five families are the cobblepots, the elliots, the crownes, the kanes and the waynes. these eventually become known as gotham’s oldest lineages, and it’s wealthiest, forming the future of gotham high society. however the cobblepots eventually end with penguin, and thomas elliot gets salty and becomes hush ,and the kanes and waynes decide to start dressing up as bats so it’s more like a cautionary tale than anything. 

around this time (1870), ra’s al ghul builds wonder city beneath gotham’s old town, and around a naturally occurring lazarus pit under the city. wonder tower becomes a spectacle of the gotham skyline, their equivalent to the empire state or big ben. eventually the project is abandoned, especially after mysterious disappearances, rumours of madness and strange sounds of rioting emerging from the nearly completed project. also occurring in this decade is the conversion of arkham manor into the elizabeth arkham sanatorium (which would later become arkham asylum) under the then heir, amadeus arkham. elizabeth commits suicide, a serial killer murders the rest of the family, save amadeus, who then goes mad and begins dabbling in the occult and experimenting on patients, eventually becoming one himself. despite all this, arkham asylum remains open, setting the scene for this to be one of the most tragic and fucked up buildings in america. 

another generation goes by and the wayne family produces solomon wayne, who will eventually become an incredibly important figure to gotham, partly because he is a judge and has a courthouse named after him and all that, but mostly because solomon wayne is the man who hires cyrus pinkney. who? you ask. literally the man responsible for gotham’s fucked up architecture. solomon wayne commissions him to create what he calls “gotham style” around 1890, and pinkney, heavily influenced by both cubist/surrealist design and the gothic revival, is the bastard who ensures everything has a gargoyle slapped on it and that gotham cathedral could literally be home to dracula. every inch of the city is covered in hidden meanings and mysticism, because, if you haven’t already guessed, pinkney was a bit nuts, but solomon wayne seems mighty pleased by this and it does actually boost gotham’s industry and cause people to relocate to it from the surrounding area. pinkney’s final piece de resistance is the statue the lady of gotham (officially named Justice opens her eyes to the world ) in the gotham harbour, yet another new york parallel. 

however as a result of booming capitalism and continued gentrification, gotham develops extreme poverty, with several areas of the city, specifically around the docks, the bowery and the narrows, becoming slums. crime levels continue to rise, and many writers take inspiration from chicago and new york mobs in the 30′s and 40′s, drawing parallels and creating organised crime, mafias and gangs. families like the maronis, falcones and thornes begin to take over the city, shaking down businesses for “protection” developing protsitution and drug running rings, importing weapons etc. gotham becomes seen nationally as a dark foreboding metropolis, where the ultra-rich one percenters drink champagne in their ivory towers while the poor of the city suffer and die. city planners also take this opportunity to go absolutely nuts, and build bomb shelters, underground highways, crazy sewer systems, you name it. after all, no one cares right? it’s gotham. by the time the cold war comes to a head, the city is literally riddled with layers of alleys and tunnels and walkways, all over burdened by the watchful eyes of giant bronze statues and stone grotesques.

then, thomas and martha wayne appear, and really start trying to change the city. they develop philantrophic interests, help to create the monorail, encourage the other wealthy elite of the city to care about the rotting corpse of gotham. change is slow, but it happens. the city starts to brighten up, vaguely, and the waynes become heralded as gotham’s saviours, becoming more than a household name. of course, they get shot, in an alleyway, by joe chill, and that same night batman is born. it takes him like 20 years to actually appear in the city, but boy when he does appear, he goes ham. this isn’t a batman meta tho, so i’ll keep it light on his backstory and involvement. 

batman tackles corruption in the city, purging the gcpd, bringing criminals to justice etc, all while bruce wayne makes his lauded return and begins trying to change things in the same way that his parents did - investing in the city, creating public services, developing grass roots projects in the worst affected areas of gotham. however, this city is quite literally Cursed and it all goes very wrong very quickly. 

first, ra’s al ghul unleashes the clench (also known as Ebola Gulf A virus) into gotham high society, and through the contagion storyline, a LOT of gothamites die. i think it’s like 40% but don’t quote me on that. the whole city is quarantined, but batman manages to save the day! hooray! wrong. the second disaster happens in the cataclysm arc - a 7.6 richter earthquake (although in my professional opinion this should probably be measured using the mercalli scale because you have to take into account the density of population etc in the area, but whatever, dc don’t study earthquakes like i do :/). as a result of these two events happening literally within months of each other, the entire city is declared a “no man’s land” by the US government. most civilians are evacuated, it is cut off from the mainland by destroying bridges and creating a military blockade and left to literally rot. no central government is applicable, no services are available, and very quickly gangs take over, carving up the city between them. imagine the purge but never ending. that’s gotham. huntress and oracle and the remaining scraps of the gcpd try to keep some kind of order, while bruce fucks off to petition the government into not being dicks and fixing the city rather than abandoning it.  eventually, he comes back, batman battles a lot of people, luthor donates enough money to save the city and gotham is rebuilt and repatriated as part of the us. 

then the next big events include: 

• henri ducard as ra’s al ghul tries to cover the city in fear toxin after teaming up with scarecrow. the narrows is especially targeted. 

• steph accidentally starts a gang war after going through batman’s stuff unsupervised. for a while black mask rules gotham.

• hugo strange convinces the gotham city council to let him have old gotham, which he converts into arkham city. eventually wonder tower explodes and the “city” is shut down, cut off from the rest of gotham. 

• scarecrow successfully releases his fear toxin over gotham via the cloudburst system. most civilians have already been evacuated, but the city is thrown into ruin and chaos.   

these are just the biggest points though, and the ones which help to tie film, comics and games together. my favourite part of gotham i haven’t even talked about yet. but i’m gonna. here we go. 

gotham is chronologically removed. 

obviously time progresses there, but there is a immense sense of timelessness. gotham does not move on with the rest of the world. there’s a huge mash of different eras and styles. there are airships in the sky and maglev monorails on the ground, people use typewriters alongside touch screen laptops, buildings are either twisted gothic nightmares or glistening modern skyscrapers. the time frame that should be obvious from the setting is completely ambiguous. and it’s brilliant, because really it means that the time is not important. it could be set anywhere, anywhen. gotham looks almost the same in the 40s as it does in 2020, and it means that batman and these events can be slotted into pretty much any decade. batman can be born in 1939 or 1969 or 1999 and it still all works. it’s a mash up of modern expressionism and constructivism and art deco and gothic revival and surrealism and space-age futurism and industrialism and honest to god i could literally talk about this all day. but i mustnt so i shall stop now.  

basically the tldr here is that i have a fetish for urban decay, gotham was fucked from day 1 due to some bullshit evil god beneath it, and literally house prices must be so low, because who the hell would want to live there. 

[snowbellewells]

Self Promo Sunday: “Scaling the Walls”

Originally, I started this one before the season four finale actually aired, though the idea and set-up were based on the promos, and I didn’t finish it until that episode had shown. Still, this is more my own idea of how the “Emma being trapped in a tower and needing a rescue” plot could have played out. I revisited it the other day and thought that someone else might also enjoy it on Self-Promo Sunday!

"Scaling the Walls”

By: @snowbellewells

Wave upon wave of pain racks her body, radiating through unendingly, nearly rocking Emma Swan off her feet. The only thing keeping her from falling to the floor in an unconscious heap are the chains binding her hand and foot to the stone wall of her tower prison. Her eyes slam shut, and she tries fruitlessly to press her hands to her brow, only to have the motion arrested halfway through by the shortness of her bonds. It feels as if her head may split in two if she cannot exert some pressure to keep her senses together, but all her efforts are for naught. She is trapped and will remain so, no end to her agony in sight.

A strangled scream rises from her throat, pouring past her lips out the window into the trackless woods surrounding her cell and reverberating off its walls. She feels her heart wrenching and shattering as this psychotically unrecognizable version of Snow White plunges her hand once more into Emma's chest and grasps, squeezing and trying to pull out her own daughter's heart. The fact that this is her mother, made bloodthirsty and malicious by some wretched curse, only makes the torture worse, as the face whose kindness Emma has always treasured grins wickedly and Snow throws back her head with an evil laugh. "Oh darling! If you think you will ever defeat me, you're living in a dream world. You as the uprising’s pathetic hope?!? Their promised Savior?" The words are hissed right in Emma's face as the clawed fingers squeeze her pounding organ tighter and jerk at it again, "It’s almost laughable. I am the Queen, and you will rot in this tower, unless you relinquish your lovely heart, and your magic, and submit to my control."

Emma is practically trembling with pain and exertion, sweat running down her forehead and stinging in her eyes, fists clenched at the effort it takes merely to retain awareness through this newest onslaught, petrified by what might happen to her if she slips away. She bites almost through her lower lip, trying not to scream or cry anymore – knowing it only brings this twisted version of Snow pleasure. She has also long since ceased trying to remind her mother of the truth, as it also brought only pain at previous attempts. It hardly bears mentioning that her magic is either not working or no longer accessible to her. She is certain that this Snow won't take that for an answer. Still, can't the other woman see that if Emma had control of her powers she wouldn't stay here at their mercy? Tears fall from Emma's eyes silently at the cruel, unknowing stare focused on her, but she holds back any sound.

The new Evil Queen twists her hand within Emma's chest, and Emma is sure she must be dying. A howl of agony tears from her throat against her will and echoes in horrible crescendo. The sounds of abject despair and torment go winging out the lone window of the tower to be heard for miles around by those who ignore the cries of a rumored hero supposedly suffering at the Queen's hand.

The heartless slave version of Prince Charming steps forward from where he waits in the shadows, hand outstretched in supplication as he urges his Queen. "Your Majesty!" he pleads fervently. "Stop, please! You'll kill her at this rate and never harness her magic for yourself!"

His dark haired mistress darts a dangerous, crackling, narrow-eyed look over her shoulder at him against the far wall, pausing only an instant before her hand shoots out and throws him against the solid stone, where he falls incapacitated. "Silence!" Snow White orders needlessly as he seems completely stunned into submission.

Her shuttered, emotionless eyes, venomous and sharp as any serpent's, flick back to her prisoner and gleam with cold intent. "You're going nowhere, Princess," she purrs, the title cruel and mocking with the inflection she gives it. "You'll die a prisoner either way. But how much more you suffer before I can gain your heart and your power is entirely up to you. Tell me now how I can accomplish this, and put yourself out of your misery."

Emma trembles helplessly where she stands; her abused, aching muscles stretched beyond endurance but unable to gain relief. She wants to cry out to Snow that she is not this monster; they need to fight together to escape whatever alternate reality Gold and the Author have plunged them into - despite knowing her plea will do no good. Though she senses she will need her magic before all is said and done, though she knows she must hang onto what strength and sanity she has left, Emma thinks that in this awful moment, if she knew how to give up her powers, she would allow the Queen to have them. She doesn't know where Killian or Henry, or any of the other people she has come to know and care about, are – if they have been brought along in this nightmare as well, if they know themselves, or if they have been changed. All she has seen is the inside of these stone walls and these horrific mockeries that should never be called her parents.

However, Snow White seems to take her quiet helplessness as defiance and she shrieks in wild rage. "Have it your way!" she yells. An almost electric pulse of energy erupts from the other woman's palm, and Emma feels it crawling through her veins, burning and scorching unbearably.

Her howls of helpless agony as she quivers in her restraints overlap on each other in desperate, unending climax, until she finally slumps, boneless and insensate in her chains, lost to the world.

~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Killian Jones does not know how he got himself roped into such a ridiculous venture. He shakes his head in disbelief once more as he looks behind him to the skinny, bedraggled youth with brown hair flopping in his eyes who follows him through the thick undergrowth at the forest's edge – 'more a fool's errand than a hero's journey' his mind insinuates as he recalls the words of the boy on his heels as he had looked up at Killian with a wide open expression of hope.

What had he been thinking, letting his sense of duty move him to follow this child off his ship, away from the harbor, and on this – what had the lad called it? Operation? Yes, that was it…Operation Swan's Rescue. He had thought himself long past dreams of being a dashing hero and undertaking courageous missions for the good of his people. That was all burned away in the ashes of a Pegasus sail and sunk to the depths with Liam's body long ago, when he was another man. Yet, he has never claimed to be wise or cautious, to do what makes reasonable sense, and he was not able to resist this ragamuffin's precocious grin or the somehow familiar twinkle in his big, trusting eyes, and so here they were, quite possibly chasing a mirage, a dream: a princess in a tower needing a champion to save her.

The lad certainly weaves a compelling tale, Killian thinks to himself as he pushes further into the trees and bracken, keeping well off the beaten path. Of course, he has heard the stories; everyone in this section of the kingdom – where the tower is supposed to reside – has heard of the Savior, the lovely being of hope and light magic, somehow born to the Evil Queen and her favorite plaything, then imprisoned by said mother in fear of her daughter's magical power someday overthrowing her reign of terror. Killian himself had always thought them mere fables – fireside tales to charm and entertain. However, this boy seems so sincere, and so desperate, that he finds himself believing the youth's words.

Beyond that hunch, the sense of trust, his mind cannot help but whisper, 'What if?" If there is truly a Savior, a being of Light and Good, who could restore this land to what it once was, to the beautiful, peaceful kingdom of his youth where he remembers running wild in the fields with Liam chasing him laughingly, where he wove daisy chains to take home to his mother and he could still bask in the love of her pleased, quiet smile. If the Evil Queen's rule can be brought to an end, doesn't he owe it to his people, his country, and Liam's memory, to explore every possibility? Isn't it only good form for one in his post to venture forth and make sure? Not only that, but if such a pure innocent is being held captive, if everyone knows and merely leaves her to such a fate…it twists knots of tension in his gut, not letting his mind rest. A fool he may be. He may be walking directly to his death, but his conscience will let him pursue no other course.

They have come to a stop at a running brook – refilling their canteens, slaking their thirst, catching their breaths – when a wretched wail of agony rings out in the air, silencing the birds and echoing off the trees in harsh, violent waves. Killian's eyes meet the lad Henry's, and they both freeze, horrified by the sound of such suffering. The anguish he hears in that cry lets Killian know for certain he was right to follow this quest. He must stop whatever is being done to this prisoner.

They take off at a run, unheeding of their safety or what they may find. Crashing through thorn bushes and grasping vines, panting with exertion, they both nearly go tumbling headlong to the ground when Killian skids to a sudden halt and Henry plows right into his back.

They have dashed into a deserted clearing, and there before them, rising dark and foreboding into the clouds, stands the tower. The grey stones are cracked and jutting, looking as dark and unwelcoming as must have been intended, and though his eyes search frantically along the base, Killian can see no way in.

Both pirate and youth stand frozen in uncertainty for a long stretch, until abruptly the cries of suffering halt, all goes silent, and Killian finds himself desperately jolted forward. He does not know if this will work, but he simply must take action. The imprisoned woman – according to Henry, their last chance – cannot be dead. They cannot be too late. Grasping at the rugged wall as best he can with his one working hand, he wedges his hook into a crack between stones. With one last glance to make sure his young compatriot is still with him, Killian begins to climb the tower.

~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Awareness trickles back to Emma with the scrabbling, scratching sounds of metal scraping along stone. Blinking her eyes blearily and raising her head from where it had slumped awkwardly on her chest, she vaguely determines that the strange scuffling is coming from just outside her prison's single window.

Emma scrunches her brow in confusion, trying to determine what new threat could be coming for her now. She knows that the tower is high, high enough that no fully sane person would attempt to scale its walls. For the few fleeting instants she has been free of her chains in the years it seems she has been held captive here, she was able to see out over the entire forest, well over the tops of the tallest trees.

Just as she is looking fruitlessly around the barren room for something she can defend herself with against this intruder, a metal hook and strong forearm fling themselves in the window and clutch tightly, soon pulling a messily wind-ruffled head of black hair and a belovedly familiar face over with them. Her pirate, whom she had begun to fear herself lost from forever, practically hauls himself though the opening, flopping onto the stone floor, chest heaving with exertion.

"Killian!" she cries out plaintively, so glad to see him that she doesn't even care how girlish and helpless it might make her sound. "You found me!" She begins to run to him, momentarily forgetting her bonds, until the chains jerk her back.

His head shoots up at the sound of her voice, startled blue eyes meeting her gaze. He looks unsure, as if he doesn't know what to make of her awe-filled greeting. Turning quickly in the next moment to stand and return to the window again, he surprises her once more by reaching out his hand to pull someone else up and into the window after him.

Emma's heart swells at the sight of Henry. Both her son and the man she loves are here at last, safe and sound and come to rescue her. Henry doesn't seem to suffer the same confusion that Killian does. Once the man has stopped brushing him off, asking if he is okay, and lets him go, Henry rushes to her with a joyfully relieved shout of "Mom!" and wraps his arms around her – literally bringing warmth and hope back into her cold, lonely false existence.

"You found me," she repeats, a dazed whisper this time, overwhelmed by the belief and determination her son has shown to get here, and the bravery he has exhibited in climbing a tower guarded by the Evil Queen's men, at the risk of his own life – for her sake. She squeezes him tighter, wishing more than she has in all the rest of her time here to be free of the chains so that she can really take her little boy – well, young man now – fully in her arms.

She can only chuckle and shake her head when he grins at her and says exactly what she should have been expecting, "Did you really doubt we would?"

Emma's gaze flicks to Killian again, where he stands back awkwardly watching the reunion. He scratches the spot behind his ear uncertainly, but then he meets her curious, searching glance. She is frozen when their eyes make contact, breath catching with emotion. Not only is he here helping Henry, but he came to her aid even without remembering who she is or what they mean to each other. She wants so badly for him to hold her, for the sort of passionate kiss they have only recently begun to allow themselves to set everything back to rights.

Surprisingly, as the moment stretches on, Emma can see something come over Killian's face. She holds her breath, hoping against hope that somehow what they have, the connection between them, has survived this reboot of their history and who they are in this fictional reality. As she has suffered here alone, afraid she would never see his face, hear his beautiful, lilting voice, or feel his gentle but inflaming touch again, she had come to realize the truth. She loves him with a depth that scares her. She has for a long time, but could never find the words to say it aloud.

Killian tilts his head to the side, beautiful ocean eyes squinting in concentration as he studies her face, almost seeming to look beneath her skin, into her soul. Taking a tentative step forward, he reaches out, taking her hand in his one, gently rubbing soothing fingers over her skin reddened from the heavy shackle. Reaching out with his hook, he smoothes her wild, tangled hair back from her face and over her shoulder; a familiar, intimate gesture he has made several times, whether he realizes it or not. "I know you, Lass. Do I not?" he finally murmurs, eyes searching hers for an answer.

It is as though he has stolen the very breath from her lungs and the words right off her lips. All Emma can do is stare at him, amazed by his unbelievable, inexplicable faith, and nod in affirmation. She can still see wonder and adoration shining from his face, directed at her, even if he isn't sure why. Can he still somehow see what he means to her in her face? Still feel what they have – or echoes of it – despite everything that has been altered? Emma finds herself willing to hope as never before.

Unfortunately, at that moment they are interrupted by the sound of several pairs of booted feet pounding up the steps to her cell, harsh voices calling about intruders and securing the 'mad princess'. All three of them whirl to stare at the heavy door of Emma's cell in alarm, knowing the pirate and young prince can climb back out, but that they have no way to release her from her chains. She can't escape with them.

"Go!" she urges desperately, trying to spur both Henry and Killian on. She cannot bear to think what may happen to them if they are discovered here trying to free her. The guards are getting closer all the time and her heartbeat is pulsing in her throat at the danger to her two most precious loves. "You can't be found here! Please!"

Henry's eyes show understanding beyond his years as he nods his assent. Clasping her hand tightly for a split second, he vows, "We'll be back for you, Mom," before he moves toward the window, swinging one leg over the ledge and preparing to go.

Killian's face shows no such resignation. His look is desperate, frantic to save her. "What happens to you when we go, Love? I cannot leave you to them!"

"You have to, Killian…for now…I'll be alright." She gives him a brave, if tremulous, smile, needing him to be safe, even if she is not.

"No," he breathes, shaking his head and not moving an inch, even when Emma hears the running footsteps halt and instead the dreadful sound of a key turning in the ancient, rusty lock.

Whirling to face the door as it swings open, Emma prays that somehow Killian will slip out the window after Henry in the nick of time, or that some echo of the magic she possesses in their real world will shield him from their malevolent foes. Of course, as they have been ever since she opened her eyes in this parallel universe, her wishes are ignored, and with cries of attack four of the Queen's armed black guards charge forward.

Killian steps in front of Emma swiftly, easily shielding her in a single movement. He pulls the cutlass from his belt and strikes down the first assailant with deadly grace; the movement a slash as quick and sharp as a jagged finger of lightning. The second opponent meets his hook and falls motionless at their feet.

For several tense moments, Emma's breath is stolen watching the lethal accuracy Killian employs, protecting them both flawlessly and without hesitation. He ducks the third attacker's strike, and the guard overshoots, running past them, stumbling and falling just in time for the pirate to parry a fourth henchman's blow. They engage for only the briefest flurry of sword passes before Killian has bested this one as well and kicked the unconscious man away. He turns sharply, on guard with the knowledge that one last aggressor is still waiting.

Emma wants to call out to warn him, spare him the shocked pain she sees flare in his eyes when he finds his last foe, but she can't – not with the guard's hand gripping her throat, cutting off her air and her voice. She shakes her head at her sailor, knowing he won't protect his own safety but merely lunge forward to save her. She puts out a hand in an effort to wave him back, urging him to think for a moment, fight as smart as he has been, but somehow Killian misconstrues her motion and lets his eyes follow her gesture. Perhaps he thought she was reaching out for him in fear, but he is distracted one second too long.

The guard stabs forward, arm pushing stealthily from under Emma's outstretched one. He catches Killian in the side, under his ribs, and then drags the sword blade across and up, slicing a long path through leather and flesh with sickening depth.

Those fathomless blue eyes snap wide in shock and pain and a gasp flies from his lips as Killian's forward stride draws up short. Having achieved his goal, the final guard releases his grip on Emma and flings her away. Emma registers that she is screaming, crying out for Killian, but he doesn't answer, falling to his knees and bringing his hands up disbelievingly to the blood flowing from his side.

"Let that be a lesson to you before considering future attempts at escape," the guard growls roughly. "I'll leave him with you, to be sure you understand the price of crossing our Queen."

The heavy door slams shut again behind him, and Emma stumbles forward, clanking chains and all, to fall beside her pirate, sobbing out his name and pulling his head into her lap, cradling him protectively the best she can with her limited movement, tears falling from her eyes to his cheeks as she bends her head over him, fearing he is already gone, the wound is so bad. "Please…Killian…I'm so sorry…" she murmurs frantically, brushing his dark hair off his forehead, trying to ease his pain and keep him with her.

It isn't long before she feels smaller hands on her shoulders, pulling her into a hug from behind, trying to offer comfort before crouching next to her and attempting to staunch the blood still pouring from Killian's wound.

"Henry?" she questions blearily, confused.

He shrugs, "I just held onto the outside wall right below the window. Luckily they didn't check for anyone else. When the fighting stopped, I crawled back in."

She shakes her head at his daring, but her eyes quickly fly back to her pirate. To her shock, he is also chuckling at her son, though the sound is rough and choking. "There's a lad," he manages teasingly to Henry, before a horrible wracking cough interrupts and she sees blood at the corners of his mouth when he pulls his hand away afterwards.

Emma's tears still fall and she begins whispering apologies in his ear once more. He only shakes his head, "No, Lass…don't….be sorry. You are worth it. You and Henry….will find… a way out…I'm…glad I was…part of it…" His eyes flutter closed and his chest heaves mightily to keep moving up and down.

"Killian?...No!" she cries out when his eyes fail to reopen.

"Mom!" Henry breaks into her panic, his hand on her upper arm pulling her back to her senses. "Mom, you have to kiss him. True Love's Kiss! It'll save him. It has to!"

It seems so farfetched that she hardly dares to hope, but Emma is out of options and desperate not to have Killian slip away in front of her. Tracing a hand along his jaw, she lets her eyes slide shut and leans even closer to his mouth. Just before she presses her lips to his, she whispers as she did once before, "Killian, come back to me."

A disconcerting pull in her stomach and a spinning feeling makes it seem for a minute as if the world has turned upside down and the floor has dropped from under her. Blinking her eyes to look around once the whirling sensation eases, Emma is stunned to find them back in Storybrooke, sprawled inelegantly on the pavement in the middle of Main Street. Her fingers are somehow miraculously twined with Killian's as he sits up beside her, whole and unharmed from the sword wound still fresh in her memory, and her other arm is wrapped tightly around Henry. The chains and her tower prison are gone, and she gapes like a newborn baby at her surroundings. Killian turns to her, a rakish grin on his face, and she knows both realities are in his mind too. "It would appear you saved me, Swan," he teases lightly, but real affection brims in his eyes.

"What would I do without you, Pirate?" she whispers, holding on tighter and trying to keep the quaver from her voice as she burrows into his embrace. It is long past time he heard the words, and suddenly so simple for her to add in a whisper against his heart, "I love you."

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @searchingwardrobes @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @jennjenn615 @bmbbcs4evr @resident-of-storybrooke @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @laschatzi @ilovemesomekillianjones @gingerchangeling @blackwidownat2814

[tarithenurse]

All is fair in Love & War - 15

Pairing: Loki x reader Content: Plotting, pining, maybe don’t imagine things too well if you’re afraid of heights. Some people being ass-holes. Some death and gore. A tad of panic (though no disco, sorry). Also! There will be some dialog with bracket within the citation – this is to signify it’s spoken in a different language. A/N: I’ve taken the liberty of tagging people who seem to follow, but if you do/don’t want a tag pls let me know. It seems there might be some issues with tagging which I couldn’t fix via app. Checking it now on laptop, it seems fine, but let me know if there are still problems.

15. Impatient

There is only one way in and out of king Gorm’s bed chamber. Officially. The door is guarded constantly by the only competent soldiers in the entire nation. This may have something to do with the comfort of their lives as well as that of their families because no other commoners, not even the servants, live as luxuriously or eat such fine meals. True, it is still grubby compared to anyone of noble blood, but if someone is granted the position as royal bodyguard, then his or her daily struggle is over. This of course results in two things. One is the mixed envy and disdain for whomever holds such a job. The other is your need to find a way past the guards or an altogether different way into the chambers.

That is why you find yourself dangling halfway out of a narrow window, trying to get the tri-hook securely attached to the balcony above. A clank sounds through the clammy night air, indicating that the thing at least has struck something, and as it and the rope does not begin a rapid descend towards you then you dare to breathe out a sigh of relief (it is the seventh attempt or more). Carefully, you pull the rope towards you until suddenly it stops. Carefully first. It seems to hold a light strain, so you put more of your weight behind it. Then more, and more, and eventually you are hanging free from the window.

A hissing voice come from within. “You test it, now you get back here!” Röskva reaches out to you, swinging you gently back into safety. “This no way for madama to behave!”

The young girl is endearing in her fury and you cannot help laughing a bit. “Well, then I should be fine doing it, shouldn’t I?”

“Shush! You want to be discovered?” Large, dark eyes have you pinned to the floor before she moves to look out of the window. Next moment she is back with a frown. “Now how you go get it back?”

“Relax, dear, that balcony is easily accessible from the corridor above which leads to the music room. No one would blame me for walking there.”

The girl is not quite convinced. “But at this hour?”

You manage to calm her down, but the Vanar is only satisfied once you are safely back in the guest chambers (rope and hook in hand).

What matters more. however, is that the little window with the balcony above is near identical to the layout by the king’s private sleeping quarters, so presuming you still know how to climb a rope there is now very little between you and a visit to Gorm. But what about the queen? At least the two have no children to inherit the throne, but the lady strikes you as the kind of wife that could become vengeful even without any sign of foul play. But I’m only going to have a look around.

Looking up from the array of lockpicks and other tools which you have been oiling, your eyes wander to the northern horizon. Somewhere out there is the one person who has managed to open your eyes and see the world for what it is. It was never you intention to let Loki have your heart, taking his in return, but here you are…and you will do anything in your power to keep him safe.

“Röskva?” There is a soft hum in response, and you continue in a broken attempt at Vanir. “(Jotun-king planning kill this king?)”

There is a rustle as the girl puts down the sewing she was working on, then the subdued sound of bare feet before she comes into view, taking a seat near the window. “(You know this.)”

“(He in danger if here.)”

“(Yes, madama.)” A deep frown is almost obscuring her eyes completely. “(What is it that you are plotting?)”

It is still harder to find the words than articulate the rolling R’s, but you plow on undeterred. “(Who become new ruler here?)”

“(There will be an –)“ she uses a word that carries little meaning to you until she explains it: election.

Of course, those eligible to vote would be the men of noble ancestry, but as for the candidates…they have to be approved by the heads of the dominant religions in Midgard, every commoner knows that the and priests, templars, and monks silently wants things to change for the better of the simple folk. Where else but to the gods have the people been able to turn to as things got worse for them? They have witnessed the suffering, tried to care for as many as possible while watching from first row how the court have gorged themselves.

“(Send my love word…he stay safe…I home soon.)”

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Glass shards dance across the stone floor, capturing and refracting the light from the afternoon sun into a myriad of tiny rainbows, but the beauty of destruction is lost on Loki as he stares at the message in his shaking hand. Clearly, it is not written by [Y/N]. He would know her clumsy letters or runes anywhere. No this is writing is careful and tight to minimize waste of space, each word chosen carefully to be as precise as possible without revealing too much. This is in itself by no means alarming, as most of the messages about her are written by someone else, but the last words…

  I fear she will take your role.

As much as the king of Jotunheim had wished to be more closely involved, his part of the scheme is but a limited one despite the importance of it. The old him would have taken it as an offense if anyone, anyone at all, would consider taking over such a task regardless of their reasons for it because that Loki only would be blinded by a destructive notion of inadequacy and dismissal. But this Loki (the son of Frigga, Odin, and Laufey) king of Jotunheim feels none of that. Instead, it is a cold fear of another’s potential suffering that is making his world spin and hands shake. No coherent thoughts form in his mind, and once they appear, they are twisted into grotesque nightmares. If she does and she is caught... the distress is causing the trembling hands to change hue. They will imprison her. A chill which not even the fire can overpower steals into the room. Or maybe kill her on the spot. Tendrils of ice spreads across the floor from where Loki stands, coiling around and up anything in their path, and the flames in the hearth shrink visibly. A knock on the door startles him.

“My king…Thor has arrived.” The servant sounds particularly timid.

What?! It takes a conscious effort to keep his voice level. “Show him to the throne room.”

Finally becoming aware of the surroundings, the king breathes deeply in an effort to shackle his emotions. As he watches skin return to a humane hue and the destruction fade, leaving small puddles on the floor, a thought so outlandishly rash it makes his chuckle occurs to him. And who better than to help carry out this approximation of a plan than Thor?

…

Striding into the hall, he finds Loki standing by the roaring fire. The red coat nearly reaches the floor but does nothing to hide the muscular arms folded across the brother’s broad chest wrapped in armour of gold inlaid silvery metal.

“Thor, what a delight to see you here!” The smile Loki has plastered on his face is not entire fake.

Electric blue eyes reflect the heat of the fire as they land upon Loki for a second before another voice answers. Kind, warm, and familiar. The brothers could go anywhere in any of the realms and still recognize Frigga through the noise of the rowdiest place even if she spoke in a whisper.

“My son, I need you to listen to me now more than ever.” Stepping into sight, she reaches out for the younger of her children. “We have received the same message as you. I know what you want to do.”

The king of Jotunheim stays rooted in place, watching her hands fall before speaking. “Oh, really?” It is futile to challenge her, because Loki is her son more than Odin’s, but he will not have anyone stand in his way. “And what, pray tell, are my plans?”

“Brother, do not act foolishly,” Thor interjects, his voice a reminder of his powers, “if you go to stop lady [Y/N], then you risk exposing her not to mention abandoning your kingdom to an uncertain fate. Is that what you want?”

Where Frigga’s words merely had annoyed Loki because he knows that she sees more than others (not like Heimdal does, of course), Thor’s words stokes a fire deep within. A flaming rage similar to the one that flared upon hearing the Midgardian’s crude insult in the tent less than a fortnight ago. And this time the Jotun is fully aware of the red that begins to fill his eyes, a sight that would make cowards of most (and does at least make Thor frown)…but Frigga steps forward to take the cold hands in her own.

“Please, listen to me. Let me show you what I have seen.”

After a nod, she drags him to a seat. He lets her place his palm on her forehead, even bends slightly so she can reach his, before in- and exhaling slowly to regain a semblance of calmness.

The dark hall around them falls away, leaving them in an emptiness of opportunities until he relents control to Frigga, and glimpses of unknown places appear with one common denominator: [Y/N]. The first scene shows her slip behind a painting in the dead of night when only the stars light the castle’s interior. Next, she reappears in what appears to be a bathroom by pushing a panel in the pink and white wall aside, then tiptoeing across smooth stone which change to a fluffy carpet. She stops at a fourposter bed decorated with gold and pink lace, but he cannot see what happens there, only hear the spine-chilling sigh a few moments later. Then the scene changes and [Y/N] is dangling from a rope, a familiar stubborn expression on the upturned face. Next moment she stands on a balcony, knife in hand. Suddenly it is day, the court of nobles mingling about the familiar shape are at an uproar, but at least she appears safe.

“This is what can be,” Frigga’s voice fills the void that has surrounded them, “it is to prefer over this…”

Loki’s form is leaning over Magni’s neck, urging the horse on at a dangerous speed. He arrives at a castle without any attempt at disguising who he is, who he really is, and alarms sound everywhere causing guards to barge into a darkened bedroom styled in rich reds and greens where an unassuming man sits up in bed with a start and a familiar figure is caught sneaking in through a balcony door armed with a dagger. The next scene shows her too, in the same room and with the same soldiers and (Loki guesses) the king…but the only one alive is the Jotun despite the blood soaking his clothing and the many injuries he has sustained. Crimson eyes flare in the dark as he rocks the lifeless form of the woman he loves.

In reality, it is not Loki who is rocking, but he who is being rocked. Frigga is holding her son almost like she did when he was young and upset, and of course Loki realises this in much the same way that he is highly aware that Thor is watching, or that he has to keep the Jotun powers in check to avoid the risk of hurting either of the Asgardians.

Breathing deeply, the hard clench of his fists steadies him. “None of those futures are certain.” He knows a bit of how Frigga’s gift works.

“That is true.” But the sadness in her eyes is not subdued when their eyes meet.

“I assume you have conferred with Heimdal.”

It is Thor who answers, relenting the information that the Watcher has seen nothing alarming at Sjöblik as of yet. The tone is clear, tough. Both he and Frigga are trying to get Loki to stay put, inferring that he will be to blame for any ill events that may happen. If [Y/N] is harmed because of me…the risk alone is to great, and the dread it brings is strong enough that for once the Jotun is permeated by a cold as intense as the winters in these lands. It threatens to paralyze him, suffocate him in his own apathy. Never before has Loki felt this powerless, and he hates it with a passion almost comparable to the intensity of his love for the one person he is being asked to abandon to fate.

“There must be somethi–“ he begins desperately before being interrupted.

“Not now.” Frigga shushes.

A heavy hand lands on Loki’s shoulder. “Do not worry, little brother. You have trained this maiden of your well! I think she may yet surprise us pleasantly.”

…

Unsurprisingly, Frigga has had the foresight not to leave her son alone in Utgard, and as a result, Thor has been having a blast challenging anyone to spar until Loki relents. Now they are circling each other in the snowy courtyard while almost every Jötun in the keep watches from the sidelines. Mjölnir is standing neatly in a corner as per usual when the brothers brawl simply to minimize the risk of collateral damage (though it obviously does not eliminate it), and Thor is using a mighty sword in its stead.

They know each other well, rarely falling for the feinting jabs or swings. In truth, neither of them expect to win a match like this by means of weapons and crude violence although each participant is more than capable of slaying the strongest of foes if it were a real battle. Loki has never favoured brawn, always being reminded of his lesser size by his father and anyone else not fond of the dark-haired child. And Thor? He has the strength and he may not be as bookishly intelligent as Loki, but the God of Thunder is far from stupid, especially when it comes to tactics.

The first real move comes in a powerful sweep with the sword, developing out of a seemingly harmless jab, and Loki has to flatten his back onto the compacted snow as the blade hums through the air inches above his nose.

“Ah! Close one, brother!” Thor has been pulled around by the momentum, leaving the master of the keep time to regain both footing and breath. “This is a fine weapon!”

Loki sends a handful of throwing blades towards the blond’s unprotected back. “It is traditional for the Jötun clans of the northern plains.”

Each slim knife is deflected by either vambraces or the weapon in question, making Thor grin proudly. Keep laughing, brother mine. Behind the Asgardian, the snow transform into ice while collapsing in on itself, readying to launch a crystalline missile towards the unsuspecting fighter. Not yet. Rolling to avoid a new stroke, Loki reaches the rack with weapons available throughout the sparring session and grabs his favourite longer ranged weapon: a smooth spear of dark wood with silver and gold threads inlaid along the shaft. The tip is nearly black with the exception of the same threads weaving in and out of each other.

“I was wondering if you would keep relying on your toothpicks.” Blue eyes shine with mirth, teeth gleam like snow in sunlight.

A few jabs and a sweeping arch for Thor’s feet has the guest positioned perfectly for the surprise hidden in the snow. “Not at all,” Loki smirks, “I just deemed it polite to let you stand a chance.”

Clenching a fist suddenly, the sorcerer fires the icy missile. As if in slow motion, he sees it burst from the snow with deadly precision and it would have hit true if Thor had not had the wits to throw himself awkwardly to the side, now it merely grazes the warrior, sending him spinning into the heaps of snow. By the time his face reappears, it is met with the gleaming tip of a spear less than an inch from the nose.

“Loki…one,” the champion smiles.

Thor smiles undeterred, eager to continue the game as though he were a puppy. “Thor nil. Smart fighting.”

…   READER’s PoV   …

“What d’you mean they dis’peared?!”

King Gorm’s rage is echoing through the halls, causing the servants to scurry on with their heads down and the nobles present to attempt carrying on with their conversations although with slightly shrill voices. Standing by a tall window of stained-glass mosaics, the distress makes you smile despite the fat drop of rain that have been falling nonstop the last couple of days.

An answer is given and appears to be unsatisfactory. “NO! I’ll no’ ‘ave it,” the monarch nearly screams, “don’t you come spurtin’ tha’ kinda nonsense! I ‘spect nuttin’ less than p’fection! I want them punished! ALL o’ them!”

“But my lord,” finally the distressed voice of the military advice can be heard, “the few that did return, dutifully and with proo–“

“ALL o’ them! You think I dunno see wha’ ‘tis? Huh?! Lettin’ their mates wander off like tha’?!”

A shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with pettiness or the shill of the damp air. Whatever has happened (probably a regiment opting to desert) will now cause innocent souls suffering simply because the king acts like a spoiled child. Someone should send him to the front. Have him live under the same conditions as the lowliest soldier. It is a futile wish, of course. No one here will suggest anything that can cost them their own safety. Maybe they just don’t care about others?

...

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Depths Below: Epilogue, Part 3

[ OOC Disclaimer ]  | Over the last year HoTN has put together this story ‘In Depths Below’ it began with Lazarius being taken from Kun-Lai Summit, and the chase to get him back from the Hunters hired by Magister Dawnseeker was unveiled.  Every member eliminated a certain threat, the Order banded together to orchestrate the take down,  and accomplished their mission they’d set out to do.  The events here are what happened during.  This is Lazarius’ side, where he was; and what he’d done.  And just how he and a certain new savior became bonded.  Id like to give a tremendous thanks to @zandalaridruidofgonk for the help in putting this together and making it happen.   And thank you to everyone who has offered support and kind words over the last year.  Without further delay, the conclusion of our 2nd fictional collaboration.  In Depths Below. |

[ J ]       Jursol listened to his words, his questions about how far she’d go to protect her family, her way of life, her freedom. Many thoughts crossed her mind in those moments. Memories of how she came to care for her raptors. How she was taught magic that others saw as dangerous, or to primitive. How upon returning home to Zandalar she has only suffered at the hands of others.

The magic she used brought the wrong kind of attention from others. Some days she wondered why she even came back. This man was one of the few who seemed to not despise her. He was also something that fascinated her. Especially seeing how he seemed to be healed already after suffering such damage.

Jursol continued to pet the small raptor as she gave a fanged smile before speaking.

“Freedom not be free. It be paired for in blood, death, suffering. It be something I will never give up without a fight. Dis war be something I want nothing to do with. Dis world be suffering. Dis world be afraid of anything it not be understanding.”

Taking a look around at her hut with a slight smile she spoke frankly to him.

“I be doing anything to protect my freedom, my family, my way of life. Even if it be meaning killing.”

As she finished speaking the little raptor leaped off her to run around the hut. It found a place to rest as she moved to prepare to follow the elf into the jungles. Grabbing a few small bags, and; some vials that were empty to collect blood, before moving to the door to leave.

“If you be healed it be time to hunt.” She seemed eager to shed the blood of those they are after.

[ L.K ]     “We are very much alike in that respect Miss Jursol.”.

Lazarius would make his way beside her. Taking it upon himself to move from the inside of her cabin to the outer jungles that seemed to scream with life. It was obvious he didn’t seem all too bothered by the sounds and sights of the jungle. Unlike most elves that would have probably found dirt and sweat to be unappealing, he was quite comfortable.

“I will need you to lead the way as I have the navigation skills of a drunken dirt farmer. Especially in these unfamiliar territories.”.

[ J ]       As the two walked outside, Jursol noticed the elf seemed very at ease here. She remembered another she met who would swat at every single leaf or insect, and jumped at every sound they did not recognize. Laughing softly at the memory before she took the lead.

“At least you be honest about dis. Most I bet not be wanting to admit any weakness.”

[ L.K ]      His voice cracked as he let a small laugh escape his lips. Lazarius was pleased so far, free from those shackles and bindings, free from the grips of his captors. Hopefully the rest of his order was not irrationally starting a war, God’s only knew his twin must have been livid with him missing...again.

As she was permitted to take charge, he relinquished control to her. Staying close but not too close as to crowd her. He was trying to match her stride but he was absolutely no where as skilled at jungle traipsing as she.

“My views and...thoughts have changed over...the years.”.

He said brokenly as he walked behind her, his voice only loud enough for her to hear under the weight of their steps along the brush.

“My life has... been in the service of the ... old ones since I was only ... very young, but now ... I know that I must balance ... carefully on both sides...”.

[ J ]       As she lead the way with her white raptor near by, she heard a sound in the brush. A simple wave her hand and the raptor took off after what ever it was. A screech was heard as the sounds of a struggle came from the brush. The loud sound of crunching of bones was the last thing heard, before the raptor returned looking pleased. It’s mouth dripping in the blood of what ever poor animal was there. Jursol listened intently to him as she moved branches such out of his way.

“Old ones? Ah you be meaning Old gods I take it. Mmm, yes as with everything balance must be held. As one once be telling me, da be no darkness without light, no light without darkness. Even da shadows need da light to exist. It be hard to be free here in Zandalar. One must follow certain ways, or be shunned.”

[ L.K ]     Lazarius was more thinking out loud than anything, thank the gods they found flat soft ground to walk on finally.

“The people who serve with me, I will do anything to ensure they are free of tyranny, judgement and persecution.”  

He thought to himself for a moment then spoke.  

“Consider that my debt paid in full Miss Jursol, should you ever need somewhere safe... of these jungles come to claim you and the tribes encroach on your lands...should you need an ally in your darkest hour. The Nine...our Bastille, and my wrath...will be yours to use as you see fit.”

[ J ]       A deep sigh escaped her lips as she continued to clear a path. The beach was now close enough to hear the waves crashing on some rocks at the shoreline.

“I tank ya for dat, really. . . I be under attack more den most know.  Now more den evah...”

[ L.K ]     “ We are family...and I will protect the ones who protect me with my life...if that means we can be at peace and do as we wish....Freedom...” he said softly as they came closer to the exit of the forest edge.

[ J ]       Growing silent Jursol pointed to the beach now within sight. Scattered around still were bits of the ship, and maybe it’s contents of anything made it ashore. The white raptor made a sound as it seemed to pick up on something. Scavengers perhaps? Or perhaps others looking for this elf.

[ L.K ]     He reached out and took hold of her scaled flesh with the wrapped edges of his bandages.

“ Wait...”

As he moved up closer beside her, both elf and troll would be in that sneaky crouching position, and from their height vantage looking down at the beach, a small fire with seven figures could be seen huddled about massive piece of drift wood and debris. They had in fact found part of the wreckage of the airship.

“It must have crashed nearby and drifted in the lagoons...”

She could see his eyes flare up at this point had she looked back to him when he spoke. Voided magic’s beginning to drip from the gaps of the wrappings around his fingers, sizzling like a black magma as it hit the ground and slithered back to its master to be reborn again.

“These men are mercenaries, come to claim the price on my head. Their intention was to return me to Quel’thalas and deliver me to a very powerful Magister. They have something very important to me that I need in order to return to my people.”

Lazarius slowly moved a hand toward his shoulder where his robes were not even covering half, she would see the circled serpent branding against his tattooed flesh. The symbol of the Nine.

“I need that talisman...”

[ J ]      After scanning the intruders Jursol looked to the elf. She noticed more and more how he differed from others. He was definitely something else indeed.

Her gaze was locked onto the void magic dropping from his fingers seeming to come from the pours themselves. As it sizzled hitting he ground, her eyes widened in amazement and fascination. It was clearly alive as it even returned to his body.

Wishing to ask questions she held her tongue for now. There were enemies to deal with now. His words seemed to break her focus on the void magic as she nodded slowly to him.

“Mercenaries dey may be, but like others trespassing dey will die. I guess we be keeping dem alive long enough ta find what you be looking for.”

A sly wicked grin crossed her lips as she licked her fangs.

“Den I be feeding my raptors good tonight. Perhaps even da small little ones can eat some as well.”

Clearly she had no care for the lives on those down there. To her they were about to be a few meal for her family, and entertainment for her.

“When you be ready I be ready.” She said as she studied the mark, burning it into her memory.

[ L.K ]     “There are no reasons to leave them alive... I will strip their flesh from their bones and flay them alive if I need to. The only one I want alive is the one wearing the red cap. He was second in command to the leader I killed on the way down during the crash.”.

Lazarius narrowed his black eyes at the rest of them.

“Elf flesh is delicious...so I have heard from a companion of mine. Your raptors will eat well.”.

Slowly the man rose from the brush and began to pad down his robes and clean himself the best he could.

“Well...how do I look?”. He stated as he gave her a generous charming smile.

“How about we go for a walk dear Jursol? I’m sure they will get quite the shock when we waltz on down and introduce ourselves.”

[ J ]       Looking to spot the one he wanted alive she snarled.

“Den the one shall live, while de others become a nice meal for my raptors. I feel dis will be a great night a hunt.”

In the distance the sound of a raptor calling echoed though the jungles. Jursol grinned even more as she readied herself. Looking him over and quietly laughing at his charming smile, she gave a nod of her head.

“Be looking ready to be teaching a lesson to dem.”

She said as she made a strange animal like sound. The jungles seemed even more alive as the other animals reacted to her sound. As he gave word he was ready she started to make her way down, clearing a path for him as she went. Once they were near the beach Jursol blew loudly into her Death Whistle.

Her hope was that mixed with the sudden uproar of wildlife sounds would throw them off. Perhaps make them a bit uneasy being in a new place, that does seem very unforgiving. She remained hidden until he was back next to her. The raptors hunting call growing louder as they to neared the beach.

"Gentlemen!"

[ L.K ]     Lazarius hollered loudly as he slid down the embankment and onto the beach where he could be seen clearly walking toward the group of seven turned even more startled.

First the death whistle and the sounds of the creatures nearby causing them to reach for broken pieces of metal and wood that they had used to as makeshift weapons, and now this?

"Gentlemen it is good to see that you've all survived our little crash. . ." He raised his hands upward as he offered to show them he was in fact unarmed. These men were not fools though. “Most of you. . .some of you. . .”

They knew that the restraints missing were a bad thing. Or maybe they didn't.

"Now I know none of us expected to get stranded here on the beautiful sun baked beaches of Zandalar but. . .that is what has happened. Suffice to say we should all hope to eventually make it off of this island in one shape or form or another."

Lazarius walked calmly toward the small camp. If Jursol so chose to join him, the introduction to the men would continue.

"This is Jursol, she is a friend of mine. We've actually decided to come down here to see if you fine, upstanding people were alright. And seeing as how at least some of you didn't get picked off by the shark swarms, it goes without saying that you'd probably like to live past breakfast."

"Shut up you fucking mouthy son of a bitch! Light be damned this was why we bound and gagged you, just Shut up!" yelled one of the men watching the Inquisitor coming toward them.

“Marill let him speak. . .maybe he actually has a way out of here." called another.

"No Calleh, we aren't going to let him speak. . .did you forget that Dawnseeker wants him. We're getting paid a shitload of gold to deliver him alive. . .fuck his plan, we take him in and get that-fucking-money."

The man named Marill snapped back, slapping the side of the moronic man who wanted to allow him a chance.

"Now gentlemen I think that is a pretty unwise decision. . .considering the fact that I'm not actually planning on going back with you. So why don't we just all relax and think about this. . .you just tell me where my talisman is. . . and we'll just forget this whole thing ever happened. . .How does that sound?"

Lazarius asked as he grew closer still, walking at the same pace with his hands raised above his head.

[ J ]       Jursol grinned wide as she waited a moment before walking out from the thick jungle. She found the fact they reached for makeshift weapons highly amusing, clear by the pleased look on her face. Her eyes scanned the men as she walked out next to the elf. Hearing him introduce her she gave the men a, very sly, fanged grin.

Hearing the men speaking back to the elf in such a tone as they did, only stood to amuse her even more. She had seen what he can do, and she knew that lack of respect will be the end of them. They need him alive, but he only needs one of them alive. This won’t end well for those men at all. The banter was making her laugh as she kept her hands within sight for now. Staying close to him as they approached the hunters.

“Jo be in mah jungles now. Trespassers be not welcome here.” She said oddly calmly as she grinned more.

“I be thinking you best be tellen him where dat talisman be. That or we can be maken dis a game. I be happy ta help ja meet Ole Bwonsamdi. He be needen some new souls ta rule.”

As she spoke she stretched her clawed hands. A faint humming came from a bag she carried. She had a little surprise for those hunters with her. The screech of raptors grew ever louder as they grew ever closer to the beach.

[ L.K ]     Lazarius calmly continued on his trek toward them, his hands raised, and a smile on his face hearing the troll interact with them.

The men were somewhat in a daze at this point. The sight of the tall elf walking toward them with hands raised high. The sight of an even taller troll beside him. That buzzing, what the hell was that buzzing. The screech Of raptors, why did it have to be raptors! They were panicking and bunched together. Eyes wide and hearts beating.

Lazarius turned toward Jursol and smiled.

“Do you hear that? Thump thump, thump thump...such a lovely rhythm that tempo...”.

Lazarius turned his attention back toward the men.

“My good men...this troll...this beautiful...mesmerizing creature...she will end you.”.

He stopped several paces from them, hands still raised.

“I am NOT kidding, she does not take kindly to strangers who burn fires, make messes and just overall are being rude on her shores...you are being rude, you haven’t even introduced yourselves..”

“Im Calleh!” shouted one of the men as he was swatted by Marill.

“ Shut up... look Kashebahl...no hard feelings or anything but you... you have to come with us, this isn’t personal it’s work...you shouldn’t be so hard on us we’re just doing our jobs...”   one more of the group had called out.

Lazarius paused and nodded slowly.

“Just doing your...jobs. Right well I mean that does make sense, makes a lot of sense...”.

He looked at Jursol and sympathetically offered her a frown.

“That makes sense doesn’t it Miss Jursol?”.

Lazarius would slowly lower his hands and droop his head.

“Do...any of you know what my job is?”.

He asked as his bare toe started to draw little figures in the sand haphazardly.

“ Youre a rich guy!” Calleh borked again like a fool.

“Shut up Calleh!” Marill howled. “ Youre a noble...you move fine art, spice and fabrics. And you..owned a massive manor in Tirisfal.  Look it really doesn’t matter. . .it isn’t personal, it just is what it is. . . ”

Lazarius was tracing a little smiley face as he nodded listening to them. Or wasn’t listening and he chuckled.

“Is what it is. . . Hmm. . . So you don’t know what my job is...”. He continued to draw and extended his palm toward Jursol.   He completely ignored what they’d said to get back to his point.

She could see by the gesture that it looked like he was offering her his hand, but then he swept it away and moved it to point at the men. As if now he was saying, “have at them” which was exactly what he was saying.

“My job...is locating individuals such as my beautiful counterpart here; who share a like minded opinion of the state this world is in...rallying under one banner...forging a future together. . .drawing strength and resolve from one another in order to survive the insufferable garbage fire that is Azeroth and nearly all of its inhabitants. ..”.

All of that was said as she did whatever she was going to do. The only thing Lazarius had told her was to leave the one man alive, he changed his mind and called to her.

“Spare Calleh won’t you...I like him.”

To be Continued in. . . “In Depths Below: Epilogue, Part 4″

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 22: Over the Top (Transcript) - 30th November 2015

tw: assault, assault of women, potential sexual assault Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

The streets of London were a place of fear in 1790. There had been dozens of attacks, all reported by women. A man, it seems, had been stepping out of the shadows or from around corners and pricking them with a pin. Sometimes he was covert about it: there are reports that he fitted a bouquet of flowers with a sharp object, and would ask women if they’d like to smell them – and who could resist? Others say he attached small blades to his knees and then used them to stab women in the backs of the legs, and as the story spread, so too did the panic. They called him “The London Monster”, and within weeks the entire city was on alert. In the autumn of 1803, the people of London were obsessed with a new story - it seemed that a ghost had been seen in the Hammersmith area of the city. There were whispers that he was the victim of a suicide, doomed to haunt our world forever, and many people claimed to have seen him. After months of hysteria and rumour, a police officer actually witnessed the ghost while on patrol. Francis Smith pulled his gun, called for the fiend to stop, and then fired upon it. The shot was true, and the ghost fell limp to the ground. It fell because it was, after all, just a man. Thomas Millwood had been a plasterer by trade, and because of this, he wore all white clothing. Officer Smith was tried for murder and found guilty. Few things can unite a city like fear – hysteria spreads in much the same way that the plague moved across Europe in the 17th century, but that’s not the unusual part. What’s truly odd is the depths to which people will go to believe these fears, how easily they fall in with the public outcry, and believe whatever it is they’re told. For as horrible as the “London Monster” and the Hammersmith ghost stories sound, a new fear swept the city decades later. This fear permeated so deep and spread so fast that it left a mark still visible today, because fear, even when it’s built on lies, can spread like fire. But sometimes, on rare occasions, there’s a very good reason to be afraid. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

On a cool September night in 1837, Polly Adams was on her way home from the Green Man, a public house in the Black Heath area of London. She was with friends, and they talked and laughed as they walked towards Tudor’s Hill. Nearly home, the group was startled when a figure seemed to jump out of the darkness of an alley. Before anyone could react, the figure grabbed at Polly. According to her later deposition with the police, the stranger was clad in a black cloak, but his eyes seemed to burn with light. Oddly, she remembered that the man smelled of sulphur and then added, as if it were a normal thing to notice about a midnight attacker, that he also happened to spit blue fire from his mouth. Rather than help, Polly’s three travel companions ran quickly away into the night, afraid for their lives, and rightly so. The attacker ripped through Polly’s blouse with hands that seemed more like claws than anything else, but after tearing at the flesh of her stomach, the figure stopped. Pushing her to the ground, it turned around and bounded away into the night. One month after Polly Adams walked home from the Green Man, Mary Stevens was making her way back to work after a short visit with her parents in nearby Battersea. Mary worked as a servant in a home on Lavender Hill, just south of the Thames, and decided to cut through Clapham Common. Maybe not the smartest decision, no matter what century you live in. Yet Mary did just that, and set off on a quick walk through the dark trees and bushes towards her place of employment. Near the edge of the park, a figure jumped out of the shadows. The man grabbed her and pushed her to the ground, where he began to kiss her. Mary struggled, but the man’s grip was beyond tight. According to Mary, the stranger then ripped at her clothing with clawed hands that felt as cold and clammy as those of a corpse. Afraid for her life, she screamed, forcing the attacker to release her and flee the scene. The screams brought several nearby residents to her aid and a search was organised to locate the stranger, but no trace of him could be found. The following evening, in the very same neighbourhood where Mary Stephens lived, another dark figure was spotted. This time, rather than an assault, a mysterious person stepped out into the path of an oncoming carriage. The coachman, surprised by the appearance of the dark figure, lost control of the carriage before crashing it into a building. The coachman was severely injured, and the mysterious man cried out with a ringing, high-pitched laugh that chilled witnesses to the core. Then, as if his work were done, the man jumped over a nearby wall and escaped. The wall, mind you, was over 9ft tall.

Three months later, the Lord Mayor of London, a man named Sir John Cowan, spoke up at a public session at the Mansion House about a complaint he had received in the form of a letter. This letter was anonymous, but the writer claimed to be a resident of Peckham, close to Battersea and the 1837 attacks. The letter described how the attacks had all been a prank put on by an unnamed aristocrat as part of a dare. Researchers have speculated for over a century as to who the nobleman might have been, but no theories have ever panned out. Later, in January of 1838, the mayor showed off a pile of letters he had received from people in and around London, all claiming to have witnessed or been the victim of similar attacks to what Polly Adams and Mary Stevens had suffered. Though the claims can’t be proven, some letters reported that some people actually died of fright, while others were permanently traumatised by their encounters with this mysterious figure, and many of the reports contain eerily similar pieces of information. The stranger was said to be able to leap over very tall fences and walls, he was always described as having red eyes and clawed hands, and he always got away. Like a fever, the hysteria spread throughout London and the surrounding countryside. It didn’t matter that the mayor was sceptical of the whole thing; people everywhere seemed to be catching glimpses of dark shapes leaping tall buildings and terrorising their neighbours and servants. Like any movement or public experience, the people of London went looking for a name. What would they call the creature, human or not, who was at the centre of all these stories? And by late winter of 1938, they had found it, a name that would forever become part of Victorian folklore. They called him Spring-heeled Jack.

Up to this point, sightings of Spring-Heeled Jack had consisted of second-hand accounts and attacks on women with little power to demand attention, but in the winter of 1938 all of that changed. On the night of February 28th, Lucy and Margaret Scales set off from the home of their brother, who worked as a butcher on Narrow Street in the Limehouse district. History hasn’t remembered their destination; all we know is at around 8:30pm that night, the two young women walked off into the shadows, naively confident in their own safety. Minutes later their brother, the butcher, heard screams off in the distance, in the direction of a street known as Green Dragon Alley. When he realised that the voice was that of his sister, Margaret, he dashed off to find her. I like to imagine that he still had on his bloody apron and most likely picked up a meat cleaver on his way out, before making the run. When he found his sisters, Margaret was on her knees in the dark alley, Lucy’s body cradled in her arms. The young woman wasn’t dead, but she was unconscious, and Margaret was hysterical. As her brother helped the two women home, Margaret told him the story of what had happened. They had stepped into the alley, but a few paces in, a dark figure stepped out of the shadows and approached them quickly. Lucy had been standing in front of her sister, just a few paces separating the two women. Because of this, it was Lucy who took the full brunt of the assault. The figure, she said, was that of a man; Margaret described him as tall and very thin, dressed in the manner of a gentleman and wrapped up in a large, dark cloak. He held a lantern, known then as a bullseye, a small, round type carried by officers of the law, and maybe that’s why the women let him approach so carelessly. That’s when things took a turn for the worse. According to Margaret’s report, which she later filed with the police office in Lambeth, the cloaked man stepped close to Lucy and spat blue flames at her face. The flames, she claimed, erupted from the man’s mouth, and the sight of them blinded and shocked Lucy, who collapsed right there on the spot. Margaret worried that she was next, but she also had been concerned for her sister, Lucy, who now lay on the cobblestone, writhing in the throes of some kind of seizure. And then, as if his mission had been accomplished, the dark figure leapt over Margaret and onto the roof of a nearby house before vanishing into London’s darkness.

Sometime during the same week, the shadowy figure of Spring-Heeled Jack made another appearance. Jane Alsop was reading a book, around 9pm. She lived in one of the nicer neighbourhoods in the east end of London along with her father and two sisters, and on the night in question, she was closest to the front door, which is probably why she was the one who heard the shouting. From across the small yard, a voice had cried out in the darkness. There was a gate there that allowed access to the property and served as a small measure of security, but the voice that had shouted belonged to someone professing to be a police officer. An officer, in fact, that claimed to have captured none other than Spring-Heeled Jack. The man had called out for a light and Jane, being a dutiful citizen, grabbed a lit candle and exited her home to deliver it to the officer. As she handed it to him, the man tossed off his cloak, exposing his true appearance by the light of the flickering flame. This was no police officer; what Jane saw took her breath away. The figure was clothed in what appeared to be a tight-fitting, one-piece suit of white fabric, along with a metal helmet. According to Jane, the man’s eyes glowed red and were set within a face more hideous and frightening than any she had seen before. And then, without warning, the figure spat blue flames from his mouth. This time though, Jack wasn’t content to stop there. With Jane partially blinded by the flash of bright flames, he reached out and grasped her with his arms. In the report that her family filed later that night, at the same Lambeth police office where Lucy Scales had told her story, Jane further described her assault. The man, if that’s what he really was, tore into her dress with fingers that felt to her like metal claws. He tore through her dress and then cut through to her skin, ripping deep, painful gashes in her abdomen. Jane screamed, perhaps from the pain, or maybe from her primal fear, and then she ran. Her front door was just meters away and open, and so she bolted quickly for that safe sliver of light in the shadow-covered façade of the house. She was mere steps away from the doorway, a heartbeat from safety, when Jack caught up. His clawed hands grabbed around her neck and shoulder. Sharp, metallic fingers tore at Jane’s young flesh. Patches of hair were pulled free from her scalp. Blood was everywhere. Her family had heard her screams, though, and just as her attacker was slashing at her face, her father reached toward her from within the house. Two arms, outstretched to touch one target; one to harm, one to save. Thankfully, it was Jane’s father who won. Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled hard and brought her back inside, slamming the door behind her.

Many of the details surrounding Spring-Heeled Jack, details that were so out-of-the-ordinary and unusual, seemed to be echoed in each new eye witness account: the red eyes, the white body suit, the sharp claws… But something set Jane Alsop’s story apart from all the others – she was well-off. Not part of the elite, but high enough up the social ladder that her story caught the attention of the local newspapers, as well as the police, and when the upper class feel threatened, they take action. When word spread that Jack was hunting women throughout London, the police began to arrest suspects, although none were ever brought to trial. Groups of vigilantes banded together and patrolled the street at night, both to assist the police in protecting the people of London, but also with the hope of capturing the mysterious attacker. Upon reading about the attacks that had begun to plague the good people of London, one 70-year-old retired military veteran actually dusted off his guns, pulled on his boots, and rode off in search of the monster responsible. Though he was never successful in capturing, or even setting eyes on, the mysterious Spring-Heeled Jack, the gesture did much to calm the nerves of the locals, and how could it not? He was, after all, the Duke of Wellington, the man who fought Napoleon and won. Needless to say, the stories began to spread. Several penny dreadfuls were written about the mysterious Jack, whose exploits were perfect for the cheap, serialised fiction that the genre was built around. In theatres around London, several plays appeared that featured the subject. Even the Punch and Judy puppet shows around London found a way to incorporate this shadowy public menace. In shows that once featured the devil, performers changed his name to Spring-Heeled Jack.

There were, of course, a handful of additional sightings over the years to come, but while some of them stayed in the south-western area of London and Surrey county beyond that, others popped up in more distant locations. One report in Northamptonshire described an encounter with a creature that was, and I quote, “the very image of the devil himself, with horns and eyes of flames”. In Devon, an investigation was mounted to find the man responsible for assaulting women in the area, and the suspect’s description had some similarities to Spring-Heeled Jack. Lincolnshire, on the eastern coast of England, was the location of another documented sighting in the 1870s. One witness described a caped figure who was seen leaping over cottages in a small village. When the locals grabbed their guns and tried to shoot the figure, they claimed they could hear their bullets strike him, but the only result was a metallic ringing sound. “Jack” got away. One of the last encounters of note occurred in Aldershot, on the very edge of Surrey county. It was geographically closer to London than most of the 1870s sightings, and some researchers believe that this proximity to the original reports lends this story more validity. On a night in August of 1877, Private John Reagan was standing guard in a small booth near a military munitions depot. While inside, he claimed to hear something metallic being scraped along the wood of the booth. He stepped outside, rifle in hand, and patrolled the area to find the source. When he was satisfied that nothing was there, he headed back to his station inside the booth, and that’s when something touched him. Looking up, he saw the figure of a tall man, wrapped in a cloak and wearing a metal helmet. Then, the figure leapt into the air and landed behind him. Reagan pointed his weapon at the figure and called out for a name, but he claims the visitor, whoever it was, simply laughed at him. The soldier fired to no effect, and the figure advanced. Then, without warning, blue flames erupted from his mouth. That’s when Reagan did what any good soldier would do under circumstances: he ran for his life. Spring-Heeled Jack never left the public mind, but as the legend slowly settled into popular culture, reports of actual appearances became less and less frequent. And then, just as Jack had seemed to cross the threshold into mythic territory, he did what every eye witness claimed he was so gifted at – he disappeared.

There’s a lesson deep inside the story of Spring-Heeled Jack. Like all the most powerful and devastating diseases of the last thousand years, ideas have a tendency to spread like fire. Today we use the term “viral”, and in many ways that’s close to the truth. Fear, panic and hysteria are all communicable diseases, and when a culture is infected, sometimes there’s no way to stop it. But unlike the plague or some new strain of bird flu, it stands to reason that we could, at the very least, calm our fears and put out the fires of hysteria. So why is it so hard to do so? Spring-Heeled Jack is just one of countless examples that have been repeated all around the world throughout history. You would think that we would have figured it out by now. Maybe we actually like mass hysteria - not the hysteria itself, mind you. What I mean is, what if there’s something about being part of a larger story that resonates with people? It binds us together, it unites us in a global conversation, it builds community. Big fears never really go away. Although Spring-Heeled Jack disappeared from the public eye in the last decade of the 19th century, some think he’s still around. In 1995, a school in a small, west Surrey village was closed by the town. Students and teachers wanted to mark the occasion, and so they put on a disco-themed celebration to say goodbye to each other and the school they loved. That night, as the party was winding down, a handful of students ran back into the school, screaming about something they had seen outside. When asked by the teachers about it, these students all told the same story. They had all left the party earlier and had been hanging out near the playground. While there, a shadowy figure had approached them in the darkness. As the shape moved closer, they saw more details. The man wore black boots and a dark, hooded cloak, but it’s what they saw beneath the cloak that frightened them the most: a one-piece suit of white cloth and glowing, red eyes.

[Closing statements]

[martinatkins]

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[icehot-addiction]

I see that you're in the Voltron fandom! I want to watch it but I'm really afraid of all the discourse and hate... Can I ask your opinion on this? Do you think I should give it a shot? I hope you're doing fine, Lulu-chan!

Hey dear! I’m so sorry this reply is probably really late?? I’ve been trying to tag my older stuff before posting new stuff so I haven’t really been checking my askbox and all!! 

About Voltron, I’m barely halfway through the first season so I kinda feel like I’m only just dipping my toes into the fandom haha (I haven’t even settled on a favourite character which is REALLY surprising considering I’m a love-at-first-sight kinda fangirl) but I don’t think you should let any form of dis//course/ha//te discourage you from any source material!! So far Voltron has been cute and wonderful (esp. if you like western cartoons and you’re okay with the pacing? and the art style and the dialogues? b/c the biggest difference I feel there is between cartoons and anime is the….. Dialogues?? Idk how to explain it, it’s like the banter and the way messages/feelings are conveyed is so different and sometimes it’s a bit of a leap to get used to but if you’ve been watching Avatar/Korra and SU and stuff like that you should be fine! AND THE PACING is a nice surprise because I kinda always have the impression that cartoons like to wrap up small story plots within 1 or 2 episodes at max but so far Voltron has been quite a continuous story between episodes and I really like that!) so if you’re looking for some cute bonding between space pilots with p. cool backstories and a show with strong female characters you should definitely give Voltron a try!

(Also is the ha//te for Voltron like… Really bad?? Is it just because of the ships or are people actually ha//ting on the show?? I haven’t really been actively seeking out the negative comments and no one on my dash really reblogs ha//te so……. I’m actually quite oblivious to the discourse haha.) EDIT: oh welp nvm I just went into the dis//course tags HAHA and wow that is not pretty. No wonder you’re nervous about entering the fandom. I’m gonna….. Post my opinions under the cut if anyone’s interested??

Thanks for dropping by with the question!! I sincerely hope you’ll enjoy Voltron!!

Well tbh the main argument against sh//aladin ships is because people think it’s/ define it as pe//dophilia? I could cry laughing because I’m not sure if the problem is people are actually not aware of the definition of pe//dophilia, or they’re just purposely trying to bend logic to justify their opinions? I mean yes, some people get upset seeing nsfw sexual stuff depicting minors (the proper definition of this is people younger than 18 in most countries). That’s understandable. That’s why you blacklist tags like ‘nsfw’, don’t follow blogs posting nsfw content, so you don’t see the sexual stuff on your dash. 

But seriously, degrading sh//aladin ships to pe//dophilia? That’s really mean and wrong? Other than Shiro, the rest of the Paladins are teenages?? Quoted in interviews with the voice actors as “around 16 years old”? which means that calling any relationship between Shiro and any of the other Paladins “pe//dophilia” is already out of the question because, and I quote wikipedia and other websites for this, ″Pe//dophilia or pae//dophilia is a psychiatric disorder in which an adult or older adolescent experiences a primary or exclusive sexual attraction to prepubescent children″ and the ″criteria for pe//dophilia extend the cut-off point for prepubescence to age 13″. Do the Paladins look like prepubescent children? Prreeeeetty sure they don’t. They’re teenagers. So any ha//ters basing their arguments around pe//dophilia really ought to check themselves because that’s really kinda embarrassing, guys.

So people don’t like pe//dophiles, well neither do I. But Shiro isn’t a pe//dophile because the rest of the Paladins aren’t prepubescent children, last I checked. And Shiro’s like, 26-30 at most? So the only issues here against sh//aladin ships are 1. Relationship with a Minor and 2. Age Gap, all the NSFW stuff aside. Relationships with a Minor is icky because it’s in the grey area and not punishable by law if the relationship is strictly not sexual? Sure, it’s definitely not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s not morally wrong either. A lot of things could go wrong in a relationship with a minor esp. in real life, to be fair. It’s not a thing you should encourage like ever because most mistakes people can make WILL COST THEM. But this is fiction, not real life? The portrayal of the characters are derived solely from the creators, be in canon or fanfiction? So if you feel something is wrong with the portrayal, it’s not a problem with the characters themselves but the creators who portray them that way?

In the case of Voltron- The story’s setting/development is one where the Paladins (Shiro included) are given time to figure out why they’re in this, why they want to stay here, what they want to do with their lives, where they want to go from where they’ve been tossed into, and how they want to achieve that?? And that includes if they want to be in love with the people they spend almost all their time together with? Their entire Galaxy (or Galaxies idk) are threatened by this evil space race that’s destroying everyone and everything in their path to absolute power, and these Paladins are growing and learning new things about themselves and each other every day with every fight? And people wanna bicker with other people about “Shiro is 26-30 and the Paladins are minors so they shouldn’t be dating”? wow guys. Seriously. It almost sounds like these particular group of people have never had any sort of significant interaction with another person before, no offence. The characters themselves are not at fault here?

Idk about you, but back in my teenage years (I’m 24 now) people get into relationships as young as 12, 13? (People probably get into relationships at younger age now.) My first love was at 13 years old, man. It’s normal? The process, the experiences is how you broaden your perspective, figure things out, stuff like what you’re looking for and what you need from your partner, what you like and what you don’t. I’m not saying it’s all roses and butterflies, because you get hurt along the way. But you learn, you make mistakes and you remember not to make them again because they hurt, and no one likes to get hurt. But falling down and learning to pick yourself up brings you further? Not all of us are lucky enough to find “The One™” right at the start and live happily ever after. And people suffer from bad judgement and terrible decisions because of lack of experience and narrow viewpoints. I have friends who barely date, gets into relationships and feeling like “this is the one” and end up getting terribly hurt because they don’t know themselves well enough and don’t know better and that sucks, man. I’m digressing. Point is? Young love is good. I’m all for young love and learning about yourself and learning about other people and about interacting with someone else and all. About developing, growing up with love. The most important thing is discipline and control and not falling for temptations and making mistakes you know are BAD and you shouldn’t make, but that applies to everything you do in life, not just in relationships. And in the realm of fiction you can literally control the characters to do things so what’s the big issue? People are okay with a 16 y/o falling in love with a 16 y/o even though they’re both First-timers™ with no experience who will probably make a lot of mistakes and hurt each other a fair bit along the way, but they’re not okay with an older adult dating a minor even though the older adult probably might have better experience and control/discipline not to make mistakes and the relationship could have a more wholesome and lasting development? Isn’t that a bit contradictory? I can’t wrap my head around this?? All love is good and age doesn’t matter as long as both parties consent and are willing to work towards keeping themselves and the other party safe? That’s really how relationships are supposed to work isn’t it? It really really sounds like some people have 0 knowledge about how relationships are? I could cry?

And then there’s the whole *spoiler alert* for season 2!!!!!!!!!!! Keith: “Shiro, you’re like a brother to me.” I shall just direct you to this very sweet and concise post by niduss which I feel sums up everything I feel about the line in terms of Keith’s development. On the side of shipping: this line neither supports nor debunks Sheith as a relationship? So please stop?? 

And in case people wanna start dropping ha//te to me saying stuff like “this bitch probably doesn’t have brothers so she ships incest” or “never been a victim of pe//dophilic abuse before” so I shouldn’t be saying stuff like this, 1. I have 2 brothers and we’ve had ups and downs but I’m close to my brothers now and I love my brothers so ha, shame on you HA, and 2. I don’t need to prove to you that I’ve been through my fair share of traumatic shit™ to make my opinions valid? I’m not proud of the fact that I’ve gotten abused as a child, but it made me who I am now and that’s the part I’m proud of? Yes.

tldr; shipping sh//aladin is fine as long as they’re handled appropriately? It’s not pe//dophilic at all?? Shiro isn’t a pe//dophile?? If a person’s portrayal of characters art/writing/etc is wrong/immoral/inappropriate, then it’s just a reflection of the person themselves? Love isn’t wrong and the characters have done nothing wrong? Don’t shove your opinions down other people’s throats and then distort 1001 things just to try and defend your opinion? Thanks.

[dietaku]

Amazing Quest 1: Chapter 2

The second chapter. I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 2: We’re in Toruble Now! The scene reopens in sepia with Lil’ Hiro and his sister, who retains the same sprite for this scene, talking in a field. Emilia: Alright, little brother, today, I will teach you the basics of sword fighting! Lil’ Hiro: Um. … Must I? Emilia: Yes. You’re the product of the Pudding Eugenics Program. Generations of selective breeding and dedication to the cause of finding the Pudding Savior have come down to just the two of us! Lil’ Hiro: I had no say in that, though! And it hurts when you hit me with the stick. Emilia: It’s not a stick. It’s a training sword. Lil’ Hiro: You’re missing the point. Emilia: Exactly, that’s what it’s a training sword. Lil’ Hiro: D’oh! Emilia winds up and bonks Lil’ Hiro, putting him on his back. Lil’ Hiro: Oooww… mommy! Emilia: *Sigh*. Maybe that’s enough for one day… The scene fades out and then back again as Hiro opens his eyes, lying on a bed somewhere in a small room. Hiro: Ow? A door opens and the huge woman we saw previously walks in. We get prompted to name her but I tend to stick with the defaults – this is Ozma. She’s the biggest party sprite in the game, towering over Hiro by a good head and a half (and several more in the front if you get my drift), her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. The catchy song playing during this scene is her theme, Merciful Heart. She walks over to the bed. Ozma: How are you feeling? Hiro: Like I just was blown up and hurled several miles through the air. Ozma: … Err… Hiro turns to face Ozma. Hiro: ! M-m’lady! Sweet Angel of Lul Invictus himself, I implore you, tell me your name or my life will surely come to its end! Ozma: Ah?! Ozma’s sprite lights up red here. Ozma: I-I… I’m Princess Ozma Zorus Toruble, good sir! I was the one who found you in the smoldering crater and brought you here to the hospital. Hiro: Ah. The Princess herself. Tales of your power and beauty spread far, even to my remote hamlet, but I see they do you no justice. Ozma: Kyaaa! You~! Ozma blushes, puts one hand to her beaming face, then socks Hiro a good one with the other. The sound clip that emits is much like a chicken squawking in mortal terror, leading to the bizarre, oft-repeated nonsense meme of “Chicken Hiro Sub”. Hiro falls back, doing his best impression of The Scream. Ozma: O-oh! I overdid it again! Shoot! At this point, we take control of Princess Ozma herself. If we inspect Hiro she says… Ozma: It was just a playful little bump to the shoulder, but there he lies, near death. I better find a doctor… We can then inspect our inventory. Ozma has no spells to start and begins at level 1. Not like she needs them, as even at level 1, her physical stats nearly eclipse Hiro’s. Ozma’s real weakness is her low magical offense… big effing whoop for the character who barely gets any. Early JRPGs and their sense of “balance” was always an odd relationship. Anyways, we head up to the throne room where we can speak with the king. King: My dear, where are you going? Ozma: I might have sort-of crippled a man just now. I’m going to get the doctor. He’s still at his house on the end of the lane? King: Erm… y-yes, that sounds about right. Ozma: … About right? You can then leave into the town, which is comprised of small, narrow roads and the open-air market. We have Hiro’s money and items, so we can upgrade right away to the Glass Knkls and Regal Gown for a small sum. However, we can’t leave town as the guards block the way. Guard: Yes, ma’am, Lady Ozma! We cannot lower the drawbridge right now! Ozma: Why? Because it’s before daybreak? You realize as the Princess of Toruble, I AM the embodiment of the law? Guard: No ma’am, it’s not that. We actually cannot. The only one who knows how to operate them is currently on the other side of the canal. Apparently we locked him outside last night. Ozma: … Guard: I swear we’ll have this straightened out in just a moment, m’lady! Please, just another event flag or two, I swear! Ozma: *SIGH*. We then go to the doctor’s house. Ozma will knock. Ozma: Doctor? Doctor! I already put the lime in the coconut and it didn’t help! … Doctor? Ozma knocks again. Ozma: Doctor?! … What the hell? Why isn’t he answering? This confounded American gamers. In the Japanese script, it’s made plainly clear no one is home, but in the English, Ozma makes it sound like he’s merely ignoring the door. The answer is to return to the throne room and speak to the King again. Ozma: Father, the Doctor is missing. King: Oooooh yeeeah. About THAT… I might sort-of kind-of banished his ass from the kingdom. Ozma: Father! Why would you DO THAT?! King: Have you SEEN his rates?! Ozma: FATHER!!! King: It’s okay! I totally know where he went. He went to live in the Mountain of Outcasts. Ozma: … I’m not aware of any such place. King: It’s on the mountain behind the kingdom. It’s where everyone I’ve banished lives! Ozma: FATHEEEEEEEEEEER!!! You can then leave the castle, whereupon two castle guards go to Ozma. Guard 1: M’lady! We insist we accompany you! Guard 2: The denizens of the mountain will not be welcoming to a member of the Toruble House! Ozma: You’re the ones without faces, names, or legitimate backstories. Your funeral. Guards 1 and 2 join. Though I can’t fathom why, as Ozma grossly outclasses them both. You’re now free to leave the town and go to the world map, but a wild stampede of migratory sea sponges prevents Ozma from revisiting earlier cities Hiro was at prior, so for now, we can only venture to the mountain range behind Toruble City. We enter the foot of the mountain and begin up the winding trail. You’ll soon find Ozma leveling up while the guards are locked at level 5 permanently, meaning they’ll be the ones holding YOU back. On the bright side, you can equip the Earth Talisman on Ozma which will bolster her overall defense. About midway up, you’ll enter a cave with an eerie mist. Guard 1: Hm. This must be the dreaded Mountain Maze! Ozma: What’s so dreaded about it? It’s just a cave. Guard 1: Guard 2, why don’t you explain it? You always explain it so well. Guard 2: Thank you, Guard 1. The Dreaded Mountain Maze— Ozma: Wait, is that a part of its name or an adjective?! Guard 2: -- As I was saying, the dreaded Mountain Maze is a, well, a maze within the mountain. Ozma: Is it also dreaded? Guard 2: Sometimes! Ozma: I give up. The maze itself is hardly anything dangerous. The enemies are merely things like Blind Bats (which are strong but constantly suffering 50% hit rates), Mounted Munchkins (munchkins who ride atop mules for added stamina) or Portly Pigs, orc-like monsters who Ozma dismisses with a single punch. When you reach the end, the team fans out and looks around. Ozma: The maze comes to a dead end at every path! What do I need to do to get out here?! Ozma punches the wall in frustration which shakes the map. After a moment, there’s another, smaller shake as a boulder falls from the ceiling, taking Guard 2 down through the floor). Ozma: … Guard 1: NOOOOOOO! Not Guard 2! He was the finest mind of his generation! And two days from retirement! Ozma: Oops? Down one helper, we can leap down the hole the boulder made and walk out of the small cave there to the other side of the mountain road. You head around the long, curved strip which eventually goes up to a town nestled amidst the rocks. Ozma: Is this it? Guard 1: It appears so, m’lady! The Mountain of Outcasts! Ozma: Yeah. Try announcing that a little louder. I’m sure they’d all love the reminder! The camera pans down the road as several doors pop open and civilian sprites, dressed in their Sunday poorest, come out, various farming implements in tow. Guard 1: … This is about to turn ugly. Ozma: *Cracks knuckles* The people approach. Man: Whaddya want? We’re then given a prompt. 1) Hello, sir, have you heard the good word of Lul? 2) Pizza delivery! 3) OZMA SMASH!!! If you pick prompt 3, you just fight some weak mooks, which even the Guard 1 in our party could best. The others get varying responses. -Prompt 1- Man: We don’t take kindly to THAT kind ‘round these parts. You ain’t a Toruble, are you?! Ozma: Uh. No. I’m the OTHER giantess with the royal seal emblazoned on my armor that lives in the same city. Man: Well GOOD then! We got nothing to worry about. The villagers put their weapons away. Ozma: … Um. Right then… -Prompt 2- Man: About time! We ordered that thing like a month ago! Ozma: Uh. Yeah. It took me so long to get here I had to eat it to survive. So, no charge. Man: Awww… okay. Well, since you’re here, you might as well come in… Once you clear up who you are, you get to move around the town freely, with some slightly different flavor text through some NPCs. Head to the furthest back building to find the missing doctor. Ozma knocks. Ozma: OPEN THE DOOR OR LOSE IT! A click is heard and then the door pops open as a tall, skinny gentleman in a lab coat is there. Doctor: P-Princess Ozma?! What are you… I told that crowned buffoon that it wasn’t right OR possible but he wouldn’t listen!!! Ozma: Explanations can wait. I want you to help a guy who’s totally into me. So I hope you can understand why I’d prioritize that over your previous banishment. Doctor: I… what happened to him? Ozma: I might have kinda put his lights out. Doctor: … And he SURVIVED? Ozma: DOC! Doctor: Okay, okay! Here. Give him this. Ozma gets the Heal Herb key item! Ozma: Thanks! And I’ll see if I can’t get daddy – the King – to overturn your sentence! Doctor: I’d rather you not, frankly. If anyone asks, you didn’t get that from me! Ozma: Huh? … Well, if you insist! Doctor: Good. Now, kindly leave, if you’d be so good. Take the road here next to my house and you’ll find the shortcut. Good day, little Princess. We can then access the road (as the fence there moves out of the way) and allows us to return back and forth freely, now that the road through the mountain is one-way. We return to Toruble City and suddenly find it slightly darker and overrun by punks on skateboards. Ozma: What in the world?! Guard 1: The city is under attack by ruffians!!! HOLD THE FORT, MY LIEGE! I AM ON MY WAY! Ozma: No, wait! The Guard runs off screen, only to get kicked back onto it, on his back. Guard 1: N-no! I… I was… just… ONE… day… from… retirement… ugh. Two skateboard punks walk on screen. Skateboard Punk 1: The Dark Puddings gave us run of this drab city and now we run it the way we want! Skateboard Punk 2: Like a giant SKATE PARK! Ozma: Punching you is going to feel a little TOO good. We then deal with some Skate Punks to clear out the path. We can hurry back into the castle and go straight to Hiro now. Ozma: Let’s see… what does the label say? “Warning: may cause underwritten romance”? Well, this is a JeffCom game, that ship has sailed. Ozma gives Hiro the Heal Herb which, in the western release claims “Ozma nursed Hiro to health”. In the Japanese, it said “Crammed it in his mouth”. The scene fades then reopens with Hiro on his feet again. Hiro: My lady, you have saved my life. Uh, again. I’ll ignore you were the one who endangered it, really. Ozma: Right, but unfortunately we have more pressing matters at hand. Hiro: Then allow me to help you. It’s the least I, Hiro, can do! Ozma: Then let’s go, Hiro! Hiro and Ozma reformed the party! Next, we’ll want to leave the castle and head out. On top of random encounters, there’s also set ones, with Skate Punks terrorizing the locals. This not only nets us some nice items from the populace (including a Skateboard Hiro uses as a shield), it also helps make up any difference in level the two may have had. Once we’ve done everything, we can go to the castle throne room, where the King is cowering in a corner. The skate punks zoom around the room as one in particular is perched on the throne. Skate Punk: Man, 90s skater culture will NEVER DIE! Ozma: Yeah, it will certainly never replaced by… hell, NASCAR, beanie babies, or some other cultural flotsam. Skaters: *GASP!!* King Skater: Aha! The prodigal daughter of the recently-dethroned Toruble! While you were out, I have claimed this kingdom for our OWN amusement! The Dark Puddings will reign forever and SKATING WILL NEVER DIE! Ozma: Bastard! Hiro: Now, now, Ozma, maybe we should give them the chance to explain their policies. King Skater: Huh? Hiro: Yeah. As king, surely you must have a bold new vision. After all, you don’t overthrow a monarchy purely for the pursuit of trivial temporary athletic competition. King Skater: … Hiro: Oh God, you really did. Ozma: Can we start punching him until he stops living now? Hiro: Sounds good to me. -Boss Fight!- King Skater x1 LP: 2300 MP: 120 Skate Punks x 5 LP: 750 MP: 0 This fight opens with the message “Haha! You can’t reach me!” and is, unfortunately, true, as so long as even a single Skate Punk remains in the way, Hiro and Ozma cannot target the King Skater. Using Rice Pudding is completely useless, by the way, as the Skate Punks and King Skater keep letting into him, which takes its toll when you’re the punching bag. After a few rounds of impotently killing Skate Punks, Hiro kneels. Hiro: Nnngh! It’s no use. Every time I try to act, they strike as one. Ozma: Hiro! Are you alright?! Hiro: (Pudding Eugenics program… looks like selective breeding lost the bet on that gamble. I will be bested not by the Dark Puddings themselves, but mere children…) Hiro falls flat. Hiro: Nnngh! Ozma: No! Hiro! Don’t tell me your wounds are flaring up again?! Hiro: (Sister… Ozma… forgive me. But so long as I hold the Earth Talisman… the Dark Pudding’s ignoble ambition will still end…) A flash of a huge, red monster eye staring right at the player, followed by a black screen. A moment passes and then a text box appears on screen, with the faint silhouette of a strange, tiny creature appears on-screen. ?: Do you want to live? To experience life to its maximum potential? 1) Yes 2) No -If No- ?: Think REALLY hard about this decision one more time. Because if you say no, you kind of die. -If you select No 128 times- ?: I… really? Seriously? Well… okay. Be that way. Jerk. You then get the game over and “The Era of War never ended…” message for this too. -If Yes- ?: Ask yourself this – why DOES Pudding conform to the shape of its container? Is Pudding solid or liquid? Or is it BOTH?! Hiro: Uh…? ?: You must be as malleable as the Pudding from which you derive your name! You must be both sweet and tangy; both filling and light! Do you understand? Hiro: Not a word. ?: EXCELLENT! Then let me say it another way: when one flavor fails to satisfy, what then must the Pudding do? Hiro: Uh. Open another snack cup? ?: PRECISELY! You understand your own base nature! When two flavors become as one, a new powerful flavor is born! As such, you must discover which flavor best complements your own! Embrace this change and evolve eternally upward! HIRO! Hiro! Hiro?! Hiro: Wha--? The screen goes white, as Hiro gets up, back in the fight. Ozma: Hiro! Are you alright?! Hiro: I felt… something awaken just now. Ozma, do you trust me? Ozma: The script says I do, completely! Without an iota of hesitation! Hiro: Then let’s go! Under Hiro’s skill list is a new Pudding morph: Swirl. Swirl is a catch-all that, when you meet specific requirements, lets Hiro fuse with one other party member. Ozma’s fusion is given to us as of this battle, giving us Chocolate-Raspberry Swirl. Hiro and Ozma become an entirely new entity, carrying an enormous, stone axe and has physical stats so high the Skate Punks will struggle to deal 1 damage to it. One blow will send each Skate Punk packing. Once you take out two or three, you get the new message “Skate Punks are terrified!” and they’ll flee, in turn, until nothing stands between you and the Skate King. Skate King: I-I-I’M N-N-N-NOT A-A-AFRAID OF Y-Y-YOU!!! At this point it becomes a slam-bang contest to the finish. Chocolate-Raspberry Pudding has no skills to its name, but it’s still a little game-breaking-ish… but then again, so are ALL the Swirl (and eventual triple and party swirl morphs) modes. Just send this guy packing. -Boss Fight!- Ozma: Wh-what WAS that power?! Hiro: I don’t know. But when I activated it, my P-Centage begin skyrocketing… I have no idea… Ozma: Daddy! Ozma rushes to her cowering father, who immediately rushes back to the throne and reclaims his crown. King: *AHEM* Yes, indeed. That was a difficult trial, but I was so confident you had it all under control, I simply stood in the corner and awaited the obvious outcome! Hiro & Ozma: … King: YES. So… this is a trying time for us all. I must thereby request you, Leroy— Hiro: Hiro. King: Hiro, to go west from here and crush the Dark Pudding’s stranglehold on the drawbridge which links my fair nation to the next! Hiro: Alright. I can’t think of anything better to do. King: EXCELLENT! Ozma: … (I want to ask all about what Doctor was saying but… I get the feeling I’ll just get stonewalled, as usual.) Father, I will accompany Hiro. In order to ensure that his mission succeeds and the welfare of Toruble is maintained, of course. King: Good. Great. Perfect! I await news of your success! Ozma: Come, Hiro. Let us depart now. We then return through the town one last time, as the citizenry thanks us profusely for our efforts, then we head a short trek west. With the sea sponges safely in their new homes, we can go to the drawbridge encampment. When we enter, the rules change a bit. We have three ways of going about this – sneaking by everyone patiently, killing them all hastily, or sneaking up behind them and systematically knocking them out. That last one is only available here and pretty much nowhere else in the franchise, so the fact it’s even an option is a surprise to most until they deliberately TRY to get into a fight, then realize stealth kills yield no exp. The real prize is when we find their storage tent and load up from their losses. Next to it is their prison tent, where a curvaceous ninja girl is holed up in a cardboard box, animated with a “HELP!” balloon over it. Hiro: Um. Are you alright? Voice: No! Please, get me out of this prison! It’s hell! I can’t see! Hiro shrugs, then cuts the tape. Voice: *GASP* The girl climbs out quickly, panting with surprisingly well-rendered jiggle physics. Hiro: Who are you?! Girl: I’m Kimyawa. Enemy to the Dark Pudding’s evil ambition! And you are— Hiro: I’m Hiro. This is Ozma. Kimyawa: Hiro-nii-chan! We must escape immediately! Across the bridge and some ways in, we’ll find Loyroll! Hiro: Who is… Kimyawa: My nii-san! Hiro: Sure, whatever. That totally makes sense to me with all my English speaking and all. Kimyawa: Let’s hurry! We then get to stealth our way through the camp’s remainder to the drawbridge. If you came here without Kimyawa, Hiro would stop and mention he felt like they needed to look around first. Now that the gang’s all here, Ozma runs to the chain and shatters them with her hand, dropping the bridge like a lead weight into place. Ozma: C’mon! Hiro: W-wow! Such brute strength! Such primal beauty! Kimyawa: Later, nii-chan! Let’s go!

[jorajhisays]

Okay, so after everyone recovered from their hangovers and gathered their things we set off onto the next part of our exciting underground journey. The guardsman was super nice and chatted with me while I waited for everyone to get their stuff together.

They weren't very helpful about where the portal we needed to shut was, all they could kinda do was point us in the general direction and send us off. Fair enough though, according to Harland the Underdark is a pretty big place. I do wish they could have given us at least some form of directional help.

We kinda wandered along single-file through the narrow tunnels until we came upon a place with lots of pools. They looked really warm. The moment Harland stepped close to one, something came out and grabbed him! It looked like a lobster with tentacles. It was kinda icky, but at least it wasn't trying to crush me.

It didn't manage to poison Harland, which is good because it would have been bad for him. Callie tried to attack it, but I don't think it turned out so well for her. Harland tried to do some magic thing that would tell it to put him down or something, but it didn't work. I was worried it'd try to go back into the water so I went around to the side of it and stood on the edge as I tried to whack it. It grabbed Callie in its claws after moving Harland into its mouth. I think it wanted to eat him. I'm pretty sure it did, at least. In the end, Dominus landed the killing blow just as the thing tried to retreat into the water. He did well, I'm proud of him. He was pretty pleased with himself, too.

Harley and I dove into the water after we caught the glimmer of shiny things at the bottom. I had bigger hands, so I grabbed the coins and this pretty bird (not the fun kind, unfortunately). We divided what we found, there was like, 102 gold and 53 silver. I got to keep a copper that had a bite taken out of it!

Dominus wound up really liking the raven which was apparently something that people used to send messages from one another. He named it Kutkh, and we let him keep it. Inside the bird was a piece of paper, we couldn't recognize what was written on it even after Harland and I puzzled over it for a good while. It seemed to be some type of code. I put it away in my bag until we could get someone else to look at it.

We gave Harland's crossbow to Dominus, just so he can shoot things from far away. It looked so tiny in his hands...

After we all kinda recovered from the attack, we kept exploring. We found three different potential paths to follow, none of them looked particularly inviting. There was one area that was just... ice. Another section had cobwebs all over the floor of the tunnels. Large ones, too. And the last one had a lot of statues.

We didn't really feel up to going into the room that had the statues, especially after Harland told us that they were most likely petrified people. Didn't really feel too much like fighting a bunch of spiders either, so into the icy caves we went.

Eventually, we discovered a room with a very large tree in the middle. And three frost giants. We tried to talk to them, but they didn't respond. A voice told us that they didn't speak Giant very well.

What looked like a preteen girl materialized from the snow piled around the dead leaves. She was small-looking and pale. She was wearing a light blue dress and she had wings. She said her name was Hrim. It's a little tricky to try and say her name, so she told us we could call her Rime.

She was currently in control of the Frost Giants. As Harland, Dominus and Callie were discussing the tree behind her, I asked her questions.

She said she was in control of the frost giants, and that she'd been there for a while. She asked us what we are, and whether we were there for the tree. I don't think it would have ended well for anyone should they have said yes, because the air noticeably chilled when she asked that. We told her the truth, that we were not.

Harland asked her a few questions about his religion, and she sent off one of the Frost Giants to get some food for us, and called us guests. We asked her what kind of food she had, and she only said non-humanoid meat. Good enough for me, haha.

“You're not Royalists, so why are you here?” she said, “I was expecting the King Cult sooner or later.”

“We're a little lost, I suppose.” I said, “Well, I feel a little lost.”

“Well, I was expecting the Umbragen to come for their slaves, or for Zern to come to try and bargain for the Mind Flayers, or for King Cultists to come for their Princess. But you're just... lost.”

I remembered that bit of conversation because I felt a little bad for her. She seemed to expect so many people to come after her, and was prepared for so many bad things. Instead what she got was us.

Beside me, Dominus tried to stick his hand into this magical-looking blue fire, and the fire refused to touch him. He seemed really upset by that.

Apparently there were poisonous mushrooms beyond her cave (and not the fun kind), and they didn't like the cold so it was okay to stay where she was. There was not much point in us going ahead, so Harland asked her about the tree. I'll try and write what I remember, Harland told me some of the bits I missed so I could write it down.

She said that the tree was a Miracle from Vinland, the Night Watchman. He's the old god of law, community and zeal. She said it was a prison. For her.

Her title is the Redwater Princess. She said that a Royalist Cult paid the Umbragen lots to get slaves to make the part of her that was now in the tree. Seventeen thousand three hundred and nine souls, to be precise. They were fused together into a single entity and instilled in a pure vessel of celestial blood.

Harland told me the Redwater King hates everything that is. Existence itself pains him. He wants to see the end of all things, including his followers. They built her of that hate, empowered by thousands of souls that despised them specifically. She strained against her bindings. There was chaos, and then she left. The power she had was immense. Seventeen thousand souls infused with Divine Hatred. She burned from within. It hurt her.

She prayed for a miracle, and it was granted. All of the hate and pain and suffering was sealed in the tree. Hrim was made up of what's left.

Harland thanked her for her story, and she said that we could repay her if we liked.

Hrim said we smell of blood, and light, and darkness, and forests. And time. She asked us to kill her someday. When we had the ability to do so. She said she'd rather that we killed the Princess and let her figure out the rest of what she was. That we were the first people to find her in a decade, and that it was not a coincidence.

We agreed.

She gave us four blue crystalline tears. She said they were respite. Peace. She said that we could put them under our tongue and they'd keep our hearts strong and our minds at peace for an hour or so. She also said that if we crushed them and rubbed the powder into a mortal wound, they might grant us hope.

Hrim... Her story is so sad. I always knew the world wasn't a safe place and that bad things could happen, but some of the things I've seen and heard of recently have been... so much worse than I could have ever imagined possible. I feel like I understand a little of why Ulysses did what he did. He wants to be the greatest hero that ever lived. I want to help make this world a place where people don't to hurt like this. I want to make a difference. I want to make a change. I have to get even stronger.

She gave us some more information about the fortress, and then once we left she sealed herself away, so that nobody else could find her.

We will come back to her, someday. I swear it.

After we left her, we followed the paths up to where there were a lot of spider webs. While Harland was trying to think of what to do, I decided to sit down and write. Ain't no way in hell I'm stepping on those webs.

Oh, but Harland is summoning something. I'd best put this away.