#and they are able to instil dread horror and all those *dark* things still

[ladyinthebluebox]

don't take it personally anyone, but the more i think about it the more i'm getting convinced that the trend of making AAA games uber-hyper-realistic literally rotted some people's brains.

[owl-excerpts]

Vampire

Trigger Warning: This story contains depictions of knife violence!

It's a piece I'll never expand on, so why not post it to Tumblr for shits and giggles.

I scrambled as a searing fear burned through me, my eyes fixed on the fiend before. It looked down at me as calmly as a parent would watch their child play. My hand found its mark and I brandished the hunting knife Arthur had given me and pointed its glistening tip upwards towards the fiend. It sighed, and finally spoke, softly, “I remember you from the village. The brother of that girl.” Its eyes focused on me and those cold, dead words froze my mind in its tracks. “Don't you dare try and dissuade me from carrying this task out, fiend! You know why I'm here, you shall pay for your crimes against humanity with your extermination!!” I barked in a rage-filled tone meant to moreso to instill myself with confidence, I can't imagine that monster felt anything related to fear. The searing sensation in my chest spun itself tight over my heart, tighter than I'd ever known. “I had no such intention to do such a thing, would I even be a studious host if I turned away a guest?” It paused for a brief moment, almost looking like it needed to compose itself, “Especially one with a cause so noble such as you.” It continued with a dead hum, looking over me as if it were assessing me like a passing art piece. I could read the drab mockery in its eyes, it derived some kind of joy in watching my toil against it. The fact such an entity could experience such a lively emotion as mirth unnerved me. My stomach and lungs shifted in tension as I stood my ground. “Your attempts to demean my mission mean nothing, you shall still die.” Its brows raised subtly, it perhaps could not remember the last time it had met such a steadfast soul.

“A bold declaration to make, should you truly understand what it is you are threatening.” It spoke in earnest, the closest its voice has sounded to human up until now. By now, the moon emerged from the clouds and beamed its pale light through the stained glass window at the head of the foyer. The fiend was cast in a soft array of dreary colors. Red, purple, hints of blue & green. They illuminated the fiend's black obelisk form and cast its shadow over me like that of the very arrival of the deathly night the village so dreaded. I wanted to move, but I found myself only able to muster a small growl. I could only appear to this devil as a scared animal, and nothing more. Bravado perhaps might have made this exchange easier, however, I forced myself to cast aside my need for it. I grazed my breaking point and forced myself to move closer to the fiend; however fearful I felt, it mattered not when I considered my sister- no, the entire village and all it had suffered through because of this dark reign opposed by the devil before me!

I closed my eyes and thrust my knife forward, all the while I prayed my knife find its mark. Looking back, I perhaps looked closer to a scared child than a hero. But none of that matters. I felt my knife impact something quite hard, not akin to stone but something closer to damp wood. I hesitantly opened my eyes and looked on with horror. I hadn't even made it halfway to the devil's heart before it placed its hand between my blade and itself. A normal man would crumble with a knife stuck through their palm, but this fiend hadn't even budged beyond its god-forsaken defense. I tried to pull my knife back and out from its palm, but the fiend tightened its hand focusing enough pressure around its palm. And it all turned to a blur as my knife snapped like a dry twig. My breath caught in my throat as I stumbled back in shock. Such a display was impossible, a shock too much for my senses.

My foot failed to catch the stair behind me and I recall not so much stumbling. I don't recall much of what happened after that, in fact. The fiend watched plainly, it needn't say a thing to me as its actions had articulated what words could not. The difference between me and it was unfathomable, and as I fell down those stairs I as if I were hurdling away from hell's most wicked precipice.

[lore-of-the-silvereyes-rwby]

Remnants Silver Legends

Chapter 9

The Sinda Castle/Silirin/ Endemar

“Okay this might sting a bit,” said a Hospitler as they try to mend the wounds of the knight before them.

“Understatement of the age, he responded.”

He holds in his screams as they do their job and try to heal him. Restraining himself he tries to ignore the pain. He thought losing his arm was painful enough but this was worse. Then again he probably fared better than others. He was just one of hundreds that needed aid. Each one with a wound worse than the other. While they receive treatment their leader is pressured to reveal the events that led to this defeat.

“By the time we arrived, Nenlant was the only stronghold left in Anarsta, Laban stated.”

He stood facing The Grand Marshal; David, The Lord of Silirin; Herod, and The Arbiter of the Ostirio; Prisca. All of them questioned him about how and why their most distinguished legion had lost. To find the truth they continue to hear his tale. Herod then asked something he had been wondering about for a long time.

“What about the Lancer Wing from Gadronma, or the U.K.R.’s Northern territories?”

“Aneirin and his forces never came. Without their support the city was doomed, he answered.” 

The Kingdom of Nenlant had requested all available aid from their allies. The only ones to be able to respond were The City of Silirin and The United Kingdoms of Rawmaite. Nenlant was under threat from The Grand Eccumene’s Armies. Nenlant was one of two major trade cities in Anarsta with it being the largest on land.

 If it fell the north was doomed. Numen and the U.K.R. would be cut off from one another. The plan was for Silirn to send their best ground Legion, and Rawmaite would send in a Wing from the Gadroma Lancers. Air superiority  and high quality warriors, Nenlant was guaranteed to survive. So what went wrong they asked? Why didn’t their allies come?

“Judging by the large force that came from the north, Rawmaite most likely lost their territory, Laban stated.”

After hearing what he just said puzzled them. Of all the known civilizations in or around Numen;  Rawmaite was by far the largest and most dominant of them all. Thanks to their large armies and resources they rose to be the world's dominant empire. The thought of them losing any ground was unlikely to happen.

“That’s not possible, It can't be. The United Kingdoms’ wouldn't dare lose their main foothold in Numen or their land trade routes, argued David.”

“Well apparently they did, and we were forced to retreat. As for Aneirin I have no knowledge to explain his absence, he testified.”

That last part seemed to have distured Herod the most. He and Aneirin were after all close friends. They have known each other for years, even before they rose to positions of power. They had always been able to socialize with one another with ease. But now the times they are in now have put a strain on their friendship. He just hopes that his friend is alive and well. Prisca began to ask Laban.

“What was the strength of the enemy forces you encountered?”

“The Eccumenes’ forces numbered over 28,000. Even with the city’s garrison we were still outnumbered by a 2-1. An even fight in my opinion if you ask me, laban said.”

“If it was an even fight, then how did you lose the city?” 

Prisca asked him softly without insult. She knew how sensitive he was about losing. Especially with Nenlant being his greatest loss to date. Laban noticed her tone, and acknowledged  her concerns. He continued and answered.

“My Knights and the local Nenians held the city as best as we could. Warring off every threat that came our way. Eccumene soldiers, Grimm and the growing fires that spread through the city. At first things were going well for us until a ship from the West came. An Eccumene warship.”

“How many of them were there, Herod asked?” 

“There was only one ship my Lord.”

“One, are you sure, asked Prisca?”

“Yes but it wasn’t common among their known Fleets. This one was special. Its hull was painted all black marked by white and red designs which gave it a grim appearance. They called it; Essence of Dying Worlds. Had you seen the ship you’d agree with the name.”

The three of them turned to each other sharing the same gaze of concern. This all seems a little far fetched, but Laban has never lied about matters like this. But that begs the question? What kind of force aboard that ship? 

“How could one ship turn the tide of the battle, David inquired?”

“The ship itself was equipped with artillery that I had never seen. It could possibly rival that of the Royal Navy’s Serne class-cruiser. But that wasn’t why we lost. The troop complement aboard the ship was, Laban declared.”

The Knights and Dames of the Silote Legion were held in high regard. Most of its members had almost 5 decades of experience. Some have talents too exotic that most can’t replicate. The leaders were brilliant of the mind that it would be rare to outsmart and maneuver around them. The warriors aboard that ship must have been something else to send them running.

“What was so special about these, . . . reinforcements that they can send our best legion running home, implored Herod?”

“To start, these reinforcements didn’t appear to be part of the Eccumene Army. Their Uniforms matched the same grim appearance of their ship. At first we thought they were pirates, then they released their first wave. They attacked us soon after, making way for the rest of them to join the fight. Soon after they then led whatever forces were left of the Eccumene.”

“What was the quality of these Warriors, David asked?”

“Far above the eccumene’s normal standards. The Grimm aesthetic aside they were a force to be reckoned with. Even the ones that appeared to be the low class can rival a Silirin knight after 30 years of service, Laban answered.”

That only worsened their fears. Some of those knights’ held over 80 years of service.If a human force can be on par with them, it could only be the result of unnatural means. Which begs the question: how many are there?

“How many of them were there, Prisca asked?”

Laban gave into deep thought. Trying to get an estimate. Trying to remember how many of these Demons were there.? Trying to remember without the horror they instilled in him. He soon gave him their answer.

“When they began their assault, and assuming the ship met their naval standards at least 600.”

That caught them by surprise.

“600 unknown enemy warriors turned the tide of the battle, David inquired?”

“Like I said these weren’t any warriors.They caught us off guard and exhausted us. After they accomplished that the rest of them came. At first I thought It was Anerin finally arriving, but it wasn't him.

That raised more questions.

“Who, who wasn’t Anerin, Herod asked, confused?”

“Thousands of them making their way to the city. Not by land or water. But by the sky they came. On the backs of Nevermores Wyverns, and other winged Grimm. Soon after thousands more came on the back of other Grimm,” he stated as he remembered that terrifying sight. He then told them all the details of his most devastating defeat.

Nenlant/ Anarsta/ 10 days ago

A city of wonders, and trade. That was Nenlant in its golden years. Towering spires, reaching small towns built upon the lands flying in the sky. Held in place by large crystals of dark violet hues. Vast rivers, and streams below leading inland to coast. Truly a marvel of its time. Till now.

The Grand Eccumene had sent an Army group numbering over 28 thousand soldiers. On the first day they had laid siege to the lower city on the ground. As well as the river network. Though it cost them a few hundred troops they still had enough to continue the fight. One advantage they didn’t have in this battle was air superiority. Nenlant had converted their airships from travel to war. These were meant to ferry people from the main city on the ground to the sky lands. Now they lay fire upon their invaders.

However the battle in the air is not the crucial part. If the garrisons of Nenlants spires fall then the upper cities are doomed. But all is not lost yet. For the Eccumene to win, they must first fight through the Arhon of the Silote legion.  Three thousand silver eyed warriors  are all that stand between Nenlant and its enemy. After all they were born to fight.

Four days have passed since the battle started. The Eccumene control over half of the lower city. The city garrison had taken heavy losses. Less than four thousand were left.  As for the sky less than  half of their airships remain, and continue to drop from the sky. But the tide has yet to turn in favor for one side. For in the minds of the combatants they can only guess who will triumph.

On the ground a fight most dread takes place. The Arhon hold their ground as their foe continues their siege. Swords clash as spears break against raised shields  Some are prey to the dark beasts drawn by their hate for one another. Till someone claims a victory this bloody battle goes on.

“HOLD THE LINE,” screamed the Marshal.

He parry’s his blade against another. Their eyes locked, as their swords stress from the pressure of strength forced upon them. With his right hand he releases his grip and forms a fist. With it he slugs his foe across the face. He repeats this three more times till his opponent is disoriented. The force against his blade is weakened. With the advantage he pushes his foe back, so he can do a swift turnaround and kick. He succeeds and his foe now lays 2 ½ meters away on the ground. 

His foe tries to rise only to meet an unfortunate end at the claws of two Beowolves. Sensing his hate and fear, to them he was seasoned to perfection. One of them had his arm in his jaws as the other went for the abdomen. Screams emanated from the poor soul as the beowolves had their way with him. He pulls out a dagger and stabs one of them in the eye. 

They retaliate as he continues to stab the beowulf's head over and over again. The beowulf who had his arm in his jaws bites down hard. Causing the arm to fly away. He screams even louder in pain. Cursing the beast he tries to stab the head of the beowulf one more time. With the last of his strength he went for it. Only for the beowulf to turn his head from the stomach to the oncoming blade.  

The beast gripped the hand in his jaws. It then bit, and tore off the only hand the man had. He screams in agony and realization that he was now unable to fight back. Then the wolf that had tore his first arm off bit down on his head, and swallowed it whole. They resumed their meal as the screaming stopped. The victim’s foe that had put him there, only watched as he stood there. 

He had yet to move from the spot after their fight. Taking in the carnage he had witnessed it had  seemed to entrance him. Then the beowolves turn their gaze from their meal to him. He stood his ground as one lunged after him. Swiftly he moved, drawing his sword so that it had slashed the creature’s throat. As it lay on the floor the Marshal brought his sword up and severed its head. 

This enraged the other beowulf. It then charged him. To avoid the wrath of the beast he jumps into the air. As he falls back down he turns using the momentum to throw his sword through the monster’s back. The weapon had pierced through it. The tip of the blade exposed from the chest was covered in blood blackest night. He then rushed to grab the hilt of his sword. Both hands gripped the blade and with all his strength moved the blade upward. 

Swinging away from the creature its head, and chest split into two. It collapses to the floor and begins to turn into black smoke. He turned his head to the other to see it was further ahead into becoming nothing. His gaze then turned to the remains of his foe, or what's left of him. For some reason he couldn’t understand why his defeated foe caught his attention more than the battle around him. He’ll have to think about it for another time though.

He makes his way back to the imaginary line. On one side were friends and allies and on the other the enemy trying to breach it. He enters the ruined buildings they now fortified for the battle. He passes through several knights resting and mending wounds. He makes it all the way to the building they turned into a makeshift command center. 

Once there he sees the Serviens aim their longbows down at the enemy keeping them at a distance. He also sees the young Nethrahari do their best handling logistics. He wonders if bringing the youngbloods was necessary. He makes his way to the top of the building’s balcony where the main command was located. He approaches one of the knights there, and asks; “Captain status report?”

“Not well Marshal Laban. A majority of our Serviens are wounded with scores of them dead. Less than half of Nenlants makeshift war balloons remain in the air. The same can be said about their ground forces as well,” the captain declared.

“What's the status of our enemy, Laban asked?”

“Not faring any better than us. Most of their Optimati have fallen. At least a few hundred of them are left. Their main force stands at about 17 thousand. As for the Faunus they brought with them they have yet to suffer any losses that we know of. But they still have a large number of troops that still out number ours.”

That put pain to his thoughts. When the battle began the Eccumene’s forces numbered over 28 thousand. As his forces numbered over 12 thousand with 5 thousand being his own people. Now days have passed and they still outnumber them 2-1. The only advantage they had was quality over quantity. But the biggest question still lingered in his mind. One that he needs answered.

“What of the Grimm Captain? How many of them are there, and what is the damage they have inflicted on both sides, he asked?”

The Captain hadn’t put much thought into, but now that Laban mentioned it he noticed something. Something he didn’t realize till now. He shared his thoughts with the Marshal.

“Strangely enough the grimm have been more focused on our forces than the eccumene’s. Only rarely do one of their troops get attacked by a grimm. In comparison to our forces they’re the aggressors. They should be the primary beacon for the grimm. Not us. Yet, what is also strange enough is that our battle is only attracting the lesser classes of grimm, such as beowolves, the captain stated.”

What he said brought more concern to his mind than relief.

“A battle this large should have attracted grimm of different classes. Yet the grimm we're facing  can easily be slain by our combat skill rather than our power.”

“What do you mean sir, he asked?”

“First Aneirin and his forces have yet to join the fight, then the enemy somehow manages to have a large force come from the direction we least expect. Now we face lesser grimm. Something we can handle without our power and yet they arrive in massive hordes. Combine that with the threat of the Eccumene’s army and by the time we survive to see the end we would’ve exhausted all of our endurance. Something tells me that the worst is yet to come Captain.” 

The words of the Marshal have left the room silent. Everyone who had heard began to have thoughts very dreadful. But for now they soldier on till the new treat arrives. 

“What kind of threat is yet to come, Marshal, the Captain asked?”

“I don’t know, but for now focus on the current fight for now, and inform Marshal Chaleb and the other commanders of this regiment to hold their ground, ordered Laban.”

An expression of pain and sorrow was spread over the Captain’s face. Laban picked up on this and asked; “What is it, Captain?”

“Sir . . . Marshal Chaleb is dead sir and all the commanders but one are dead. However Commander Selah is injured beyond the chance of returning to the battlefield anytime soon Sir,” he said.

The situation is getting worse and worse, he thought.

“Where is she, Laban asked?”

“I had a team move her from here to the center spire sir. At least there she can get the proper help she needs, he declared.”

“Good thinking, complimented Laban. What's your name Captain, he asked?”

“It’s Belshazzar Marshal, he answered.”

“How long have you severed?”

“Five decades sir. My service began since my days as an Edenyar.”

“Congratulations Belshazzar, you are promoted to Commander, and until the battles over command of this regiment are yours now. Lets see this fight to the end, said Laban.” 

Both of them saluted and parted ways. Laban left, leaving the newly promoted Commander to take charge here. Everyone in the room only gazed in silence to what just happened. Belshazzar noticing their dumbfound expressions elected to get them back on track.

“You heard the Marshal, we have a battle to win here. The sooner we finish the sooner we can go home now move, move, move, he commanded!”

Everyone in the room returned focus to their task at hand. Hospitelers tend to the wounded. Serviens keep aim, and the knights hold the line. While the New bloods tend to the supplies and help in any way they can. As for the new commander he hopes the Marshal was right to give him this rank, and responsibility. May there be a swift end to this conflict.

As the Marshal made his way to the other regiments of his legion a strange noise was heard. A noise from the west spread through the city. This caught the attention of many on both sides. Laban hurried to the next command post to get a better view of what was coming. Once he reached the high vantage point he used a fieldglass to see what it was. It was a ship quite large. Its appearance; strange yet familiar. Both its hull and sails were black in color. Marked by lines of red, and white. The way they were stayled were almost grimm in appearance, he thought. 

Then black clouds began to show above the deck. They then launched from the ship over to them. Flying through the sky at rapid speeds that if it weren’t for the smoke trail they left, no one could’ve kept track. Scores of those lines landed on the upper city as well as behind their lines. What those black clouds were, Laban didn’t know. Till two of them landed near him and he saw them.

Two tall figures stood in the middle of the court behind him. Hooded, and cloaked in black robes the only color standing out on them were the red markings. Highlighted by the white armor they were painted on. Their crimson blades adorned by black runes began to glow as they drew them. Holding their swords in a ready stance the glow of the blade revealed what was under their hoods. 

White masks adorned by red markings. But they pale in comparison to the one feature that gave their grimm appearance further merit. Their glowing red eyes surrounded by a black rim. Almost giving the impression of a soulless monster. Whatever they were, they can’t be good.

NOTES

Finally got this chapter finished. I’ll admit it wasn’t as battlepacked as I wanted it to be. But hey that's what the next chapter is for. Also let me know if this chapter was a bit much or if you have any questions

Also here is the Silote Legions command structure and personnel at the battle

Marshal Laban

Under Marshal x 4

Commander x16

Captain x 48

Lieutenant x 192

Standards x 768

Knights/Dames x 2043

Serviens x 1536

Nethrahari x 768

Arhon(SEWs);3072

Serviens(Humans & Faunus); 1536

Nethrahari(young sews);768

Total; 5376 members

[villainousshakespeare]

For the Price of a Book An (eventually) smutty Loki Fairy Tale

Summary: In the days before the events of Thor I, Loki inadvertently comes upon a female servant being punished by a pair of guards. Her crime? Stealing a book from the rooms she was tasked to clean. Curiosity captured, he decides to break through the shy exterior by any means necessary.

Work in progress, multiple chapters

Pairing: Loki/OFC

Warnings/tags: Some allusions to attempted/prevented rape in the beginning. (not by Loki) Eventual Romance, Angst, Sex, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Pre-Thor (2011)Master/Servant, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Dom Loki (Marvel), Feels, Romance, Loki (Marvel) Angst

AO3 Link: Chapter 1

This was not supposed to be her life, Lysse thought in despair. It was not that she was opposed to hard work - indeed, she had toiled away all her life, but she had always done so with her mind. Raised in a seat of learning and educated by the finest tutors, who also happened to be her family, she had grown up with the understandable expectation that her life would also be in academia. Books were all she knew, all she was good at. They were meant to be her life.

So to find herself now reduced to a chambermaid in the Palace of Asgard was an absolute horror. It wasn’t the work that was the problem. Alright, yes, she was not fond of scrubbing floors or doing laundry for pompous nobles with more free time than they could fill. Who would be? But she could endure it. She could even endure the contempt in the eyes of those she waited on. Plenty of the gentry who came to the University to be educated had nothing but disdain for the teaching class who worked thanklessly to try and hammer some semblance of knowledge into their over-bred minds. Sneers from lordlings and ladies were nothing new to her. 

No, the problem for Lysse came at the end of the day. When she at last put down her rags and buckets and returned to the servants’ quarters, she inevitably wanted to weep. There was not a single thing there to read. It was no surprise, really. The vast majority of servants at her level were illiterate. But to Lysse, for whom the worlds of her stories were as real if not more so than the world around her, it felt like death.

Lysse would lie there on her cot, staring at the ceiling and pine for the literature that had been her lifelong refuge. No one understood, but that was nothing new. No one had ever understood her need to escape, to travel to distant lands through the words emblazoned on a page and to live out dreams she would never dare in actuality. But now she was stuck, living out this one dreary nonexistence with no escape to be offered. None of the other maids had ever owned a book. They all thought her addled and avoided her.

When word came a few weeks into her servitude, weeks that seemed as years to the clever girl, that one of the young lords living in the palace had requested her for a parlor maid, Lysse had been over the moon. It was a huge promotion, and earned her the instant spite of those she worked with. Lysse hardly noticed their enmity, as they had never been kind to her to begin with. All she cared about was that she would be allowed upstairs. True, most of the time she would spend tending to Lord Fandrall’s rooms, but she would also run errands for him, occasionally accompany him outside of the palace, and she would at least be in the company of those with curious minds, even if only as their servant.

Her first day in his employ went well. Lysse was shy and tongue tied as always around the handsome blond warrior. She wished once more that she could be as clever vocally as she was in her brain. She was never at a loss internally for a thought or an opinion, but as soon as the opportunity arose to share it aloud with someone else her tongue seemed to be made of lead and her words ran away from her. Still, Lord Fandrall seemed pleased with her, and she was able to listen in when he spoke over a light lunch with a dark haired noble woman. Their talk didn't particularly interest her, being composed as it was of battle gossip, but at least it was something.

As the week wore on, it became alarmingly clear why the young lord had requested her presence, and Lysse began to feel panic. On more than one occasion, she had caught him staring at her with a look in his eye that she dreaded. It was not that she didn't think he was handsome, he was undeniably so (if not particularly her taste), but Lysse had learned early that nothing good came of it when a noble lordling dallied with a servant. The last thing she needed was to become embroiled with her master. As his hands began to wander when she stepped near to him over the next few days, grazing as though by accident over her rear or across her breasts, Lysse began to feel trapped. To leave his employ would be to go back to the cold, dark world of the servants quarters with no reprieve. It would also be sure to offend Lord Fandrall, and he would have no difficulty making Lysse's life miserable should he choose, even were she not assigned to him. On the other hand, he was making no effort to hide the fact that he found her avoidance of his attentions an amusing game, but that he expected it to end sooner rather than later.

"Tonight, Lysse, I will be going on an over night trip to Reigdorn," he told her offhandedly one afternoon as she served him lunch. "You will need to pack a bag for me."

"Yes, my Lord," she responded dutifully, rejoicing inwardly. The longer he was gone, the longer she would have to come up with a way to deflect his attentions.

"You should pack one for yourself as well," he added with a smirk. "It gets cold on the road, so I've decided to take you with me for warmth. I'll meet you in the stables at sundown."

Lysse tried to keep the terror off of her face as she nodded to the floor. Fandrall merely chuckled and strode out of the room, off to do whatever it was that amused him all day. 

Lysse was horrified. No matter how she told herself that it would not be so bad, she could not bring herself to the point where she was willing to submit to his advances. The very thought made her blood run cold. As she packed his bag and prepared everything for his departure, the truth kept ringing out in her head. She was not going to do it. She would go back to the dungeon of the servants quarters if she must, but she was not going to be the easy conquest of a smug lord just because she had managed, through no fault of her own, to fall on hard times. When sundown came, she decided, Lord Fandrall would find his bag neatly packed in the stable, but Lysse would not be there. She would leave the palace and seek employment else where. She should never have come here to begin with. Lord Fandrall might be angry, but he had no true interest in her beyond a passing fancy.

It was very possible that she might have gotten away with her plan, were it not for her one great weakness. As she was putting the last items in the satchel for the lord, Lysse's eyes happened upon a book that lay, discarded, on the back of his chest of drawers. It was a book of fables, and from the look of it the binding had never even been opened. Longingly, Lysse ran her hand over the spine. She realized that this was the only book she had seen in Lord Fandrall's room, and she opened it in curiosity. On the inside cover was scrawled the sentence, "Fandrall, perhaps this will instill in you some sense of curiosity. Many happy returns, Loki."

Lysse couldn't help herself, looking around foolishly as though someone might be lurking in the shadows, she tucked the book under her arm and, grabbing the satchel, left the room.

***

Loki sat on his balcony studying the book laid out before him. The spell described on the page open on his table was incredibly complex, and he had been trying to perfect it for days. It wasn’t often he had to do much more than glance over a set of instructions to be able to complete any given spell, which made his difficulty with this particular incantation infuriating. He hated not being perfect at anything, usually choosing to avoid those activities that gave him the most difficulty. He was naturally gifted at enough things that this didn’t limit him unduly. But when it came to sorcery he refused to admit that there was any spell he couldn’t master. 

Closing his eyes to aid in his centering, Loki drew a deep breath and envisioned the transformation in his mind. He was almost there, he could feel it. This time he had it! So when a piercing, high pitched scream tore through the air and startled him out of his concentration, he was ready to do violence.

Upending his table with a wave of his hands as the shrieking continued, Loki surged to his feet and disappeared off his balcony in a flash of green. A moment later he was in the gardens below, tracking the sound through a maze of flora. He would find the source of the caterwauling and make them regret even having a mouth with which to disturb his work. 

He did not have to go far before he discovered the offenders of his peace. In a small clearing, two burly guardsmen had third person pinned to the ground. As Loki approached the men, a scream rose from the obviously a female captive they had trapped between them. Loki stopped a few paces away and curled his lip in distaste, not caring for what he had obviously walked in on. 

The woman in question managed to turn her head away from where a burly, red bearded warrior was pressing his mouth to her lips, eyes wide with fear and anger.

“Help me!” She cried as her eyes met his, desperation in her voice. "My Lord Prince, please!"

Loki could understand her alarm. Her dress had been torn down the front, showing an enticing amount of cleavage. One arm was twisted beneath her, the other pulled over her head and held in place by the hulking man, while his companion was in the process of raising her skirt. At her plea for help the two men stiffened and turned to look at him where he lounged against a tree at the entrance to the clearing. 

"Oh, Prince Loki, it's only you," said the one by her head, relief flooding his face. "For a moment I feared it was someone important."

Loki felt his teeth clench and his temper prickle at the insolent disrespect in the guard's voice. The fact that he was not unused to it did not lesson his ire.

"Indeed," he said in a voice dripping with contempt.

"Please, My Lord Prince," the woman on the ground begged again, huge blue eyes pleading with him. "Please don't let them do this!"

"Ignore her," the man holding her legs pinned advised, giving the struggling girl a quick glare. "This need not concern you."

"On the contrary," Loki corrected him in clipped tones, "it concerns me greatly. I was in the middle of something important when the shrieking of this... female interrupted me. It had taken me days to get to where I was, and now I will have to begin again."

The woman gasped at his remark, and he spared her a quick flick of his eyes. What did she expect? That he play the knight errant and demand satisfaction for their besmirching of her honor? Clearly she had the wrong brother. Still, he did not like to see bullies attacking an obviously weaker target.

"Forgive us, my lord," the first guard said, with an ill conceived roll of his eyes. "It was not our intent to disturb you. It will not happen again. I am sure we can find a way to make sure the thief stays quiet."

The guard's leer left little doubt what he meant by the words, but Loki's interest had been piqued by something else.

"Did you say thief?" he asked. Looking down at the girl he could not imagine a more unlikely suspect. The wide blue eyes were dangerously innocent, and the whole appearance of her, torn dress and distracting cleavage not withstanding, was of nothing more than a lovely young school mistress.

"I did, my lord. We apprehended her trying to leave with Lord Fandrall's belongings."

"There she is!" a voice from behind him called, and as if summoned from the beyond, Loki turned to see Fandrall stride into the clearing along with Thor.

"My Lords!" the two guards instantly leapt to their feet, bringing their poor prisoner with them, and bowed before Loki's brother and his companion. Loki gnashed his teeth, not so much at the response, but at the clear disrespect of their not giving the same consideration to him.

"Brother. Gentlemen," Thor nodded to the men. "What is going on here?"

"Theft, Lord Prince," the smaller man hurriedly proclaimed as the girl struggled to pull her dress together.

"Lysse?" Fandrall asked, looking to the girl.

Clearly scared beyond speech, Lysse merely shook her head and stared at the ground. 

"Brother, is this true?" Thor asked, turning to Loki.

"I know not," he sighed, wishing he had never gotten involved in this whole tawdry affair. "I heard a commotion in Mother's garden and came to discover the source and put an end to it. I found these two... noble guards with the woman pinned between them, struggling to free herself."

"Who is she?" Thor asked, voice full of command.

"My parlor maid," Fandrall answered, looking hard at the girl. "Her name is Lysse. You say she stole from me?"

"She did, my Lord," the burley guard confirmed. "We found her trying to sneak out of the palace grounds through the hidden garden gate. When we searched her, we discovered your belongings."

"A grave crime indeed," Thor said seriously. "Why did you not bring her to the Head of House?"

"We, we thought to save her that disgrace, My Lord Prince," the small man replied, looking for an excuse. "We had Lord Fandrall's property back, we thought we would... teach her a lesson, scare her, you know, and then toss her out."

"How very kind of you," Loki drawled, seeing the smaller of the two turn red.

"Hush Loki, I'm sure they were just doing their duty," Thor tried to ease the situation, totally missing the obvious. "Fandrall, she's your girl, what say you?"

"What is it she stole from me?" the blond man asked, eyes wandering over the expanse of chest Lysse was unable to hide.

"This, my Lord," the large guard replied, pulling a large book out of the knapsack to one side of the clearing.

"A book?" Loki asked, voice dripping in disbelief. "Fandrall, I didn't realize you could read!"

Thor burst out in a big, booming laugh and the guards echoed him uncertainly. Loki looked closer at the book, realizing that he recognized it. Of course! It was a book of fables he had given his "friend" on his most recent birthday. Turning to stare at the girl, he saw that her face was flushed and she was worrying at her lower lip with her teeth in distress.

"Do what you think best with the girl," Fandrall said stiffly, angry now from the mockery of his friends and the guards. "I want no thieves in my employ."

"But by Odin's beard," Thor added, looking around, "don't make such a ruckus in my Mother's garden!"

Loki heard the girl whimper as the guards exchanged wolfish grins. Turning, his eyes caught hers again, and he was met by those endless pools of deep blue. The entreaty in them seemed to go straight down to Loki's soul. Glancing back at Thor and Fandrall, he saw that they had already turned and begun discussing something else, the fate of the unfortunate servant all but forgotten. The guards, clearly assuming this gave them leave to have their way with her, began dragging their captive off.

"Wait!" Loki heard his voice ring out, surprising even himself. "You will take the girl to my quarters."

"My Lord?" the smaller guard asked.

"You heard me," he barked, trying to ignore the way they all turned to stare at him. "As of this moment, she is a member of my household staff."

[kenshi-vakarian7]

MERweek2019 - Day 6 - Confessions/Secrets

Event hosted by @cactuarkitty with fanfic prompts by @vorchagirl

Prompt - Relationships are all about confessions … or the things we don’t confess. Go on - tell me a little story about your characters deepest darkest secrets.

This one is about a long-kept secret.

I admit, I’ve been hesitant for a long time to write about this part of my Marc Shepard’s past, mainly because I wasn’t sure how to approach it.  But thanks for tons of research, and @rpgwarrior4824 for providing great material (thank you, my friend!), I feel more confident.  After seeing this prompt, I figured now was the time to go into a little more detail on Marc’s past.

With that, while there are no explicit details except for environmental and psychological descriptions (especially in the paragraphs written in italics)...

Trigger Warning for past severe child abuse.

---

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.” ~Carl Jung

“Unbroken”

Commander Marc Shepard jerked upright from his bed, his blue eyes wide with horror as he gasped for breath.  He barely reached for his neck, swearing that he felt nausea burning at the back of his throat.  He found himself in that place between dreaming and awake, but the nightmare that gripped him moments ago was still seared into his mind...

A ten-by-ten room lined with bricks; eleven thousand seven-hundred and sixty-two to be exact. The cold air made him shiver no matter how hard he tried to stay warm.  He was too short to reach the single window, his only indication of whether it was light or dark outside.  At least the rain kept the room from being completely silent.  The thoughts of being confined and trapped with no escape always frightened him.  He was almost certain he would never find the courage to escape. He would have to run away while he was in school, he knew, but the fears and the threats that were instilled in him forced him to bury what bravery he had left...

He was always haunted by memories of the year before; a time when he had a bright future, and knowing how lucky he was to have parents who loved and supported him... only for it all to be taken from him in one night.  The foster system that took him in – and who promised to make sure he was taken care of - failed him within a few short months by sending him to this place.  His trust in people shattered to pieces.  His faith was stolen from him and, with that, the belief in the God his mother loved so dearly.

Intense fear made him shake like a leaf the moment he heard footsteps, followed by the unlocking of the door that held him here.  A sickening dread flooded his soul, and he could only guess what kind of pain he was about to endure...

The nightmare, thankfully, stopped there and Shepard took a deep breath, willing away the images of past memories that still plagued his mind, even nineteen years after his horrific experience in the foster system (and he never, ever called it foster 'care' like most people did...).

Soon after, despite his heart still pounding hard against his chest, Shepard became aware of the soft, cool sheets that gently touched his skin, the warm temperature of his quarters, and the hum of the Normandy's engines... metal hulls instead of brick walls, a much larger room than the ten-by-ten 'cage' he was confined in so long ago...

Shepard buried his face into his hands, taking a moment to calm himself down.  Under his breath, he murmured the same manta he repeated to himself over the years any time his past ordeal came back to haunt him, to help ground himself to the present;

“It was only a dream. It's not real anymore.  You're as safe as any soldier can be.  You escaped.  You're not broken.  It's been over for nineteen years. Your tormentor is long dead.  No one will control or hurt you like that ever again.”

Some nights, he repeated his words over and over until he was too tired to continue.  But tonight, Shepard only had to say them twice.  Though his heart still beat rapidly against his sternum, he didn't feel as panicky as he did when he first woke up.

For the last twenty or so years of his life, Shepard was plagued by bad memories of his past; the death of his parents, his time on the streets and the gang he was forced to join in order to survive, the violence he witnessed at Elysium, leaving Ashley behind on Virmire... Occasionally, he dreamed of his own death over Alchera, but that didn't happen very often despite how recent (in his mind) the event took place.

He was willing to endure any of those memories night after night for the rest of his life if it meant he never dreamed of his time in the foster system ever again...

Dreaming of being back in that room was much less frequent these days, but it had been a constant 'companion' of his as a teenager on the streets.  Back then, Shepard thought that simply freeing himself from his prison would end his torment once and for all.  Instead, he learned the hard way that the kind of trauma he experienced had a way of following him like a shadow no matter how much he tried to escape its grasp.  The nightmares were persistent, certain triggers sent him running, shaking, or screaming at the top of his lungs... and then there was the lingering fear that he would be found by his tormentor someday.  Street life notwithstanding, it made his teen years confusing, emotional, and terrifying.

Falling into melancholy in the present, Shepard quickly reminded himself – before he fell into that dark pit of despair - that he was no longer trapped in that cage.  He was free, he was safe, and he was not broken.

“My father hurt me, but he didn't break me.  As much as he tried to turn me into exactly what he wanted, I'm my own person.”

That was what his XO and lover, Miranda Lawson, said to him after the events surrounding the mission to maintain her sister's safety.  The words resonated with Shepard more than she would ever know.  That day, he nearly told her that he understood (though the piece of shit in question – the one who hurt him - was his foster 'father'), but... how could she know how he understood?  With the exception of his time in the Tenth Street Reds, not a single soul would have knowledge of his past beyond his days in a gang.

He made certain of it a long time ago.

For all the research Miranda claimed she did on Shepard during the Lazarus Project, there were still missing pieces to his past in her eyes.  He kept the remainders a closely guarded secret since the day he started living on the streets...

No one knew about his parents, who loved and cherished him until the day they died – a car accident caused by a sudden snowstorm took their lives while he was spending the night at a friend's house.  No one knew about the terrible abuse he endured during the one year he was in the foster system, nor the day he found the courage to finally run away while he was in school.  No one knew the full story about his six years on the streets, where he bided his time until he joined the Alliance to make a better life for himself on his eighteenth birthday.  Back then, the Alliance was his best chance at a better life.  No one knew that, on the day he enlisted, he changed his original surname to the one now so well-known to the galaxy as a way to start fresh – it was an attempt to bury the past for good, though that hadn't worked as well as he hoped as time went on.

Would Shepard ever tell Miranda any of this?  After twenty years of carrying his secret without ever opening up to anyone, it felt as though talking about it would make things so much more complicated.  He didn't know how, but he had the feeling that it would.  That, and he simply didn't want to open up any of the old wounds that were still barely patched up even after all this time. The nightmares were bad enough as it were...

Speaking of Miranda, Shepard turned his head to the right and saw her next to him.  Lying on her side and facing him, she was sound asleep and undisturbed by his movements.  Her face was relaxed, serene, and it brought a semblance of calm in his heart... and a reminder of how much he loved her.

Shepard wasn't the type to care about someone's looks, but there was no denying the awe he felt over how beautiful she was.  He admired the way her raven locks splayed over the pillow she laid on, how she clutched the sheet covering her breasts with her dainty hand while the other was tucked underneath her head on the pillow.  The soft, blue glow from the fish tank, the only thing illuminating the room, created a ethereal light over her fair skin.

Slowly, Shepard reached a hand out and carefully brushed away a strand of hair that laid across her cheek.  He tucked it back behind her ear before he bent down to press a gentle kiss to her temple.  He then removed the sheet covering him before taking a moment to make sure that she was warm. Once that was done, he pressed his lips to her forehead before he got out of bed and headed to his bathroom on the other side of the cabin.

He always needed to shower after the kind of nightmare he had tonight...

Shepard made sure that the water was at the hottest temperature he could handle before he turned it on.  He was certain that EDI would reprimand him for it later, but he didn't care.  For anyone who served in the Alliance, long hot showers were a rare luxury.

His eyes closed, Shepard leaned his back against the wall.  As the heat rose and steam began to fog the room, his nightmare lingered in his mind and his eyes shut tighter, a weak attempt at willing away the invading visions.

It's not real... it's not real... not anymore...

Shepard wasn't sure how long he was in the shower as he tried to clear his mind.  So far away he was from reality that, when the door to the bathroom eventually opened, he nearly jolted from the noise it made, as light as it was.  At the very least, it was nothing like the sound of the door that once locked him in, so he was able to calm down quickly...

He also didn't have to open his eyes to know that it was Miranda who stood at the door's threshold.  That was definitely a change from years ago, back when he had to see who walked into the room...

“Marc?” she called, and he noticed how her voice was laced with worry. Somehow, it had a calming, peaceful effect on him.  He was almost certain it had a lot to do with the fact that she was calling him by his given name, which she only started to do very recently whenever they were alone together.

Shepard took a deep breath as he raised his head up and opened his eyes to look at her.  “Miri,” he uttered, using the nickname he'd come to love to call her even before they began their relationship.  He frowned as he realized something.  “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Not until you turned on the shower,” Miranda replied.  She went ahead and stepped into the bathroom, closing the sliding door behind her to keep the cold from getting inside.  “Is everything okay?”

He was afraid she would ask that.

Shepard slowly pushed himself off the wall and moved underneath the shower head to get a full blast of the hot water, which quickly soaked his short black hair.  The whole time, his eyes never left her.  “I'm okay,” he was able to say while gently shaking his head.  He then slightly craned his neck forward and his eyes averted away from her, focusing to the floor.  He felt somewhat ashamed suddenly. 

“Just... dealing with some old memories...” he admitted quietly.

Miranda gradually moved towards him until there was only a few inches of space left between them.  She then reached a hand up to gently cup one side of his face, the tip of her fingers barely caressing the base of his temple.  He closed his eyes and slightly pressed his cheek into her hand, letting his mind focus on that warm, single touch.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she murmured with concern.

Shepard drew in a quiet breath at her words, his emotions attempting to overwhelm him.  Sometimes, in moments like these, it was hard to believe that this was where his life was now...

Nineteen years ago, Shepard thought he would never trust anyone again.  And though he still faced his own struggles – past and present – he somehow found and retained the strength to carry on.  The day he enlisted, he made a promise to offer those any help they needed... because he knew what it was like to not receive help when he needed it most.  And despite no longer having faith, a part of him believed that, somehow, his efforts were rewarded. 

He found good people through his journey and formed lasting friendships with them, or fond memories of those who had come and gone.  He faced his fear of intimacy and became a tender and caring paramour.  He opened his heart to his crew and, though they'll never replace his parents, they became his cherished family.

And recently, at age thirty-one, he fell in love for the first time in his life.

Shepard grasped Miranda's hand - the one that touched his face - with his own before he moved it downward over his jawline and passed his neck until her palm touched his chest... right over where his heart was.  It was not the first time he moved her hand to his heart.  The simple touch helped ground him to the present.  It helped to remind him of all the good things he experienced since those dark days.  It helped to remind him of how much he loved her.

It helped to remind him how far he'd come after all these years.

The past may forever haunt him, but he swore long ago that those dark days would never break him, no matter how hard it tried and no matter how many times it invaded his thoughts.  He'll never let it have the chance to completely consume him.  More importantly, he'll never let his long-dead tormentor win.

Shepard wanted to be truthful with Miranda about his past... but despite his resolve, he wasn't ready to tell her just yet.  Maybe someday, when the Reapers weren't knocking on their door... and if they both survived the inevitable war... perhaps then, he would tell her.

“Believe me when I say that I'd like to talk about it,” he finally breathed as he clutched her hand, his gaze on her never wavering.  “I promise I'll tell you someday.  Just... not now.”

Miranda looked into his eyes and nodded with understanding.  “Okay,” she whispered.

No pushing, no questions... funny how a simple word made Shepard so grateful to her.  It made him love her even more.  Closing his eyes, he pulled Miranda close to him until he was holding her in his arms.  She returned the embrace as his hand gently carded through her hair and he leaned his cheek to the side of her head.

I love you, Miri, Shepard thought as he tenderly pressed his lips to her temple.  Someday, when the time is right, I'll tell you my story.

[tomfoolsery]

carry that weight -- an aftg chapter fic

hunger games au pairing: neil / andrew chapter: 1/?

summary: The 75th Annual Hunger Games have arrived. For years, Neil Josten managed to dodge the reaping by being meticulously careful and as invisible as possible. With only one more reaping until he ages out of the process, he makes a plan to escape the Districts (and his father's henchmen) once and for all. But when he realizes he's been plucked from the masses to partake in this year's Quarter Quell, his plans for escape are dashed. Being reaped for the Games only magnifies the target on his back, and District 12 has never had good luck in the arena. It will take every survival instinct Neil has to make it out alive.

trigger warnings for this chapter: past child abuse, torture, suicide mention.

read on ao3 or here!

The first game that Neil remembered watching was the 66th. The potency of the memory seemed to taint everything else that followed in his life, painting it in that shade for better or worse.

The Games were all about survival. A tribute could train for years, as most of the Career Districts did, but still not be guaranteed a victory. It wasn’t the strongest that always won the Games. Oftentimes, it was the most clever. The one who knew the dark places a human could go in order to ensure survival. The one who was willing to sink to those depths before anyone else could reach them.

The 66th Hunger Games was won by a 15 year old named Hugo. He didn’t look like much to begin with, and most of the commentators throughout the game assumed he would be an early victim at the Cornucopia bloodbath. Hugo’s scores hadn’t even been noteworthy prior to arriving at the arena. For all intents and purposes, he was an easy kill that could be taken care of at a later date. It was that oversight that cost the vast majority of the tributes their lives.

Neil could remember watching Hugo on the television broadcast, all but blending into the shadows that the densely populated forest arena afforded him. His footsteps were always silent, allowing him to traverse wherever he pleased without being caught. It meant he could hunt easier and sustain himself physically, and it meant that he could watch his opponents from afar, always a step ahead. The people watching from the Capitol ate it up.

In years past, the Gamemakers would generally speed things along, forcing tributes to encounter one another and spill enough blood to bring the Game to an end. Any wise Gamemaker would want to maintain a captive audience in the Capitol — lest they be punished for an underwhelming Hunger Games.

An avalanche would bring the tributes to one spot together, or an offer of food, water, or medicine would lure in the desperate to the Cornucopia. Everyone knew what an event like that meant, but most still attended. The alternative was certain death. At least if they attempted it, a chance at survival still existed.

In Hugo’s year, the Gamemakers barely had to lift a finger. The tribute was a master at setting traps and snares, using them to catch both his dinner and his opponents. His methods weren’t grotesque or violent, like past tributes had been. He was sneaky and practical.

On the surface, Hugo didn’t look like a killer or a terrifying figure. What made him scary was his behavior when the tributes were narrowed down to two: him and a Career Pack boy named Palus — who, ironically enough, was an initial standout with the Capitol sponsors. The tables turned once Palus injured his left leg, the bone nearly exposed after falling down a steep cliff. With no way to mend it himself, Palus carried on as best as he could, hoping that the elements or stupidity would do Hugo in so he wouldn’t have to attack first.

Instead of earning a simple, perhaps even cheap victory, Hugo opted to stalk Palus throughout the arena. The cover of night was his weapon, as well as mounting dehydration and starvation on Palus’ part. He was able to instill paranoia in the other tribute, lingering close enough to impart terror but far enough not to be noticed. It was a mental hell that even the Gamemakers couldn’t have dreamt up. Worse yet was the knowledge that Hugo was very much enjoying the unfair game of cat and mouse. Watching Palus’ sanity deteriorate was a decadent feast for him. He would draw this out for as long as allowed, ensuring that Palus’ last moments of life were drenched in nearly psychotic terror.

After a full twelve hours of this treatment, Palus took a drastic turn for the worst and, in an attempt to rid himself of the constant feeling of being stalked, wound up taking his own life. He’d already lost too much blood by the time the Gamemakers realized what was happening, too late to intervene. All the while, Hugo waited in the wings and watched the grisly scene play out.

During his victory tour and first interview with Seneca Crane, Hugo would come to admit that he would have happily continued tormenting Palus had he not killed himself. He was unashamed in his insistence that he survived because out of all the tributes, he was the only one with a thick enough mental-skin to endure the challenges of the game.

Hugo’s ruthlessness sent chills down Neil’s spine even when he was just thinking back on it. But he also knew that if he were ever dropped in the arena himself, he would have to embody those same traits. Neil felt admiration and horror toward Hugo in equal parts.

When it came down to it, he would do whatever it took to get out of the arena alive.

---

On reaping day, the district came alive with the hustle and bustle of business. Though District 12 was far from the most affluent, the heightened presence of Peacekeepers and Capitol attendees stirred up local merchants. The citizens were split down the middle in terms of disposition.

For families, this was a day of dread. Many households had to request tesserae multiple times, making their likelihood of being reaped that much higher. From those families, Neil could see the dread hanging off them like a heavy cloak, shrinking their already slouched shoulders and diminishing their hope. Many were dressed in the best clothes they owned, as was expected for such a day.

For Neil, dressing up meant finding an ill-fitting pair of slacks and a baggy button-down from the local seamstress — an outfit he stole when no one was paying attention. There was no way he could afford even the most tattered of clothes with what little money he had. Neil had perfected the art of pickpocketing and petty theft, a skill created out of necessity. By the time anyone realized their merchandise was missing, he would be long gone.

In some parts of the district where the more unruly folk flocked, bets were taking place regarding who would wind up being reaped. Neil tried to hide his grimace as he overheard an older man estimating how many tesserae one particular family had taken out. He couldn’t help flinching when he heard him say “that kid of theirs is as good as dead.”

As much as Neil wanted to believe that he was above that kind of cruel self-interest, he didn’t have much to say in the way of a defense. He wouldn’t bet on someone’s life, but he himself was hoping that literally anyone in the world would get reaped instead of him. He was on the brink of turning eighteen — after that, he would no longer be in the pool for the Games. Just a month longer and he could follow through with his escape plan. Given the fact that Neil had never taken out tesserae in his life, he figured his odds of getting reaped were extremely slim. Still, they existed at all, and Neil couldn’t shake the enormity of that fact.

He could hear his mom’s words echoing in his ears every time he fought the rising panic.

“What if I get reaped?” he would fret, imagining the countless scenarios that could play out.

Her reply would always be punctuated by a tight yank of his hair or a smack to the back of his head:

“Make sure you don’t.”

---

With the entire District gathered in the square, Neil felt like there were walls closing in on him from every angle. Claustrophobic though it was, he could take comfort in the fact that he blended in easily with the other people in his age group. Neil worked hard to be a mundane, ordinary presence in the world. His survival depended on being invisible.

The tension in the air was thick and uncomfortable, everyone’s fears laid bare and only intensified by the setting. Peacekeepers lined the permitter of the square, stun guns and tasers at their belt, ready to be used. It hadn’t come to drastic measures like that in recent years. The Capitol had beaten District 12 thoroughly into submission.

All of the shaking, fussing, and nervous movement among the crowd stopped at once when the speakers cut on. The Capitol escort onstage was ready to begin.

“District twelve! I’m so happy to be with you all here today,” she began, her voice nauseatingly saccharine.

It was clearly a lie — all Capitol citizens stuck up their noses at the districts and were eager to leave at the first available opportunity. But given the fact that they would be the one benefiting from the games, Neil supposed that perhaps her enthusiasm was real. A bloodbath was guaranteed with each year.

That notion nauseated him even more than her voice had.

Her hair was teased up high into a poof-like style, the color a mixture of orange and pink. Neil wasn’t sure of the last time he’d seen a color so bright within the district. Though he’d only seen a handful of Capitol citizens in propaganda videos and even fewer in Twelve itself, he could tell that they were a flamboyant bunch; not only did the people there don every color of the rainbow, but body modifications weren’t unusual either. He’d heard stories of people who had cat-like ears attached to their skulls, or full-body tattoos that blurred the lines of human and animal.

“As I’m sure you all know, today is Reaping Day. And this is no ordinary one, I might add— ” she paused, effectively lodging a boulder in Neil’s gut, “It is also a Quarter Quell. Every twenty-five years, we add a twist to the game, so to speak.”

It was dawning on him now that this was indeed a Quarter Quell year. He’d gotten so caught up in his hopes for an escape that the whole thing didn’t even occur to him.

There were always different adjustments made to the Hunger Games during the quells. One year, tributes were reaped from the districts by a vote among their own peers. Whichever two citizens had the most votes were sent into the arena. Families were pit against one another, leaving the districts frigid and tense long after the tributes were sent away. There were numerous murders and assaults within the districts that year as well — the Capitol didn’t want the bloodshed to be limited to the arena.

Neil had no idea what the cruel twist would be this year, but his imagination was already leading him to terrifying places. He wouldn’t put anything past the Capitol.

“During this Quarter Quell, the number of tributes will be doubled. Let this serve as a reminder to the districts that two rebels died for every Capitol citizen during the Dark Days. Instead of twenty-four tributes from the twelve districts, forty-eight will be reaped.”

Neil took a moment to do the math in his head, his pragmatism working hard to beat out his terror. Doubling the tributes reaped would mean four individuals being chosen from each district — two girls and two boys.

Even with this alteration to the Games, his likelihood of being picked wasn’t very high; Neil had only been entered in the reaping pool a handful of times, and he never received tesserae. The odds of him being chosen in comparison to the dozens of other kids in the district — namely the poorest ones from the Seam — were very slim. He silently chided his heart for thudding so painfully and his skin for sweating uncontrollably.

This event would be fleeting fear, he told himself. After the tributes were picked and the town square was dispersed, Neil would be able to narrow down his plan for escape. He was roughly half an hour away from the biggest sigh of relief in his entire life.

The Capitol escort onstage went into a lengthy monologue about the history of Panem, which Neil had already heard a thousand times over. The supposed history of their nation was beaten into every citizen’s skull, to ensure that they knew exactly whose boot they would always be trapped under. This was a tired, propaganda-laden tale that Neil had no interest in hearing. He found himself tuning out until a silence fell among the crowd. Neil’s focus turned back to the stage, where the woman was now walking over to the two clear glass bowls with names scattered within them.

As the woman on stage chirped out “Ladies first!”, the entire crowd held still. Neil could see a few girls in his age group beginning to tear up, a sense of fear falling over them at once.

With an exaggerated twirl of her hand, the attendant swiped a name out of the bowl of girl’s names.

His attention was scattered between his own thoughts and the goings-ons around him, but Neil caught the name Laila being spoken. There was a gasp within the crowd and a muffled sob could be heard a few feet from him. Neil watched on as Peacekeepers escorted the girl onstage. She couldn’t have been much older than fourteen. The sight of her tear-stained face and heaving chest only worsened Neil’s dread.

The entire event was inhumane. The Games were carried out for the sadistic pleasure of the Capitol, and there was no conscience to be found in people like that.

After a brief interview with Laila, the young girl was directed to the side of the stage and the escort moved on to the next reaping. This would be the first of two male tributes. Neil’s fingernails bit painfully into his skin as he clenched his fist, watching the escort’s hand swirl daintily into the bowl. Despite his effort to look as composed as possible, Neil couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes just before the name was called.

“Matthew Boyd!” was the name that rang out in the square. Neil’s eyes instantly shot open and his hands relaxed at their sides, the tension wrung out of them for now. Matthew Boyd wasn’t a name Neil was familiar with

The person who stepped out from the crowd was older than him — probably reaped during his very last year of eligibility. Neil hoped that he wouldn’t suffer a similar fate. He was so close to being done — so close to being free.

There was a slight commotion as Matthew stepped up on stage, but Neil’s focus was ebbing. His hands still shook at his sides, awaiting the second and last choice for a male tribute. Time slipped by without notice and before Neil knew it, Matthew was being ushered to the side of the stage and the second female tribute was being reaped. No one he knew. No reason to care. The only way Neil could cope with the insanity of it all was to remain as pragmatic as possible.

“One last tribute!” the attendant chirped, strolling over to the bowl with ease. This, of course, only spelled the end of her fun for the day. Not potentially the end of her life, as was the trend for District 12. Neil could only remember two winners from their district, and that wasn’t an encouraging average in comparison to the Career districts.

Closing his eyes again, Neil stuffed his hands in his pockets and dug his nails into his palms. They burned as he clenched his fingers tighter, and his whole body felt rigid. If he wasn’t called, he knew it would take everything in his power not to break into a sprint right then and there. Tonight would be his last one in the Seam one way or the other. He just hoped—hoped with painful intensity—that he would be leaving of his own volition.

Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me.

Once the paper was pulled, the Capitol attendant fumbled with it for a few seconds before coaxing it open. A beat later, the name came. Neil’s breath hitched, soaked in fear from head to toe.

---

The strange thing was, Neil couldn’t recall hearing his own name. He couldn’t recall hearing anything in the few seconds between standing there, paralyzed with fear, and being yanked forcefully from his place.

He struggled against the Peacekeeper’s grasp, attempting to kick out his legs so he could escape. Had he been thinking clearly, Neil would have known that this was as good as futile. They would catch him, hold him down, and make sure he wound up in the arena. They would have their entertainment. His blood would be shed for the sake of cruel tradition.

He was so close. This wasn’t fair.

Neil fought the Peacekeepers all the way up to the stage, shouting every indecent thing that came to mind, his arms and legs still fighting to be free. Once he was pulled on to the wooden stage, a plastic zip tie was secured to his wrists. This wasn’t enough to temper his rage, though. Neil flailed a moment or two longer before he felt a shock at his side. It sent him falling to the floor, the impact shuddering through his whole body.

The one shock was enough to subdue him, but Neil felt three more on different parts of his torso. Electricity coursed through him; it was a mind-numbing pain that began to dull his senses. He could hear the crowd growing uneasy, talking amongst themselves to make sense of this unusually violent retrieval of a tribute.

The last thing he could remember before his vision dimmed was the sound of his name.

“Neil Josten, our fourth and final tribute from District 12!”

[cerneala]

Review 1 - Murdered: Soul Suspect

I thought a long time about dipping my toes into the waters of video game reviews. While I do play quite a few of them, I know that I have a very specific set of criteria regarding games that determines my enjoyment of them, and I’m not quite sure that I’ll do a good job remaining unbiased regarding those criteria. However, I decided to give it a go, if only to try something new! Please keep in mind that all viewpoints and opinions here are my own.

With that brief introduction out of the way, let’s get on to the first game I’m going to be reviewing:

Murdered: Soul Suspect

For this review, I’m going to be breaking it down into these categories: Introduction, Gameplay, Aesthetics, Story, Replayability, and Closing Thoughts. 

Introduction

Released on June 3, 2014, by Square Enix, Murdered: Soul Suspect is an “adventure mystery stealth” game developed by Airtight Games (previous work: Dark Void, Quantum Conundrum, Pixld, DerpBike, and Soul Fjord) using the Unreal Engine. It was directed by Yosuke Shiokawa (director: Death by Cube; misc. crew: Dissidia: Final Fantasy, Kingdom Hearts), and earned mediocre reviews at best, receiving a 59% on Metacritic.

Gameplay

The gameplay of Murdered: Soul Suspect is simplistic at best. With a small “open world” that unlocks after certain chapters are completed, ghost abilities that are rarely used, and ghostly blockades scattered throughout, any interest in the premise is quickly lost amidst the repetitive, not quite puzzles. Players are introduced to the ghost aspect at the very beginning of the game: the tutorial/exposition given by a spirit named Abigail explains that there are basic rules to the world, which the player needs to remember if they want to survive.

Abilities are “unlocked” via different scenarios that make them necessary to progress. Possession is by far the most commonly used, though the player cannot control the people they possess outside of influencing their thoughts to get clues to aid in their investigations. Remove is used to dispel ghostly walls to open new areas, reveal aids the player is seeing ghostly echoes and collecting the pieces of ghost stories, exorcise kills demons (the only enemies in the game), poltergeist manipulates electronics, teleport allows the character to shift from one area to another within visual range, and hide allows the player to conceal themselves within pocket dimensions to escape demons.

The only collectibles within this game come in two categories: Ghost Stories and Life Stories. Ghost Stories are unlocked by collecting a set amount of ghostly objects (boilers, gas cans, rocks, engraved stones, spellbooks, etc.) and, when viewed, consist of a story narrated over a static background image. While interesting in theory, the execution makes them dull to watch. The Life Stories consist of different objects ranging from letters to ghostly echoes that give the backstory of five of the characters; these are meant to lend more depth, but they quickly become just another thing to check off of the completion list. 

Most of the game is spent collecting different things. If these collectibles were removed, two or three hours of gameplay would be lost as well, because without the effort needed to run around and find them, the story is short and fairly quick to get through. Each area of the game is small and relatively linear, with any puzzles easily solved using a combination of poltergeist, possess, remove, or teleport.

The only enemies in the game are demons, but even they can be avoided if the player is careful enough. “Battling” them consists of hiding away and memorizing their patrol path to sneak up behind them and exorcise them, or, in the case of Floor Demons, walking around them or possessing a character to walk over them. Exorcism consists of a short quick time event where the player presses a combination of buttons, and this mechanic persists into the “final boss” of the game. While the first encounter with demons can be startling, they quickly become tedious and, at times, frustrating due to the fact that being spotted by one can quickly result in a game over due to how fast they drain the character’s life.

Aesthetics

The game world is dark, and permanently tinged with turquoise and burnt orange shades. Because of this, I had to turn up the brightness just to navigate the world, and the monochromatic color palette strained my eyes and caused quite a few headaches. There were a few visually appealing images in terms of composition and layout, but even those come with the caveat that they were static backgrounds for the ghost stories or that they were, in terms of how ghosts show the method of their death on their bodies, easily overlooked and not fully developed. I know dark palettes are common in games with horror elements, but when compared to games such as Silent Hill, or Penumbra, where the colors were limited by the environment and served to instill dread/uneasiness within the player and still contained vibrant colors, there’s a lot of missed potential in how the game is presented.

Story

Murdered: Soul Suspect revolves around Ronan O’Connor, a cop who is killed in pursuit of the notorious Bell Killer. Told by his deceased wife, Julia, that he cannot enter the Light without first resolving his unfinished business, he works alongside a medium named Joy Foster to both find her missing mother and put an end to the Bell Killer’s spree of terror in Salem, Massachusetts.

Replayability

Despite this game containing collectibles, there is no replay value to it. There are no difficulty options, and all items can be grabbed on the first playthrough by keen-eyed gamers. Getting all of the collectibles while completing the game will also unlock all of the trophies.

Closing Thoughts

I was really, really exciting for this game. I remember watching the trailers and thinking how new and refreshing it seemed, only to get the game and realize I was playing a heavily restricted version of L.A. Noire. I completed the game in just under eight hours, the majority of which was spent getting the collectibles and watching the ghost stories. While it made me happy as a trophy hunter — being able to get a platinum in one run without having to devote days to it was nice — as someone who loves story driven, exciting games, it was a bit of a letdown, and I would not recommend it unless you want an easy platinum to bolster your collection.

[ramajmedia]

Who Is The Best Pennywise: Tim Curry Or Bill Skarsgard?

Who was the better Pennywise in IT: Tim Curry or Bill Skarsgard? Stephen King's novel IT was first published in 1986, concerning a group of childhood friends known as "The Losers Club", who are terrorized by a supernatural force that takes the shape of a clown named Pennywise in order to prey on the unsuspecting population of Derry, Maine. After defeating the murderous clown as children, the return of Pennywise a few decades later leads The Loser's Club reunite as adults to destroy the otherworldly monster once and for all in IT Chapter Two.

As was the case at the time for most adaptation's of King's literary works, the novel was first brought to life as a two-part television miniseries in 1990, with Curry giving an iconic portrayal of the villainous clown. For 2017's IT, Bill Skarsgard would tackle the role of Pennywise in Andy Muschietti's big screen adaptation of the novel, along with reprising the role for the sequel. Both the miniseries and the theatrical films would also divide the story into two separate chapters, with the first devoted to The Loser's Club as children, and the second depicting the group returning to Derry as adults for a final showdown with Pennywise.

Related: Why IT Waits 27 Years Between Attacks

In the years since each actor stepped into the role of the carnivorous clown, both Curry and Skarsgard's respective performances as Pennywise are fondly remembered as highlights from the career of each. However, both would also take a very different approach to portraying the character and truly make the role his own in both adaptations of King's novel - but which one is better?

In his performance as Pennywise, Tim Curry was a cackling, flamboyant cartoon, which by itself is hardly a detour from a typical Curry performance, but it was those very qualities that made him ideally suited for the role. Curry's Pennywise injects as much levity into the film as he does terror, and he could legitimately be mistaken for a genuine clown by the denizens of Derry, which is exactly what makes Curry's performance work.

His first scene in which he lures the young Georgie into a sewer is every parent's worst nightmare, a true "Don't candy from strangers" moment, so much so that the film even directly addresses it, with Georgie commenting that he's not supposed to talk to strangers. Pennywise, in turn, commends the wisdom of the parental advice Georgie's been given, before introducing himself by name, thus circumventing Georgie's concerns on the grounds that "Now we know each other". Pennywise then proceeds to lure Georgie to his demise with his toy boat as bait, but its his ability to gain the trust of children and present himself as a friendly, affable clown that is his true deadliest weapon against those he preys upon. What's more, the design of Curry's Pennywise has a predatory edge on that of Skarsgard's, with the latter much more tailor made to frighten children (and adults), while Curry resembles the innocuous look of a clown seen at any carnival.

Elsewhere in the film, Curry is more haunting and antagonistic towards The Loser's Club, particularly once they encounter him again as adults. However, he still maintains his blend of dark humor and circus antics in a clear bid to drive them insane. This is particularly exemplified in the scene in the Derry library, with the adult Richie being the only person able to see or hear Pennywise and being left unnerved and panicked as the evil clown cracks jokes and blood-filled balloons pop all around him. By this point, Pennywise is a pure force of terror on The Loser's Club, but the film hasn't lost sight of his ability to lure his prey into his clutches either, as we see when he corners Bill's wife, Audra, with his "deadlights" and turns the group's old bully Henry Bowers into his own personal assassin against his returning enemies.

Scenes of Ben suddenly discovering he's kissing Pennywise rather than Beverly or of the clown aggressively asking "Don't you want it?" repeatedly after offering Audra a balloon work as well as they do because we've seen his skill at penetrating the defenses of anyone he targets, either by telepathic ability or offering them a bit of forbidden fruit. With his performance as Pennywise, Curry is able to embody everything a child would expect from a clown, while interweaving it with a subversive sense of humor and skill at pushing the right buttons to keep every member of The Loser's Club petrified and unprepared for when he finally chooses to pounce. The Pennywise portrayed by Tim Curry knew how to lay a trap for the children he hunts and lure them into his waiting claws, the hallmarks of what makes a killer clown scary.

Related: What Happened To Bill In The IT Book

There's no better word to describe Bill Skarsgard's Pennywise than monstrous. His clown look more resembles something one would expect to see in a Marilyn Manson music video than a pie-tossing, unicycle-riding clown, as Curry's Pennywise so convincingly embodied. However, it also works in Skarsgard's favor due to the how much it leaves the audience genuinely dreading what he's going to do to the unsuspecting children. His voice and body language make him that much more terrifying, with the latter carrying an especially nightmarish anti-rhythm to it.

Skarsgard's Pennywise also makes virtually no attempt to hide his own viciousness, something we see right away in the new film's version of his meeting with Georgie. While the plot device of Georgie's reluctance to talk to strangers is still present, Skarsgard's Pennywise can barely contain his obvious bloodlust, and the manner in which he offers Georgie his toy boat back is almost Faustian in his transparently wicked intent. The scene is also far more graphic in its depiction of Georgie's demise, owing to its wide theatrical release and R-rating, but it's the clear delight that Skarsgard's Pennywise takes in preying on his young victim without ever masking his evil intentions that makes the opening of IT possibly the most tragic scene in any Stephen King movie.

Pennywise continues to terrorize The Loser's Club throughout the film, and only grows more chilling with every encounter. If anything, there's much more of an arrogance to Skarsgard's portrayal of Pennywise, with how little effort he has to put into frightening his young enemies and how minimal a threat he perceives from them. Skarsgard has such command over his character's menacing qualities that his sinister grin would become of staple of the film's marketing campaign. Indeed, it's a facet of the character that Skarsgard has so perfected that it's often the only thing his Pennywise resorts to in order to send shivers down the collective spine of The Loser's Club and that of the audience.

Skarsgard's aforementioned body language as Pennywise is also disturbingly abnormal and erratic, something that he fully exploits in his battle with The Loser's Club in a dilapidated house and later in the final showdown in the sewers of Derry. The circus dance Pennywise does before a captive Beverly has inspired countless memes and YouTube parodies, but its undeniably unsettling in its subverting of such a seemingly innocent concept, the very goal of Pennywise himself as he terrorizes and hunts the children of Derry.

Related: What Happened To Richie In The IT Book

Both Curry and Skarsgard portray Pennywise splendidly, and each actor's interpretation of the character is uniquely his own. However, Skarsgard is ultimately the more horrifying movie monster of the two. Curry's Pennywise fits the profile of what a child would expect to see in a clown and has an advantage in being more adept at blinding children to his malevolence, as we see in his first scene with Georgie. Curry's performance is also far more outright comedic, albeit darkly so, with his Pennywise cracking one-liners and frequently engaging in a genuine circus act, while frightening his victims, in an all-around wacky performance not too far removed from Dr. Frankenfurter in The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

On the other hand, Skarsgard's turn as Pennywise is the embodiment of pure evil right from the start, more resembling Satan himself than a circus performer in his very first scene with Georgie. While Skarsgard's makeup is the more explicitly frightening look, and thus less easily equipped to mask his predatory intentions, that ends up being irrelevant due to his very straightforward methods of instilling unspeakable terror in the hearts of The Loser's Club. Skarsgard's voice and body movements are also more unsettling, with the latter especially having the disturbing dance-like feel, while Skarsgard's devilish smirk in the role would sear itself into the memories of moviegoers around the world.

The distinction between Curry and Skarsgard's respective performances as Pennywise is akin to the difference between how Lance Henriksen had been conceived for the title role in The Terminator and the mountainous killing machine Arnold Schwarzenegger would ultimately embody. One flies under the radar to ensnare his victims in the shadows, while the other jettisons with all stealth and goes straight for the kill. While neither actor's approach to Pennywise is lacking, it's ultimately Skarsgard who most effectively keeps the audience in a constant state of dread, after convincing viewers from his very first scene of just how sadistic a monster he really is. The respective performances of both Tim Curry and Bill Skarsgard as the murderous, supernatural clown Pennywise are among the personal best of each actor's filmography, but it's ultimately Skarsgard who floats a little higher.

Next: Every Returning Character In IT Chapter Two

source https://screenrant.com/it-movie-pennywise-best-tim-curry-bill-skarsgard/

[dungeonsandberries]

Session 10: Seeking Shelter from the Storm

With Tidesoria behind them, the party travels north and encounters strange things in the wilderness...

We decided to head north, through Xueki. To aid us on our journey, we purchased a few horses and a wagon for us to ride. They wouldn’t make things much faster, but they would make the trip much more comfortable. And it was, truly, considerably more comfortable than what we had just left behind. I never thought that I would be glad to be out in the wilderness and away from the comforts of civilization, but after the stressful few days in Tidesoria, being alone with my friends again was a welcome return.

While on the road, I finally got around to asking Felfedau about her status with the head priest, if he was her adopted father or not. She confirmed that he was, and that he had adopted her when she was sick as a child and nursed her back to health. I asked for more information, and she said that she knows that she once had a mother, father and sister, but remembers nothing of them, though she suspects that the red glow in her dreams may have something to do with what happened to them.

Before I could contemplate that eerie statement further, the very earth beneath our feet came to life and attacked. Multiple creatures made of pure rock and dirt waylaid our caravan. Thankfully, we had Maeiva with us, and her dwarven ancestry’s affinity for smashing stone was put to good use here, as she hacked them apart while the rest of us fought to protect our horses.

Right as we defeated them, the ground beneath our feet gave way, and we landed in a pit. It was some kind of buried magical forge, and the rock creatures were already in the process of being remade within it.

With a bit of investigation, we were able to discern that it was a part of Aniland in ages past, and that a dwarven explorer had gotten trapped in here while looking for relics from that bygone kingdom. He had activated the forge, hoping that the earth creatures it creates would help him escape, but instead they simply began to attack anyone traveling by.

The land was clearly a more dangerous place than I had anticipated. I once again found myself wondering if I should ever have left the safety of my master’s care. I pushed those thoughts from my mind again, as I did every time they crept back.

Marv and Maevia worked together, and were able to destroy the rock monsters for good, while empowering Maevia’s equipment in the process, instilling her armor and weapon with the power of earth. I felt more secure already, knowing that she had grown even stronger after this chance encounter, and she would be using its gifts to protect us.

We climbed our way out of the pit and continued on our journey. It was another blissfully uneventful few days, until a terrible storm pulled in overhead, just as we were passing by a small fishing village. It had seemed at the time to be a welcome refuge from the storm, and a pleasant place to stay after sleeping out in the wilderness. If only we had known what horrors that village held.

The villagers welcomed us inside, despite the weapons we carried. They even took care of our horses and provided us with food and drink, and an elderly woman offered us a place to stay. For a brief time, I felt more certain of my belief that the rich were unworthy of their wealth, and that the commonfolk deserved better lives than their lords would provide them. I should have heeded Felfedau’s suspicions that something was amiss.

We woke up in the middle of the night as the villagers thought us easy pickings. They had spiked our food with some kind of poison, but we had proven hardier than they were expecting. I felt a fury begin to well up inside me as these people who I had come to trust were simply faking it in order to rob us.

As we began to fight them, it became obvious that something was wrong. The villagers fought with no concern for their own safety. Even the elderly attacked us. We were forced to cut them down, as the experience began to try on my sanity. Cutting through commoners armed with rakes, as a storm lashed at us. I suspect I will never forget this night for as long as I live, and yet there were still more nightmares to come.

In the midst of the battle, one of the villagers transformed into a large frog monster of some kind. We cut it down quickly enough, but the creeping dread came over us as we realized that the more sick among us had been infected with whatever had transformed that man into a frog. As we cut down the last of the villagers, I quickly used my magic to try to excise whatever it was they had put in our food. I forced three of my friends to vomit out the embryos of those monsters.

I was so shaken that I used the magic on myself out of paranoia, and I felt immense relief wash over me as I realized I was not infected. My draconic constitution had managed to fight off whatever it was. But that relief turned to rage, as I wanted to know who had brought this darkness onto this town, and make them pay.

We found one survivor, who looked annoyingly calm despite being cornered. He admitted that all of this was the work of someone named Lord Kajwok. Whatever this Kajwok was, it had taken over the town by offering to cure their lord of a sickness, but had simply decided to kill him instead and take over in his place. They had also been using travelers like us as incubators for his offspring.

I wanted this man to suffer. He seemed devoted to the monster who had caused this. Maevia had the same idea, and tossed him into the sea amid the storm, despite Felfedau’s protests. She thought it cruel. I thought it too merciful.

We proceeded down into Lord Kajwok’s lair, where the frog beast presented itself, full of bluster. It attacked us with legions of its young, as mounds of human bodies lay behind it. But clearly a fury to avenge this town had overcome us, as we fought against the monster with every ounce of our fury.

I cloaked Veilour in my magic, enabling him to attack at their weak points and be safe, as Marv melted the young frog monsters with his own magic. The mighty Lord Kajwok fell before us with a swiftness that surprised even me. I should have been satisfied, but instead I felt a dread rise up inside me, as with Kajwok’s last words, he admitted that he had once been a servant to Aurmilx, the same entity the cult served.

What other horrors serve Aurmilx?

[rnbannick19-blog]

Video Games and Society- Rian Bannick

In the book, To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, we see the journey of a young child learning about the real world, escaping their childhood premonitions and seeing the injustices of race and how certain groups are put down in society just because of that group treatment in the past. The game industry started off with basic arcade games that required payment for each game played, and largely targeted children and adolescents, as they're young minds would hopefully not realize that these games were meant to be impossibly difficult as to extract the most profit. So the seeds had been planted for this new type of media; a trap for children to lose their allowances accomplishing nothing and most likely begging their parents for more quarters so they can finally put that feeling of “I was so close that time!” to rest. This frightening many parents into a scare that their children were being made into addictive adults with no sense of willpower. However, this was just the beginning. With the massive success of arcade games, larger industries and experimental methods started to pop up. The first home consoles were appearing in the stores with their games, and their pixel graphics and iconic soundtracks. Games like Super Mario Bros in 1985 introduced many players to the idea of local multiplayer. A space where teamwork would be the only ideal way forward, teaching the new generation of players how to work together with your peers effectively. This is something that our American Schooling system has always stressed to students, as it's implications in the adult world are paramount. However, as early game companies like Electronic Arts and Nintendo began to move into the digital era, their staff began to include people who grew up with Super Mario and M.U.L.E., and the industry itself had shifted from strictly a children's pastime, to a new form of media for all to enjoy, similar to film, music, and literature.

The problem we see today is the same fear from the industry’s beginnings as roguelike adventures and endless games of increasingly difficult levels, where people fear Rockstar’s Grand Theft Auto V turns harmless teens into chaotic criminals. For many, these are sensationalized ads meant to grab the attention of gullible parents, because news companies need profits to stay afloat. Also, only a small number of studies have actually been done on the topic, and their results haven’t concluded that games cause reduced empathy or violent behavior. In fact, a study done at Brock University dove into this back in 2012, finding that the games subject played correlated with their behavior, but that this behavior existed before the gaming ever took place. In other words, people with violent tendencies may be attracted to darker, more violent video games, but just because a normal person plays a violent game, they won't be indoctrinated into being more violent, or committing acts of crime.

Other arguments have been made about games harming eyesight, desensitizing players to horrific acts, and being dangerously addicting. However, Sara Winters, an adult living Ocular Albinism, experienced an increase in her eyesight of 200% over two years, going from 200/20 vision, to 100/20 vision after being exposed to the games Breakout and Pokémon Red for her Game Boy during her youth. As an adult, she helps educate visually impaired children, using similar games that encourage reading and coordination to help her students get better in a way that comes naturally; having fun. Also, some groups make the statement that games desensitize players to the terrible things that occur on-screen. Such as horror games and violent action shooters depicting gore and grisly crimes. Though, this is the same case with violent movies, horror books, and even the news, which constantly depicts crimes and tragedies to increase ratings, so why should games take the blame, and be forced to censor themselves, when horrific imagery in H.P. Lovecraft has gone uncensored for years. Additionally, people have said that games are addicting, using Skinner-Box mechanics to reel in players to a never-ending loop of play that takes over their lives, getting them kicked out of college, ruining relationships, and tormenting the player an activity they don't really enjoy, but can't stop sinking their life into. Many people can admit to this, even very popular YouTubers like James Portnow of Extra Credits and Austin Hourigan from ShoddyCast, but they tell a different story. The games didn't cause the problem, there was already a problem, that games were just an outlet for. As Austin put it: “...it’s not just the games themselves causing the compulsion, but rather they're just a symptom of something lacking in someone's life. Either autonomy, a sense of purpose, or, maybe, like in my case, a state of mental illness.” Thus, it's not that games are somehow evil, or addictive, or worse than any other form of media. Sure there are bad developers and shovelware, but this true with all expressive mediums, and games shouldn't be treated any differently just because their troubled beginnings.

Games can also be a force for good, not just a source of entertainment. Undertale by Toby Fox is an outstanding example. Where most developers would make a colorful, eighty-hour RPG in an underground, fantasy setting, with the common features we've come to expect; grinding in a zone to level up, beating all the bosses, and defeating some grand villain, Undertale told a very different story. In Undertale, by all means, you could still do all those things, but the game questioned the morals of that fact in a way that most triple A game industries haven't done for their entire existence. You could go the way of most games, slaughtering everything in your path until the fateful end, when you've reached the highest level, with the best gear, when it's time to fight to final boss, and you realize, you're the bad guy. In order to avoid this however, you have to painstakingly persevere through frustration and show mercy to the opponents and monsters that mean you harm, showing that, doing the right thing isn't always easy. Other games like Battlefield 1 show a great deal of respect towards veterans, giving players a singleplayer campaign that isn't solely supposed to be entertaining, but also, especially in cutscenes and the opening minutes of gameplay, show the futility of war, and the struggles real soldiers face, so that, just for a brief moment, you come close to perhaps understanding the dread of being in the trenches waiting to die, or coming home to world that just wants to weep for you, and pity you as you are haunted by the scars of your past. Games also can instill empathy in players, as games tackle darker elements of the human experience that other media simply can not. This War of Mine does this by showcasing some awful choices during your gameplay. For example, while out scavenging for supplies you desperately need, you hear a young woman who is about to be raped. You could rush in there to save her, but the criminal is well armed, and you don't have a weapon. You'd be putting you and the people who are counting on you to bring back water and medicine in danger by doing this, but you might save this woman. Or you could ensure that the family you've made makes it another day in this harsh world, but you'll have to live with the knowledge that you left this poor woman without even trying to save her. This gives players a new understanding of the tragically difficult choices people in underdeveloped and war-torn nations have to face on a daily basis. Giving players a new appreciation for their own lives, and empathy for others that have to make these impossible choices. It just wouldn't be the same watching that choice unfold in a theatre, or reading it in a book as it would be to actually be forced to make it yourself.

Games are still young; they only really began to catch speed forty years ago, and only in the last fifteen or so have they really began establishing themselves as a true form of media in which people of all walks of life can play and be affected by. Just because games have a history of exploiting children out of their parents money so they can make a profit doesn't mean that the new companies and developers on the scene shouldn’t be able make something amazing and atmospheric for all people to immersed into. Books depict a new world for us to reconstruct in our minds, films show us that world in ways we couldn't conceive, and games give us the chance to interact with that world in a very real way. It is foolish to say that video game companies shouldn't be allowed to continue making games that tackle serious topics solely on the basis that some desperate news stations said they're dangerous, or because of their somewhat questionable history, especially when they can teach us ideas and emotions we've never known.

Despite all of this, however, games are still being censored on the claim that they’re too mature for young audiences, but games aren’t just childspay anymore. When games are mature and dark, telling a sophisticated, tragic, or hopeful tales of normal people who, by the player’s own willpower and inner strength to keep going despite the difficulty of this particular boss, or whatever the game tends to feature, sure young people will try it, simply because that’s what kids do, they break the rules, play games with M ratings, and watch R rated movies; it isn’t Spec Ops: The Line’s Fault that your child that your child wasn’t ready to experience the gritty, self-loathing terror that came with playing it. Games can show us what it means to literally “climb into [someone else’s] skin and walk around in it" (Lee 87), and feel what our movie and book protagonists feel. We make their tough choices, overcome their insurmountable challenges, and understand that, in the seemingly hopeless last moments of their world, that just maybe we can save everyone we’ve come to love by giving ourselves up, with no care of our own survival, only the saving of this world. Games can allow us to stand with our heroes, be them, feel the fear of death, the curiosity of the unexplored, the blood-pumping stress of a ticking clock, the joy of camaraderie, the pain of loss, and the tragedy of sacrifice and that is truly a beautiful thing.