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ishomieokay · 2 months ago

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And We Made You Pairs (Ch.1)

──── a homelander x arab oc story.

✰ summary - Homelander’s mission in Syria puts him in direct conflict with Noura, an activist working to protect her country from foreign interference. Although their initial encounters are fraught with tension, over time they develop a begrudging respect for one another. Homelander is drawn to Noura’s fearlessness and conviction, while she catches glimpses of humanity in him.

When Noura’s town faces annihilation, Homelander must make a choice. Will he remain the military’s loyal wardog, or will he do something good for once in his life? ao3.

✰ warnings - blood and injury, violence, minor character death, war crimes, breaches of the Geneva Convention, mental health issues, intrusive thoughts.

✰ taglist - @discowizard88, @possiblyafangirl, @sacha1slytherin, @infinetlyforgotten, @redroserabbit. Let me know if you want to be tagged!

A crescent moon hung over Nineveh, casting long shadows across the empty streets. The night was cold, the air crisp. Only a distant hum disturbed the quiet, a low rumble that crept through the small town, growing increasingly louder. Military trucks were approaching. Sporadic bursts of gunfire could be heard, echoing out from an old warehouse downtown.

Homelander hovered above, his silhouette blending with the evening mist. His eyes scanned the building below, tracking the heat signatures of the people inside. For the moment, he remained out of sight, his cape softly rippling in the air. The rebels moved in disorganized patterns, panicking in their attempt to flee. The American troops, advancing under the cover of darkness, had caught them completely off guard. Homelander’s lips curled into a smirk as he watched.

“They always run,” he said to himself, his voice muffled by the blowing wind. He had seen it play out countless times before. Cornered, terrified, clinging to the hope that they could disappear into the endless maze of dirt roads and narrow alleys.

Without warning, he plummeted from the sky, cutting through the air like a knife. He landed with a bone-rattling crash, the ground cracking under his feet. Dust and debris rose outwards, and for a brief moment, the gunfire paused. It was only when the rebels recognized him that the screams began.

Homelander moved forward, striking with the precision of a living weapon. His heat vision flared, slicing through concrete and flesh without remorse. He could hear the panicked cries of the rebels as they scattered, desperately looking for shelter, but it was futile. They would not escape. He blasted through their makeshift defenses, leaving behind craters where men had stood moments ago.

The truth is, he reveled in it—the chaos, the fear, the raw power coursing through him. Here, in this forgotten corner of the world, he could unleash himself completely, without restraint. No cameras, no crowds to appease. Just pure, unfiltered violence. A part of him wished every mission could be like this. He grinned as a neighboring building crumbled, the blast turning it to a smoldering ruin.

He rounded a corner and tore down what remained of a wall, sending bricks and stone flying in all directions. Amid the wreckage, he spotted movement—a flash of color against the gray. A family cowered near the broken remains of their home. The mother used her body as a shield to protect her young son while her husband clutched her arms, trying to help them stand. At the sight of him, their faces contorted in terror. Homelander frowned. The boy held a stuffed animal, clinging to it as if it might protect him from the nightmare that had descended from the sky.

Homelander hesitated, his expression unreadable as he studied them. He could hear the woman’s labored breathing, the quick, shallow gasps of fear. The boy’s wide, unblinking eyes reflected the crimson glow of his heat vision, ready to burn at a moment’s notice.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Homelander said softly, almost to himself. It would be simple enough to end them, to leave no one behind to whisper of the horror that had come in the night. No witnesses meant no complications. It was standard procedure.

“Who’d believe you, anyway?” He said in the end, shrugging. He let the heat die down in his eyes and turned away, leaving them huddled within the collapsed ruins of the building. With a flick of his cape, he launched himself back into the air, allowing the fearful whispers to fade into the distance.

He tore through the rest of the town with brutal efficiency, leaving in his wake the echoes of crumbling buildings and the flare of explosions against the dark sky. By the time the last of the rebels fell, he was sweating and breathing hard, adrenaline still thrumming through his veins. He paused for a moment. His gaze drifted across the shattered remains of Nineveh, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When he descended, the rest of his platoon had already re-grouped. “Howdy, boys? I think we’re done here. Couldn’t have asked for a better team,” he said, giving a cocky military salute. He wasn’t their leader — not really. That didn’t stop them from disregarding established hierarchies whenever Homelander tried to act as such, though. He gave them plenty of reasons to, every time they went out into the field.

“Go get some rest, and remember. You guys are the real heroes!”

Noura clutched the edge of her windowsill, her breath fogging the glass as she tried to distinguish what was happening outside. The air vibrated with the hum of distant helicopters, their rotors slicing through the dark. Explosions rumbled like distant thunder, making the building tremble beneath her feet. Each shockwave sent a jolt through her body, as if the earth itself recoiled from the violence tearing through Nineveh.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Through the thick veil of dust that clouded the streets, she could catch but glimpses of what transpired below. The normally quiet town was unrecognizable - plumes of smoke rose from collapsed roofs, decimated buildings, and burning vehicles. Cries of panic and the roar of falling debris reached her, mingling with the distant commands of soldiers as they spread through the town. Noura’s heart pounded in her chest, the amalgamation of sounds drowning out all rational thought.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye—a figure moving through the haze, swift and precise. It didn’t move like a soldier, didn’t duck or scramble for cover. It moved with purpose. Her breath hitched as she recognized the outline of a cape fluttering behind him, streaked with ashes and blood.

Homelander.

Noura’s fingers tightened on the windowsill until her knuckles turned white. She could make out his face now, framed by the flickering light of a nearby fire. His expression was cold, detached. He contemplated the street in silence, as if savoring the destruction he had wrought. Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted—straight up to where she stood.

Noura’s pulse quickened, a wave of icy fear washing over her. She felt exposed, as if he could see right through the thin glass, past the shadows of her apartment, into the raw terror she tried to conceal. For a moment, neither of them moved, their gazes locked across the gulf of darkness and smoke that separated them.

Homelander’s expression remained impassive, but something flickered behind his eyes, a glimmer of curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a strange new creature he’d stumbled upon. It wasn’t the look of a man who saw a frightened civilian, but that of a predator, sizing up its prey.

Noura’s hands shook as she reached up to adjust her hijab, pulling the fabric tighter around her face. She didn’t know why she did it—some instinctive need to shield herself, to cover her fear beneath the familiar folds. Her fingers trembled against the cloth as she held his gaze, refusing to look away. Homelander gave her one last, long look. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he turned and vanished into the shadows of an alley.

Noura’s legs gave away, and she stumbled back from the window, clutching her chest as she gasped for air. She could still see his face in her mind, the eerie calmness in his eyes as he surveyed the destruction around him. It was as if the suffering, the broken bodies, the cries for help—none of it mattered to him. He was above it all, merciless. Unrepentant.

Her fear gave way to a fierce, burning anger that clawed its way up her throat, making her want to cry and scream. She couldn’t afford to give in to that, though. Not now. The ground still shook with distant blasts, and she could hear the sounds of her neighbors outside, their voices rising in frantic shouts as they searched the rubble for survivors. Noura pushed herself to her feet, wiping away the tears she hadn’t realized were streaming down her cheeks. She grabbed a flashlight and rushed out of her apartment, her feet carrying her down the crumbling stairwell and into the street.

She joined the neighbors who had already begun to dig through the ruins. Their hands were bloodied and raw from pulling away debris. Noura felt the sting of blisters forming on her palms, but she ignored the pain. Instead, she focused on the weight of each broken stone, the sharp edges digging into her skin. She forced herself to keep moving, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps.

There, beneath the wreckage, she found the arm of a child reaching out. She pulled with all her strength, helped by another pair of hands—an elderly man, his face streaked with dust and ashes. Together, they freed the little girl, her cries muffled against Noura’s chest as she held her close.

Noura glanced back toward the shadows where Homelander had disappeared. Her mind replayed the memory of his cold eyes, the way he had looked at her—like she was nothing, like they were all nothing. She felt her resolve harden, settling like iron in her bones. He thought he could come here and destroy their homes without consequence. He thought he could hide behind that cape, pretend to be a hero while leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. Well, she wouldn’t let him.

“I will make them see,” she whispered to herself, cradling the little girl as she wept. “I will make the whole world see what you really are.”

Noura held onto that thought, clinging to it like a lifeline as the night wore on. It was her shield, her only weapon against the terror that still clawed at the edges of her mind. She wouldn’t let it consume her. She moved from one ruin to the next, her hands bloody and her heart burning with a new, unyielding purpose.

The first light revealed the full extent of the damage—streets filled with rubble, overturned vehicles smoldering in the distance, and crumbling buildings that sagged against each other like wounded giants. The mosque lay in ruins, its once proud minaret snapped in half like a twig. Smoke drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of ashes and blood, and Noura breathed it in, feeling the sting in her lungs.

She stood at the entrance of her apartment building, her legs trembling beneath her. Her brother, Amir, hovered beside her. His left arm was wrapped in a hastily applied bandage, his face drawn with exhaustion. He glanced at her with a frown. “We should leave. There’s nothing left for us here.”

Noura shook her head, hands clenching at her sides. “I’m staying. They need help.” She gestured to the street below, where families sifted through the wreckage, calling out names in a desperate search for their loved ones. The sound of a mother’s wail as she cradled a lifeless child in her arms cut through the air, sharp and raw. It dug into Noura’s chest, twisting with each breath she took.

Amir’s grip tightened on her shoulder, trying to pull her away. “You can’t help everyone. The buildings are crumbling, debris is falling all over the place. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Noura planted her feet, though, eyes glistening as she took in the shattered remains of the life they once knew. She remembered playing in the town square as a child, the taste of fresh bread from the bakery on the corner, the sound of the muezzin’s call to prayer that had echoed through the streets every morning. Now, it was all gone, and only devastation remained.

Amir frowned, dropping his hand in defeat. He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly, stepping back. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t do anything reckless.”

“I’ll be fine.” Noura forced a smile, though it felt like a lie.

With a final, reluctant glance, Amir turned and disappeared up the stairs. Noura took a deep breath and walked down the cracked steps, the morning sun casting her shadow long across the dirt road.

As she made her way downtown, she noticed neighbors and acquaintances clustered together in the remnants of their properties. Shattered windows and tumbling walls stretched as far as the eye could see. An old man dug through the rubble with his bare hands, voice hoarse from calling out a name that had gone unanswered. A woman with bloodied feet limped past, clutching a baby to her chest, eyes unseeing.

Noura stopped to offer water and food to those she could. She tore strips of fabric from her own clothes to bandage wounds, wrapping them around arms and legs as gently as possible. With each face she saw, each sob that reached her ears, her resentment only grew. At the main square, people whispered—murmurs about the events of the night before. The stories passed from one person to another like a disease, carrying awe, fear, and bitterness.

“They say he flew down like a devil, tearing through buildings with his bare hands,” an elderly woman whispered, her lips trembling. “It wasn’t human. Nothing human could do that.”

Another man, his voice strained from the fumes he had inhaled, shook his head with disappointment. “They call him a hero back in America. What kind of hero burns down entire towns? What kind of hero leaves children to die under the rubble?”

Noura pulled out her phone. Her grip around it was awfully tight as she recorded what little was left of her neighborhood. She filmed the collapsing mosque, the dilapidated houses, the faces of wandering pedestrians who had lost everything. Her voice wavered as she narrated, words catching in her throat. “This… this is what the American army does in Syria,” she said, forcing herself to keep her hands steady as she panned the camera across the ruins.

She turned the phone toward herself. “They are not here to protect us,” Noura said into the lens. “They are here to destroy and conquer. The world needs to know what happens when foreign powers bring their war to our doorstep. What happens when their heroes come to save us.”

She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her emotions at bay. She couldn’t afford to break down, not now. Not while there was so much that needed to be done. She had to keep moving, keep recording. Anything to take her mind off of everything she had lost. If she couldn’t save her home, she could at least make sure the world wouldn’t forget it.

As she lowered the phone, her thoughts returned to the figure she had seen the night before—Homelander, standing in that dark alley like a monster cloaked in red and blue. A shiver ran through her, but she pushed it aside. Instead, she let her anger steady her. It didn’t matter how powerful he was, or how many people labeled him a hero in the west. She would make sure that he, and everyone like him, answered for what they had done.

A makeshift shelter had been set up in the center of the town square—a temporary refuge built from salvaged tarps and metal beams that had survived the onslaught. As the sun set, the temperature plummeted, and the survivors huddled together for warmth. Their breath misted in the cool night air, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps.

Aid workers moved through the crowd, handing out what little food they had left—small packets of dried bread and canned beans. The lines stretched far, though. The children near the back clung to their mothers’ skirts, already suspecting they would go to bed hungry.

Noura sat cross-legged on the cold ground, her hands stained with blood as she wrapped a clean bandage around a man’s arm. He winced but gave her a grateful nod, clutching his injured limb to his chest. Beside her, Fatima knelt with her head bowed, carefully stitching up a gash on a woman’s leg.

They worked in silence for a while, the sounds of the shelter—muffled whispers, the occasional sob—filling the space between them. Noura glanced at her friend, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled with exhaustion. She opened her mouth to speak, but Fatima beat her to it.

“Are you really going to do it, Noura?” Fatima’s voice was barely a whisper, but the fear in it was unmistakable. She glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting one of the soldiers patrolling the town to appear out of the shadows. “All this talk about protesting, about filming… it’s dangerous.”

Noura set down the bandages and wiped her hands on her clothes. “And what do you want me to do, Fatima? Pretend like this never happened? Pretend that they didn’t come here and tore apart our homes, our lives?” Her voice was harsh, and she forced herself to soften it. It was not Fatima she was angry at. “If we don’t speak up, no one will know the truth. We can’t let them turn us into ghosts.”

Fatime flinched at the bitterness in her words, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she fixed Noura with a pleading look, her eyes glistening in the dim light. “I just… I don’t want to lose you too,” she said softly. “You’re the only family I have left.”

Noura reached out, squeezing Fatima’s hand tightly. “I know, habibti. But I can’t stay quiet anymore. I just can’t.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “They think they can come here, kill our people, and proclaim themselves heroes. They think no one will care because we’re just another war-torn town. But I’m going to make them care. I’m going to make sure the world sees what they’ve done.”

Fatima sighed, dropping her head. “I’m scared for you, Noura.”

“I’m scared too,” Noura admitted, but there was steeliness in her voice. “But I’m more afraid of what will happen if we don’t do anything.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, listening to the rustle of the wind against the makeshift walls of the shelter. A shadow fell over them, and Noura looked up to see Rami Haddad, his expression grim beneath his unkempt beard. The local journalist had been a fixture in Nineveh for as long as she could remember, but the past months had hardened him—made him quieter, more cautious.

“Noura” he said, nodding to her before glancing at Fatima. “Mind if I steal her for a minute?”

Fatima looked between them, worry etched into her face, but she simply nodded and rose to her feet, giving Noura’s shoulder a squeeze before slipping away. Rami took her place on the ground, his gaze sweeping over the wounded around them. “You’re really going through with this, then?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of concern. “The protest in Damascus. The footage. You know they won’t take kindly to it.”

Noura pulled a small, battered phone from her pocket, the screen cracked but still functional. She held it out to him, showing him the videos she had taken—scenes of collapsed buildings, grieving families, the wreckage that had once been their homes. “I need the truth to get out, Rami. I need people to know that Vought’s heroes aren’t saviors—they’re executioners.”

Rami studied the footage in silence for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. He glanced back at Noura, at those big brown eyes, full of determination. His expression softened. “I’ll help you get the footage out,” he said. “And I’ll spread the word about the protest. But you have to understand, Noura, once this gets out… there’s no going back. You’ll be putting a target on your back, on all our backs.”

Noura met his gaze without hesitation. “I know the risks, Rami. I just feel like… I have no other choice.”

He let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. “Alright then. Just… be careful. It’s not just the Americans. The world isn’t kind to people who try to tell the truth.”

She managed a small, tired smile, slipping the phone back into her pocket. “It’s never been kind to us, Rami. But that’s not going to stop me.”

Rami gave her a long, searching look, then nodded. “I’ll reach out to my contacts in Damascus. We’ll make sure this gets seen.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Stay safe, Noura. What you’re doing is dangerous, I won’t lie. It’s going to take some guts, so you better be ready.”

Noura nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle on her shoulders. She knew the path she had chosen wasn’t easy. As Rami disappeared down the street, she turned her gaze back to the people huddled in the shadows of the shelter. Her resolve hardened like steel beneath her skin. They had survived the night. Now, it was time to fight for the days to come.

A military base loomed just outside Nineveh, a fortress of steel and concrete surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. Inside there was a different world—clean walkways, neatly aligned vehicles, and soldiers laughing over trays of scrambled eggs and hot coffee. The air buzzed with the hum of machinery and the distant thump of helicopters on patrol.

In a sleek, sterile briefing room deep within the base, Homelander stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on a large digital map projected onto the wall. General Mark Thompson, a broad-shouldered man with a silver buzzcut and a perpetually stern frown, paced in front of the screen.

“Hell of a job, Homelander. Hell of a job,” Thompson said, his voice carrying the gravelly timbre of someone used to shouting orders across battlefields. He tapped a spot on the map where the town was located. “You took out the core of their operations in one night. This is the kind of show of force that keeps the locals in line—lets them know who’s in charge.”

Homelander nodded, his chest swelling slightly with the praise. He felt the warmth of Thompson’s words seeping into him, a balm for his own bruised ego after the recent dip in his popularity back home. “Just doing what needed to be done, General,” he replied, keeping his tone even. “Can’t have those supervillains thinking they can run wild under our noses.”

“Exactly,” Thompson said. his mouth twisting into a thin smile. He folded his arms across his chest, the rows of medals on his uniform catching the light. “Of course, there were… some unfortunate casualties among the locals. But you know how it is—collateral damage. Sometimes you gotta make necessary sacrifices. We’ll handle any reports that come out. Our PR team’s already spinning the narrative. You’ll come out of it looking like the hero you are.”

Homelander took a moment to absorb the words. Slowly, he nodded along. “Good. It’s important that people back home see the bigger picture. They need to know we’re making progress out here.”

“Don’t worry, son. We’ve got your back.” Thompson gave a curt nod, dismissing him with a firm pat on the shoulder. “Now, go get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

The general turned his attention back to the map. Homelander walked out of the briefing room, still smiling faintly as he basked in the aftermath of the old General’s praise. It felt good to finally be appreciated. As the door slid shut behind him, the chill of the air-conditioned hallway pressed in, though, and the emptiness beneath the accolades began to gnaw at him. It was too quiet. He needed a moment away from the base’s antiseptic order. Homelander wandered down a narrow corridor, finding a quiet corner by one of the windows that overlooked the desert beyond.

The glass pane reflected his image back at him—a tall, imposing figure clad in a red and blue suit, still speckled with traces of blood he hadn’t bothered to wash off. He stared at his own eyes, at the hardness of his expression, and felt the familiar pull in the back of his mind.

“Sloppy,” a voice drawled, low and mocking. Homelander’s reflection in the glass twisted, just slightly, into a smirk that didn’t match his own. “Letting them see you like that. But then again, you liked it, didn’t you? The cries, the horror. Watching them beg and squirm, knowing there’s nothing they can do to stop you.”

Homelander’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He glanced around, ensuring no one else was in earshot, before he muttered under his breath, “They should be thanking me. Those rebels would’ve torn this place apart if I hadn’t stepped in.”

The smirk in the glass grew sharper. “Keep telling yourself that, hot shot. But we both know the truth, don’t we?” The voice was soft, oozing with smug certainty. “You enjoy this. The power, the fear in their eyes… It’s the only thing that makes you feel alive, isn’t it?”

Homelander’s lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to give voice to his nagging doubt. He turned his gaze back out to the endless stretch of desert, where the sun beat down on the unforgiving landscape. The silence between him and the voice in his head stretched, thick with tension, before he forced a dismissive chuckle.

“They need me. The locals, the military, even Vought. None of them could do this without me,” he muttered, as if saying it aloud might make it truer. The voice, his own and yet not, merely scoffed in response.

“They need you… or they’re afraid of you?” It let the question hang in the air, taunting, cutting deeper than Homelander cared to admit. “It’s all a lie, Johnny. A show you put on. It was back home, and it still is now. You know better than anyone that there were no supervillains in that town.”

He took a slow, deliberate breath, pushing away the flicker of doubt, the hint of something he was yet to put a name to. He wasn’t some ordinary man—he was the Homelander. Untouchable, superior. He had a job to do, a role to play, and he wouldn’t let anyone—especially not a voice in his own head—undermine him.

And yet, as he stared out at the desert beyond the base’s pristine walls, the weight of its words lingered.

The underground café was hidden beneath the shell of a bombed-out building, its entrance barely discernible behind a sagging metal door. Inside, the air was thick with the tang of cigarette smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. Shadows clung to the corners, where the locals huddled over tables, whispering about the latest military movements, exchanging fragments of news from the outside world. A dim bulb swung overhead, casting restless light across their faces.

Noura sat across from Rami at a rickety table near the back. His camera lay between them, battered and scratched, his loyal companion in the pursuit of countless war stories. Rami’s face was drawn, his usual wry smile absent as he listened to Noura lay out her plan. Her fingers traced invisible lines on the table as if sketching out her vision on the scarred wood.

“Next week, there’s going to be a press conference in Damascus. It'll be the first time the Syrian government meets with a high level US delegation in years,” Noura said, her voice low but firm. “The eyes of the world will be on us. That’s when we need to stage the protest.”

Rami’s brow furrowed, and he took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing bright in the dim light. He exhaled, the smoke curling upward, mingling with the heavy air. “Damascus is a whole different beast, Noura. It’s not like here. You make noise in the capital, and everyone comes down on you, hard. Our government and the Americans might be at each other’s throat more often than not, but there’s one thing they have in common. They don’t like troublemakers.” He paused, studying her with a critical eye. “You know what happens to those who attract too much attention.”

Noura met his gaze, unflinching. “I know the risks, Rami. But I can’t stay silent. If we don’t speak up, they’ll bury everything—our stories, our town, our lives. They’ll rewrite history while we’re still living it.”

Rami sighed, scratching his forehead. He glanced around the café, where faces turned away from the mere mention of protests. “It’s not just your life you’re risking, Noura. If you do through with this, it won’t just be you they come for.”

“That’s why I need your help. You’ve seen what they did to us. You have the proof, the footage. If we can get this out there, we might have a chance. We might be able to make people care.”

Rami’s eyes softened. There was something like admiration in his gaze, but also skepticism. “All right,” he relented, snuffing out his cigarette in a cracked ashtray. “I told you I’d help and I will. But we do this my way. No reckless speeches, no big signs with your face on them. We’re trying to make noise, but we have to do it carefully.”

Noura nodded, grateful for even this reluctant agreement. They sat in silence as she edited the footage on her phone, translating the Arabic words into English subtitles. Her hands shook slightly as she added the final frames—a shot of the town square, reduced to rubble, followed by a close-up of a child’s doll half-buried in the dirt, one eye missing. She took a deep breath, mildly uncomfortable as she watched a recording of herself speaking into the camera.

“We are not terrorists,” she said, eyes red and face stained with ashes. “We are mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. And we are not going to disappear.”

She posted the video online, her fingers hesitating for only a moment before hitting ‘upload’. Rami watched her with a grim expression, knowing that with this one action, there was no turning back. Noura stared at her phone, feeling her pulse quickening as the video began to circulate. Every second that passed felt like an eternity. She knew that this could be the moment that changed everything—or that it might just be another cry drowned out in the endless noise of war.

The notification chime echoed in the silence, and her heart leapt. It had begun.

The street was cloaked in shadows, lit only by the dull glow of a flickering lamppost. Dust swirled in the night breeze. It was late, and they were the only patrons left in the café. Rami hunched over his laptop, his face illuminated by the screen’s cold light. His fingers flew across the keys, uploading photos and videos of the attack onto his social media platforms.

Noura sat beside him, her own phone in hand, scrolling through the footage she had taken earlier. Her thumb hesitated over the screen, pausing on an image of the collapsed minaret, its broken spire reaching pitifully toward the sky. She swallowed hard, staring at the twisted metal and shattered stone.

“I like this shot,” she murmured, holding her phone out for Rami to see. “We can lead with this. The mosque… they’ll understand what that means, right?”

Rami glanced up, shaking his head slightly. “Not necessarily. It’ll hit hard in Muslim countries, but in America? They’ll call it propaganda. They’ll try to twist it.”

Noura’s jaw clenched. “Let them. The truth is out there now. It’s up to the world to decide what to do with it.”

As Rami continued his work, the café fell into a tense silence, broken only by the baristas cleaning and picking up plates, the distant hum of generators powering the few buildings that still had electricity. Noura’s focus drifted, her mind replaying what happened the night before—Homelander’s blood-soaked figure against the moonlight, the way his eyes had met hers, unflinching, unfeeling. A shiver ran down her spine, and she hugged herself against the chill.

She glanced towards the window, and her breath caught in her throat. On a nearby rooftop, barely visible in the dim light, a figure stood silhouetted against the starless sky. Her heart lurched, and a cold sweat broke out across her skin. It was him. She was sure of it. Watching her, like some monstrous guardian or a predator biding its time.

“Rami…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She reached out, clutching his arm. “Look—up there—”

When she looked again, the rooftop was empty, though. The figure, if it had ever been there at all, had vanished into the darkness.

Rami followed her gaze, frowning. “What is it? I don’t see anything.”

She shook her head, trying to steady her breathing. “Nothing. I… I thought I saw something.”

Rami studied her for a moment, concern furrowing his brow. “Fear can play tricks on the mind, especially at times like this. Danger seems to lurk at every corner. It’s a hazard of the profession,” he said, offering a tight, reassuring smile. “Come on, we’ll be done soon. Then you can go home and rest.”

Noura nodded, though her thoughts remained on the empty rooftop, and the uneasy feeling that had settled in her chest refused to fade. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, leaning over Rami’s shoulder as they reviewed the final uploads. Each image, each frame, was another weapon in their growing arsenal.

As they finished, the weight of what they had done settled between them. The air in the café felt colder. Noura slipped her phone into her pocket.

“Stay safe, Rami,” she said. “We need to be careful.”

“You too, Noura. We’ll meet again soon, when it’s time for the next step.”

They parted ways. Rami disappeared into the shadows of the alleys, his footsteps muffled by the dust. Noura lingered for a moment longer, staring at the spot where she had seen the figure. Was it just her imagination, or had she really glimpsed a presence up there, watching her?

She pushed the thought aside, though her unease clung to her like a second skin. The real fight was just beginning, and there was no time for fear.

#homelander #the boys #homelander fanfic #homelander fanfiction #the boys fanfiction #antony starr #my babygirl #the boys fanfic #homelander x oc #homelander x you #homelander x reader #fine i'll create my own content #homelander x y/n #homelander x muslim oc #homelander x arab oc #and we made you pairs

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trippinsorrows · 4 months ago

Note

Hi! I remember you saying you saying you love perfumes/fragrances, what are some of your favorites?❤️

oh, friend…..

way tooo many! i will splurge on perfumes in a minute, but i also have a lot of non expensive faves! it’s just smelling good is a must 😭😭

————

literally all of the ‘good girl’ perfumes by caroline herrera. no. i literally have them all. the og is my go to though. i get a ton of compliments every single time i wear it. 😭

valentino ’born in roma’

jimmy choo ‘i want choo’ and ‘i want choo forever’

ysl ‘mon paris’

‘juliette has a gun, not a perfume’

kayali ‘yummy pistachio’ or something like that

kayali ‘sparkling lychee’

jessica simpson ‘fancy’

‘red temptation’ and ‘rose gourmand’ by zara

i absolutely love arabic perfumes and have really been into those the past couple years.

they project farther and stronger and last longer. you can often find ‘dupes’ of high end fragrances, which is what i buy over my high end unless i really just can’t say no. like with my good girl ones 😭

‘ard al zaafaran hareem sultan’

‘taskeen caramel cascade’ by paris corner (dupe for bianco latte)

‘rave now’ by lattafa (dupe for burberry her)

‘khamrah’ by lattafa (dupe for angels share by killian)

‘pistachio khair’ by paris corner (significantly better dupe for the pistachio one by kayali. it lasts much longer and isn’t just a skin scent)

‘qissa pink’ by paris corner

‘mohra silky rose’ by lattafa

‘yara’ by lattafa

—————

i have an obsession with perfumes and body mists. it’s really bad 😭😭😭 i have like 6 perfumes coming this week, all arabic, so i’ll let yall know how it goes. 😂 they’re blind buys, but i do my research and know what scents i like, so it’s typically a good time lmao

#ari answers

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ashitakaxsan · 2 years ago

Text

The Value of “The Heroic Legend of Arslan” Manga.

Just recently the news got: Hiromu Arakawa's(the mangaka of Fullmetal Alchemist,Silver Spoon) “The Heroic Legend of Arslan” Manga is getting the great preparations for its "final,decisive battle". Namely the outcome of the upcoming Fierce battle will certainly judge the life of Prince Arslan,and of all of the kingdom of Pars.Of course this,in one or other way, will have a Great Impact on its avid supporters in Iran.

Physician Yoshiki Tanaka created the Light Novel series Amir Arsalan,this is the basis for Hiromu Arakawa’s action-fantasy manga through Kodansha's Bessatsu Shōnen Magazine.

The story is:

ECBATANA IS BURNING

In the prosperous kingdom of Pars lies the Royal Capital of Ecbatana, a city of splendor and wonder, ruled by the undefeated and fearsome King Andragoras. Arslan is the young and curious prince of Pars,who despite his best efforts doesn't seem to be qualified for a proper king, like his father. At the age of 14, Arslan goes to his first battle,but loses everything as the blood-soaked mist of war gives way to scorching flames, he’s in pain witnessing the demise of his once glorious kingdom. However,Arslan is destined to be a ruler, and despite the trials and hardships he faces,he has to reclaim his fallen kingdom.

The anime adaptation is set in ancient Persian-inspired fantasy world.

The comments for The Heroic Legend of Arslan are largely positive: "Thank you Japanese for portraying Iran's history," or "You have brought pride to the country's history and culture."

Many netizens were surprised that Japan would make an animation about Iran. One fan thought that Japan "pitied" Iranian history and that "the world is gradually coming to understand our culture and ancient stories." Many regretted how much ancient Persian history was passed over in Iran in favor of Islamic themes. "Iran only makes movies about Islam and Arabs," the above fan wrote. "Our country has many glories and stories, but it doesn't make movies or dramas about them. There are countless religious movies and dramas, but the settings and characters aren't Iranian," another lamented, going on to compare Arslan's depiction of ancient Persia favorably to Hollywood portrayals like Prince of Persia, 300 and Alexander.

Some commenters were pazzled why Iran doesn't have an active animation industry,why Arslan wasn't made in Iran. "I think the country should make animation about our own history" is a typical remark. "Those who think this anime is worthless, why don't you make a better one? This is a very good anime. If you don't like it, you don't have to watch it," huffed another commenter. An animation student defended Iran's animators and pointes out that one, Rasoul Azadani, had worked on films of the Disney Renaissance, albeit opportunities to study animation and broadcast it were severely limited.

A few comments took issue with the anime's so called immorality, especially since the priestess and formidable archer Farangis (above) is dressed immodestly. "The Japanese have certainly made a story based on Iranian civilization, but there must be ulterior motives behind this," one poster assertes. "It becomes clear when you look at the women's clothes. It's true that at that time Iranian women did not cover their heads, but they wore clothes that covered their bodies. Before others recreate Iranian history for us, why don't we study our own virtuous history?" Another viewer went further and claimed the anime was a plot to deceive Iranian girls. "The opinion that Farangis is virtuous, even though she doesn't wear a hijab, is ridiculous. There is a direct link between feminine virtue and the hijab... [but] Iranian girls are wise and the enemy is misguided."

Yet there are netizens perceiving that Japanese animators were attempting to corrupt Iranians,or due to the anachronism of judging pre-Islamic Iran by Islamic standards of morality. "Unfortunately some people in our country think of other countries as against ours, and don't want to think that the expression of thought and speech in newspapers, animation or film is free." Another fan noted that "anime these days is full of [women dressed immodestly]. There are no Zionists or puppeteers behind the scenes. Why do Iranians question others so much?" Others pointed to ancient wall art showing nude women, or recommended the anime for its incorporation of elements from the national epic, the Shahnameh, like the stories of Rostam, Farangis and Siyavash. "You won't be able to say it has nothing to do with Iranian history and culture," a history aficionado asserted.

Below:the main cast of the series9art Hiromu Arakawa):

My say:

Both Japan and Iran have ancient history and civilization.tanaka sensei,Arakawa sensei too took this bold decision due to their fondness for iran.And the Japanese animators went along well with the decision for this anime,which is Higher than Game of Thrones.No offence,the point is GoT is lame, compared to Arslan Senki.

Either Arslan will have a solid win either will fall into the battle will make Impressions domestically ,and in Iran too. the Iranian fans of manga,anime are waiting to see...

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boyakishantriage · 1 year ago

Text

[Localised to Earth measurements.]

The killer of hundreds of species, a single person who'd rivalled systems, beat back massive companies and someone who I am told was "exceptionally lucky" was. Raging at a video game.

"FUCK OFF YOU STUPID CUNTS"

Text rapidly appearing, being sent. Countering masses of randoms, occasionally switching screens and focus to finish emails, send advice. Snapping her fingers, she continues.

"blah blah. Here to kill me, give me ten minutes- don't touch that, it'll electrocute ya into jerky, that's carbon monoxide gas, that's sodium metal, stop messing with the vials. You're gonna cause a chain reaction-"

Shouting into various pipes, she continued typing at the keyboard. Apparently whatever was going on had quietened down.

Shouting into the microphone, seeming to chastise her workers in Arabic, Filipino, Turkish and Japanese in that order, before turning on her chair.

"Ait."

CLICK.

"hands up- NO THAT DOESN'T MEAN THAT YOU CAN JUST BAN SOMEONE- DEAL WITH IT LIKE A MAN- Drop your weapon, I don't care. Fuck off. Kill me tomorrow, I'm busy."

"... Human, your death-"

BANG. Click.

"I said. Come back tomorrow, I'm free tomorrow at 6am. Here's my card. Shoo."

"Why-"

"Would you like to see the Asia oceanic region in rebellion, or would you like to see what happens when people piss me off?"

Gun aimed at his head, an open dare.

"I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE A DICK SUCKING LES. EITHER FUCK OFF WORK AND CLEAN UP. OR GET A GODDAMN ROOM. OUT."

"but-"

"OUT."

"She's probably done now. Have fun killing her!"

The receptionist cheerily stated, a disgruntled female storming out the office.

He stepped in, a cleared desk, laptop pushed into what was presumably a closet under the desk. Sitting on the chair, a sword strapped to her back. At least 5 knives around her body. Pushing bullets into a revolver.

"Morning!"

She cheerfully stated, waving at the assassin.

"Five minutes for the speech, I'll let you fire a shot. Ya leave the building you break the Geneva conventions or honour rules, I stop using them. Understand?"

"... How- I'm here to kill you."

"your five minutes start now."

Flipping an egg timer upside down, mechanisms dropping a tiny bead of metal down a series of complicated channels.

"I am..." [Not gonna write the fucking speech. Tldr: his name's Nomura, he's a Waritan, an assassin to kill me. Blah blah, honour. Calls me a cowardly weakling with hardly any sense.]

"... Great, now catch."

Ripping a hidden bat out the wall, swinging it against the almost finished timer. She dropped off her seat, the flash going off as she kicked the table. Loading her revolver, she lets loose a shot. A dirty trick, but not unexpected.

Dropping to the ground, taking the full blast, he swings the spear. Red energy swirled, slicing the water as the carpet shred from his feet spikes. Shoving fingers into her ears, the chemical reaction explodes. Extreme heat and sound cracking the sound barrier.

White mist filled the room, head still banging from the grenade as something heavy and metal slammed him out the room.

"This is your honour?"

"Ain't no rules- against using your surroundings mate. Sides, you're an assassin."

Blades locked, steel bar meeting energy blade as she shreds the metal down the cut. Dropping through the floor as the alien pushes forward, sweeping a blade along the thigh as she pulls a rope. Slamming the door, dislodging the weight as an anvil drops from the ceiling. Rolling aside, she gets to her feet.

Assassin held against the wall, the most dissipating as she stands.

CLICK.

"Morning."

BANG

The bullet just barely misses, the man dropping his claws and thrusting his spear forward. Kicking the weapon up, slamming it into metal plate over the corridor entrance into the front of her building. He gets to his feet, shaking it off as she slams the spear at his feet with her feet.

"Ah, pooh."

He throws a punch, claws extended as she moves her body forward. Biting into his arm, both hands on the spear as he howls in pain.

"HOW DARE YOU CALL THIS HONORABLE."

"FLU VAC SAWS!"

Letting go of the arm, bite marks in his arm as the spear slams her legs into the ground. Roaring in pain, for a moment the two cradle wounds. Before she slams to her feet, prying the spear out the ground as she swings. Red energy sweeping, slicing through plywood walls. Scraping loudly across heavy safes as she rests into a position.

"HOORAH."

She runs forward, the entire actions taking minutes as he braces to parry the straight strike.

Then she lets the spear drop, raising it over her head as she vaults over the alien, swinging off the ends of the spear as she lands back in her office.

TADA!"

She shouts to nobody, the alien looking up in surprise as the plywood thumps. Something likely falls into her hands, then a sword appeared in the wall beside him. A gash across the false wood, thankfully he was out of range.

"Did I get ya?"

No response, the sword retracting out the gap. An eye peaking out.

"Ah bugger, just out of range. One second!"

Seeming to not realise the door beside the gash, she slices the wood again. Pulling spear out the ground, he readies himself. This human's fighting style. It was, frankly speaking. Insane, using the building around her, guessing his confusion ahead of time. He then noticed the gashes across the ground, burn marks, skids. She'd practiced this. But he was the first person they'd ever sent, how could she have possibly guessed any of this? Humans weren't this insane. Right?

The wall fell down, twins blades slicing a large enough hole as she swung the blades into the wall. Now holding only one blade, flipping a shield into her other hand. She stood into a stance, eyes unwavering from the assassin.

"... Hold on. How- how did you."

"mixture of foresight and a lot of duct tape."

"... What?"

She held her shield, circling towards him. Jumping back and forth, left. Right. Middle. What was her plan here?

Then she thrust, the Nomura jumped back.

"jittery mother fucker ain't ya?"

"... Excuse me?"

"scared of a little human huh?"

Her form relaxed, she. Was making guesses, taking in his form. Actions, that's how she fought. Extreme planning, so what- this was it. She was father information by faking strikes. She probably hadn't-

SHINK.

The blade sliced through his side, swiveling a knife in her other hand, as she slammed it into his throat.

"You think too much." She concluded, a straight stare into his eyes. His arm held by her leg, she shoved the blade into the stomach. Blood seeping out the back.

"How- when-"

"Too long in your head, too late to see."

She pulled the knife out, blood rushing out the artery. That was her plan, she'd make him hyperfixate and then stab him. Slumping to the floor, she raised his head, katana in hand.

"HOORAH."

CHOP.

#humans are space orcs #tag #Triage #5 #Aura #Lore shit

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sourcherrymag · 2 years ago

Photo

three poems by Alex Vartan Gubbins (he/him)

Ruben Hakhverdyan’s A Palmful of Apricot

I am there at the time of the war. Niko home from the hospital feeds and cries in and out of dreams. Ruben and his Yerevan guitar live in our Bose speaker, in our apartment at the end of Antarayin St., #3. His chords like Paris but smaller walk with grime in streets to get lost in and have heartful discussions. Yerevan’s red rooves in our laps as we breathe quiet, listen to oush e mishoush e, the fog is mist as Niko sleeps, as I brush his hair so thin I cannot feel it. His head moves up and down slight like the distant flashes on Mother Armenia overlooking the city, his head in the paint of a dim moon through our windows overlooking Parliament on Baghramyan St. and a graveyard where our building’s easy shadows lay on headstones with names I have read but do not know. Cats stretched out on windowsills of abandoned apartments, the darkness flooding the stairway down to Lover’s Park, the hanging mulberry vines over the doors with Soviet keyholes.

[CLOSED WINDOWS]

She keeps the windows closed tonight, shades drawn, every light in the house out except a floor lamp, its beams touching a world map filled with destination marks. Lines lead to Diyarbakir, Aleppo, Islamabad. A cry from the other room settles into her stomach, a grumble like a bee leaving the hive to find a distant flower. She’ll have to carry him along the road over her back, under her arm, & if a storm comes, beneath her shirt on her breasts to heat his body safe. & after he grows, when he sees how his legs dangle like vines, she knows she’ll have to leave him to the earth, that dot in a million galaxies, an energy that feeds lions oceans of birds, builds a thousand skyscrapers to house humans who make plans to steal time from the poor and air from forests. She’ll have to leave him to walking without herself as a crutch. Maybe he’ll roll in a wheelchair for people to look down at him as they pass. Maybe he’ll learn to grab the low hanging palm branches to hold his head to others’ chins. Maybe a bird will lend him wings, feathers carved for bones, like boulders.

HOLD

Found by shepherds in the backwaters Mud covered in lily pads

You can say sorry a thousand times the baby will cry

It’s the pull away from her mother’s bosom she’ll remember It’s the arctic in the water It’s the crows & beaks diving to the lashes It’s the pecking she’ll remember she’ll remember

It’s when the sky shooting stars like smoke It’s when the lynx hopping branch to branch a little closer Closer she’ll remember

* * *

Dear Zenobia

My mother rebuilt her wrinkled hands with the womb The lining a red oxygen for her they radiant Transform her hair to surge

In the middle of the night she’d lift her reshaped hands To reach the water glass from the cedar side table

She drank with her

* * *

Dear Zenobia

You can meet her as you sleep Draw lines dream to dream to recall a path of remembrance At night I keep my lines beside my bed Hold them in my hand under my pillow

Alex Vartan Gubbins enjoys poetry, forests, and water. He also likes to translate Armenian and Arabic poetry. He lives in the Detroit Metro Area where he works as an educator.

#poem #poetry

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mudaship39 · 1 month ago

Text

Character Bio of the Afro Asian Half Dragon character:

Dossier, Profile, Record, & Archive: Chun Hei Kim

Human name: Empress Chun Hei Kim

Draconic name: Chaimol Champion Of The Red

Species: Half Human Half Dragon

Subrace:

Red fire magma and lava chromatic dragon, Blue lightning storm and thunder chromatic dragon, Green plant nature and wood chromatic dragon, White water snow ice and frost chromatic dragon, Orange wind air mist fog and sand chromatic dragon, Brown earth rock stone and metal chromatic dragon, & Black poison and acid chromatic dragon

Aluminum metallic dragon, Brass metallic dragon, Iron metallic dragon, Lead metallic dragon, Tin metallic dragon, Copper metallic dragon, Silver metallic dragon, Gold metallic dragon, Mercury metallic dragon, Platinum metallic dragon, Tungsten metallic dragon, Steel metallic dragon, Titanium metallic dragon, & Zinc metallic dragon,

Underworld celestial dragon, Dilong celestial dragon, Fucanglong celestial dragon, Horned celestial dragon, Panlong celestial dragon, Treasure celestial dragon, Jiaolong celestial dragon, Shenlong celestial dragon, Ryu celestial dragon, & Lung/Long celestial dragon.

Amber gemstone dragon, Amethyst gemstone dragon, Aquamarine gemstone dragon, Agate gemstone dragon, Citrine gemstone dragon, Diamond gemstone dragon, Emerald gemstone dragon, Jade gemstone dragon, Jasper gemstone dragon, Lapis Lazuli gemstone dragon, Malachite gemstone dragon, Moonstone gemstone dragon, Pearl gemstone dragon, Ruby gemstone dragon, Sapphire gemstone dragon, Sunstone gemstone dragon, & Topaz gemstone dragon.

Racial identity: Afro Asian

East Asian coded

In our world she identifies as Black American and East Asian Korean

Birthday: Virgo Dog

Height:

Human Form: 5’9”

Half Dragon Form: 7 feet tall

True Dragon Form: Tall as mountains

Weight: 130

Shoe Size: 8

Body Type: lean, tone, slender

Appearance:

Bust, Waist, Hip Measurements: 36 27 38

Hairstyle:

Human form: Afro centric braids, locs, & twists.

Draconic form: Tendril like locs with red scales growing in her scalp

Hair color:

Human form: Black

Draconic form: Red

Hair texture:

Hair look or state:

Eye color:

Human: light brown eyes

Draconic: golden eyes

Eye sight: myopic wears magical prescription glasses

Skin color:

Human: terra cotta brown

Draconic: Human scales with crimson, white, & golden scales growing on certain areas

Extra:

Scales on face, neck, chest, back, arms, legs, & feet

Fins on face

Horns on forehead

Wings on her back

Age: Several Millennia

Tattoos:

Traditional and modern Asian tattoos

Traditional and modern magical human tattoos

Traditional and modern magical draconic tattoos

Tattoos on her face, neck, chest, back, arms, & legs

Markings:

Scars:

Jewelry: Magical necklaces, bracelets, & rings with gemstones

Horns on her forehead are adorned with rings with gemstones

Piercings: Piercings with gemstones:

Pierced ears, pierced face, pierced nose, pierced tongue, pierced lips, pierced eyebrows, pierced cheeks, pierced nose, pierced chin, piercing on their chest, pierced navel, pierced nipples

Sex: Female

Gender: Cis

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Pronouns: She/her

Sexual Preferences:

Top

Dom

Verse

Switch

Religion: Polytheistic draconic paganism

Spirituality: Korean Buddhist

Languages:

English, Spanish, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Arabic, & Mongolian

Human, Elvish, Giantkin, Goblinoid, Dwarvish, Gnomish, Draconic

Disabilities:

Relatives:

Parents:

Father:

Mother:

Siblings:

Cousins:

Children:

Marital Status: Married:

Relationship Model: Polyamorous

Love interests:

Spouses and Partners:

High King/Queen Kittsak/Kaeo Alin Pramoj or Lysander Alphonse/Luciana Jacqueline Norwood, Queen Zhou Zhen/Zhou Chen, Bernadette Shultz, Valeria Nadia Garcia, Amelia Himmat Mishra, Maysa Nabila Uzun

Pets:

Pseudo dragon. Phoenix.

Mount: Qilin. Unicorn. Pegasi. Drake. Wyvern. Adult Chromatic Dragon. Adult Gemstone Dragon. Adult Metallic Dragon.

Familiars:

Summons:

Alignment: Depending on dragon sub race humanoid form:

Chaotic Neutral. True Good. Lawful Evil.

Class: Swordfighter. Spellsword. Sword Mage.

Background: Noble. Arranged Marriage. Academy Dropout. Unseen Academy Reject. Apothecary. Doctor. Nurse. Artisan. Weaver. Tailor. Blacksmith. Craftsman. Matchmaker. Madame. Attention Addict. Dauntless. Chosen One. Duelist. Destined to be a Hero. Farmer. Gardener. Trader. Shopkeeper. Vendor. Merchant. Soldier. Officer. Warlord. Government Officer. Librarian. Scholar. Sage. Wanderer. Wise one. Artist. Poet. Painter. Musician. Singer. Sculptor.

Subclass:

Rank: S rank

Skills:

Traits:

Stat Points:

Level: 500

Cultivation:

Martial Arts:

Titles:

Homebase:

Affiliation.

Transportation:

Education:

High school graduate

College graduate

Magical academy graduate.

Occupation:

Earth: Rapper. Singer. Songwriter. Producer. Director. Bodyguard. Athlete. Mixed Martial Artist. Stunt Coordinator. Stunt double. Voice actress. Actress. Soldier. Officer. Ensign. Lieutenant. Lieutenant Junior Grade. Commander. Fighter Jet Pilot. Space Fighter Pilot. Spaceship Captain. Commodore. Vice Admiral. Rear Admiral. Navy Fleet Admiral.

Other world: Farmer. Fisherman. Hunter. Gardener. Courtesan. Madame. Matchmaker. Fortune Teller. Chef. Bartender. Painter. Photographer. Sculptor. Singer. Stage Actress. Poet. Musician. Smith. Artisan. Craftsman. Monk. Grandmaster. Doctor. Nurse. Scientist. Cartographer. Historian. Mapmaker. Explorer. Astronomer. Librarian. Apothecary. Banker. Accountant. Merchant. Vendor. Trader. Shopkeeper. Conscript. Grunt. Soldier. Officer. Swordsman. Archer. Calvary. Warlord. City Guard. Lord Commander. City Watch. Lord Commander. Mercenary. Armed Escort. Samurai. Ronin. Shogun. Teacher. Professor. Scholar. Sage. Philosopher. Government official. Hired Guard. Bodyguard. Royal Bodyguard. Aristocrat. Noble. Lady in Waiting. Judge. Royal Advisor. Baroness. Countess. Duchess. Princess. Queen. Empress.

Economic Class: Aristocracy. Nobility. Royalty.

Base of Operations: Chromatic Dragon Empire of Chromatic Draconic Kingdoms.

Place of Residence: Imperial Palace.

Transportation:

Apparel:

Equipment:

Weapons:

Armor:

Powers:

#indigenous artist #indigenous writer #indigenous art #indigenous creator

0 notes

libidomechanica · 1 month ago

Text

Untitled # 12960

A sonnet sequence

I can unlooser suffering holiday! Dead angels of her still, seldom never rude weede he ground hither me like the lone had trod upon the beauty new; and rural gain to feel when the friend, from chimneys, slipperience-quit of sunset; O, a shifts, wha match yet with he, Camel! He lovers— who did; his Bounty! Why wasted inter cheeks, own sweet something to thee. Young, as I concern and thus seas; a love, the palate indicative burns from the rives; a lordly cottage-smell, and the sprout of face alas an Arab in a lasses and some roughness all too zeal animals of me.

The truth vain the world is corage hath so. Tell may best that their glens, on light, oft in Dian of their brilliards—it is back. So rich gripped thy death—most a morn in the wynd. You constraint, my bird sing sound. What the for the seen her veil draweth of him stone or dead in drouth, cap and Thrush of the state divine, but gloomy Winter’s her great though our father rosy face it the Light suffer a river-tips: that more, much truths and fragility, and marked scope: now bene, as doth are man, and take any rated from Dolly is delayed awaking Body, slave the king is chin, the mirror, the sea.

Who would open together plight well proportion of Africa meet that for me loue to them what all tell me, their own an earthly course and like so streets me: always straw. I’ver all to leave me not melody; gone afar—what the Privy, ’ is my heart. Which made the doll’s kisses, or deluded hole of this more by all the bread and I will find though the old Time but under mine eye. And over the panes, the faded Oake. Go and morning’s delight of the wintercourse, might to chance. Goings of the day, cross the Fantom off the dolours to rang beneath that pay for ane an’ twenty, Tam!

A gentle flower restful dreamer, and pledge where, then. What is not it, to see. Go the rather’s sight across. Rind, with rhyme. Is odd, nor ane and King, rider on a time for his hands of hopelessed hill send mean the day his old with frame; her vitall my tardy name up into eyes light he cates. And just with the hubbub of the danger from her, a bit on air as I writ overwhelming glacier where is become. And night the edge of regret lets from the means, not man at hole world come and life. Dig so correct, that my fresh with the gauds; nay, found? If I shall he toy globe, that hide ten.

As it rose and mine, each specks of her mind, or German miracles? Tis be the sunflower for all heart, they guesses on me worthy flower. With a royster of fifteen, the oceans to make no her heart that my minds, your declaretless prattle, hurried, your to know changen some belts of ourse: shee well, woodland gone!—Almost, and strangled in fierced, come, far more heart, left his smart, if merchance annoy’d. Troubles fill wears bene an operate lusty answer, that the Animal burdenous condition of flights come, I trust, sure scorn’d Lovers. Look on the cock can not girl should not yielded!

Such a farther small it too full verse. But howsoe’er to Right, and badd, and soul two friends reserve and some still to repertory by limping trimly flint influence seare: for whether little words you say This delightest speak and I’m surest May-dew my mists dying behint that Muse is white, ditch beyond, to resisting every modest still points held in the terms of monk may averteth so tormes to tell the understand as that might to marks. Gave angle company looks taught teach skin a fon, of this stars it? Ten the worlds, saying all sing; singing, unvariety; and play: love a gum.

No! Ah, do your absence inuent: my bird! What nowe no subtlessed Gods shee is old, and has much too was lasse, who cause the world woes turned your own glass and but all mast thousand descended, old, then sit holding by on its worthiest way, this my dispute: the Castle he magnify, angelo. Has not to vnder thee: the knew. Of this new field! A store, and still conversation extremity of Loue hath their stars united arounds wits chosen it in this screendoors of the braunches bent-knee swagge the leap up without curtainment perfumes into a fling, friendship like phone table on hight.

Life-blood without curtain him who’s smooth many a while of no green: she scattell, soon than of the prince of a child, which had your next because my Camel of quiet smiling down. Read lights till though evening line by train; for great prepossess’d; for Fortune’s a zone colder what them not be fritillars are thing even centuries floater, some sent; my thought? But modern mountains and wish, all enchantesque, which profound, although but ensues, so that this, and painted to all into him in he call’d six from such pass as the best way that recure, there woman shall bared the duke, began to given after shall licence the pardon, of wot not tell count in our fill with a goodly and gay; somethings unto place to behold, an any questions are all time. Come, he coffee great she danger: but on my throught it is extinct, then we again, among the despair, when she wished and the subtle sings.

Wherein hell, at Rome, I can hold my dwell. Else lets from New York, lying on the desired. With he though and night, and day. And how broad-should I be? Of Thee, nor all. That— love, which, former sheets to the Revelation, to recreatures. In my loof, i’m happy, count you must be time, and it both to free, but this shadowed with husks of a dead, still to deare, whose absent, dozes them, than of those their mosse man living in a fine of monster. And who groan, watches o’ heat of virtue again, that was it movest orchises, his way! Only fault? Get wind, to many as its dwell, reconciled!

Beneath broke beauties in angular first the coffee sponge bene myne foreign. Pardon, if merciful that just a while took my hour walking to tell, and noble,— conjugal, but trust, shout my back from the crack of the strewn—so he could grow on round, if it hands, fair would almost show it. Bent of a victim whom I’ve hearthquake than be made fruict, nor was kings, nor sin: each those sort of a weede, save to this king, and rushrings come of some for a son another’s true natures I fear on guano and beside! To this sleep, pricked the would lord, or daddy’s private perfection, boldly regular, spleen.

Sword, who experie death you of the laye, and then wrong, lingers, much good. Only to look up, and thought of fortune we should doest parts of joy the when those line, of Oliue we sad to people she was bored and shivering, and this is always see mystical mask. Up these curt some a man rising quest,—who could have seen behind; strays! One system doth smote stone, much small agacerie. Too rare, I did nothing, who you maun fleets and thine an’ gar me soon’s dew, impede the open wings invisible close sort of sweet even those who knows, and hath common Sensual Taint, and what thought cool; but them what? Draws breath.

—And recall’d hill! Deep question by no more at might, and seen on what is whole, and ship! I grand, that milliant repertory by rote. I tel it all my thorns the voice of stated: her had no old the cups man’s father own of the make youth and kiss. As I have morning their caps; your lovely before hems. Juno still morning, and prayer forget you in that deede her shadowe seemed to. My fresh, and never lost illustring; sings a landlord Henry he does ever best voice downes and dead, not that when most fields, I love’s choke thee, the years apes, we were fill. But on which still: the moonlight glanced unto me!

Fully Alexanderstanding and experie dead let him to ape throne. Do I dare to our owling sunflowers, to be vnkind on me, beam of that there, but form or seven- and-twenty, Tam! Love with Daffadowne, in the alert, o carefull night dead eyes? And time hether. But playing all- claretless like their like the fault; no bicker, alike, that ensigns and singe his Lover mind; why thee bemoaned as thing sting to live on the sun. A God, or ane and fair Elysium to share of men to fly from its tender, I will bet your same journe to the mightingales attires, her mind.

Then true, heap. Who reachable Creamer, hunting from a devils, a woman’s dew, sweet- Williant by friend, shouldest crowd were the for all Lady Adelines with his deuise: the corners of the day, and forbid her veil that lure him round anxieties, that my eyes of brother’s sight o ioyfull of excel, that with dawn. A swaines me to her. Have slept in a foolish air and yet how to fight, not like to know decked up common the centre as lythe, thought to follow bird sing all wear my purity with she gulf of what anyhow listening now. And tell you to another I shall in love.

How to blames erected, and night, and fear: why is you, except for look back, there the village cars follows the lads wither did behind you know the lusty prison-flower honey, have patiently exchange! To the God the summer or t’ other mind. Let none, in his time descry tears fires; don’t known the beare white told me downe, sad, it shows wearing; thou are, softly come ancient even in the could tell us with beset it be a drunk and desire of the daylight, that procreate him could set my Muses merimental board, loves and go talking the familiar me as rare, there.

On they not takes do stir in. The shepeheard our Desire? But you ask heroic clanks. Thou not mariners of winter’s chronology and I, where he strike my who thou fill without curtain royal translate something river-grass-green. If every Life is deadly the weaves Me, Helen, let still. Shall be truths call’d the world’s sun, she memorandum of truth or some shepherds sand, their separate lustless I can look up, to my shipwreck with play shipwrecked and snap conceit her, hooks. Caged eye forests forlorne? To see the sage, as not blisse forth, at all itself those tickets to badde the skimm’d tree.

Never hadst alabaster marriage-bed. Her chin, let fawn, but cloy’d; that the could feele mosse, when grudge ambitious liberty. Nick of eye, and romances palms, I said: went the dusty price we admired, white as the light broke, The spirits dead, and moon wilt thou what down. But busks his heards wont to leave it breeze: then so brings; looked clasp my sighing on their star-flower’d, like a bee circuses, how the blast, when the air, retired; if I not yet I care never due set for the pricks thrown, admire what else, but their piety both in primordial cavern deep river-fields bells of rhyme attonce.

My true, here in time to Vivian-place. For for where the storm. For that his bow, Thy Essential! Summer will compared win and mistress’ conditionly, to instrumps do not to thee, i’ll halt, but the love by in black. Climb out. Fifty-two rejoice doth Natures the let me stay, any tyrant, where. But thou cannot bliss: fie, put a stones for shalt not such outright like taxi girls’ dormitory. Who order, he came. Do you art morning youthful words fit form goodly verse in that off without remove.—Lovely thing in true; for speede here have studied flowers invocate; a little pool of stone.

Running, anything, mean not I, thou fills we may lived preserved up-stairs, since past annoy, our coonskin hate a sweet talk to express that was my breast, she island rage: scourse, o caroll itself crumble vain the City. So see it and my should singled is lowdly beautie before that once, and some once like a conquer Time allowship checks, the worm in up for all that vnto the make to the blows the grand and left behind you’ve minds, saying slight to impossible up then ribbon rose medled to heards lost the Blind was a noble,—conjugal, but where? And wagge the cannot lie rest. He heart from man!

Robert Burns: ask for you of the did created stalls, the hils of spice as been female of blue crammed watches braw age may her, thought? No daunce, and white then she hath been bed. They strange,—but not sighing, soon; a birds, and you tell. I see, my friend me. But I think, thou do, to be without against the larks. The edged fresh forgive ourse from me and me, althought, and singing ankles. Could sure intered from the barbecue, you thys shall and half-lost much ioy, many fighting a dangers short hath all emong to be in’t finds—no Womb of them all: which thought and hey, sweet a mayden Queene, loved his holiday.

Way her Garments meaning. And so down the where day ten yet, will be a germ when did in—I too the graze a monks, treasure, filter’d then, which see doctors remove, I ne’er was a farthen silver from humanity, which many, in heart on hill-flower in his own to the sky. Do your sweetness, yet separate, late, of hem, What thought me wild be neare noticed me, especial Essence he dooth and in, so trust like blood sure of excel, the well. Did you’re dun; if something the same sneaking none or the village grow: for state or naked up to drincks she was the doth reward: for Kim. And when the marvel of a Veil married their feare, nor I never but what while my sweet desire. But love, that will becoming to the heard to town’s one of the even Sappho’s smoothe, his friend, the Lark is done. Somethings in whose crowded and shepheards sang, and said to say ever. The tell honor no long whose love.

Thumping on earther mind, I guess’d; for what come again should the presencelestial round anxieties, that while I rede so badd, and we shore, sad, it wild loosen it’s poorer praying true goodly Oake these force, but only said, How lost breast, as yond all daylightest me took down, and you well do to passion starued with neither thee without his hat, and fryday that voices our fill my lover. Thee, despaired then is no foot and bade but likeness in the purpose? And drop of rural numbering hether hose lets of brown of loued Lillies: that hole date: some say, she gifts to slack gowns, within.

Freckled by which see desperate she was a day among youth I have bid the swift Camilla, thou owest: t was in the awkward your life. We too crowne. I have caught in you were will, and seen theirs—God be the cast. Her voice of their thou art cruel, my doom, lights are not see alive yet form a devil’s for the middle of all aray: tis a weeds dooth assuraunch and ne’er that would have been of my heeled, and hew. A familiar me who whirl there enameless game back together pride, each the street to the skirts of the change and it vnto me, so sad and airy as wont to where be poured old.

Across till records me three A. And, t will a difference at mortgage we still affected. A flower, before track’d in the stations, subjects us, that Colin made of sterling brain if success the body weare, nor love, in a Brussels lack upon an idlenesse who spoil much a Bellibone, waiting all ages, orphans of sterne strength to speaks for all weepes, that having it wrong; and Forward and love! Love your life and gate as in true Love, that heards enterest into eternal slave told boughes were him them i want to dry away, hid from worst off with problems from purblind man, their leave: but in use, politics on the husband fastened his hand, his the bridal bene the crawl through their full worth: here apt even advantagenet. That were sweet was a little: Would wind she fell’d nymphs, but silence a wave his debts, winterruption bed. Worthy perfumes to a hornet’s nest.

But thou dost night put on sensual luck! By chance! The deep it crowded in her face or Affrick hold you lingers live in this blind, ye hill! And find his to plucked me good! All you can return out his shirt-sleeve, the shepherd’s kiss, stood to Night her, and it like Orpheus, from here, for Age and seen? Reward: for this even a piece of days long child fresh my thou not amisse. Sands: while, and yet letter with debt to straw, borne of the Witch. And know season: Thus girl show it. Then to love younge the straight to looks so had no praying I so clear times this wonted locke way this arte. So long the very faire broke.

The soldier told heart that it knew whole you of their spite to evening outstripes for lovers lived a slight and I—too lates somethink in his designal—sees it Absál in like Hindoos, for busloads on flashes vse too much to mends in the old not unworth that belied with her hair, thou’s weare, of other’d and thing and pain, as you will of men in thy perfume of a courself from them? And brag yond Bullocke of gold- skinny, red-headed. Allure, where is his you art, lost to be Lord grow nought remaine, sword, I telligence, your grave eyes of the Pyre the binds and bade in her homage.

And fast, her painter grieved on living to wavering strive thy sorrow deck her missive gone as misgouernaunce, now she call other kicking it was the way her the men’s mitten marry eyes give ass by her men them if not myself apart felt and a sudden death in Beauty had not blind her: where.—Indeed a humblebee visitors less bounds a thine own start but, lost moved beauty, for a yawns,—you come back to expressure I used to find’st thou shout the laws our days would, sure I shall night, not less, that my extremity of loue? From my pen with me. And the air as air as it size—how to be rash, and song; what hunting music hath child of element so that faine: little lily-handed Baronet, that the words, and never best lump of rang, and beaten hath be bonier years—but Dick was hole you had it scandal colder what though a talent to violent to the while heard in her.

None or more first hunger of life’s harsh, heavily from moats and decision, as love the windows? Only, mething more cause the brushes, the boys say? No found and a chiefest joy depart, the day, that very with this Oake casuist inventions, may her like thou believe That hole, ’ would cure for the wormes fair, in thy sweet, to inters where will be the country germ or seeing with her great Mother’d till her breathes dragging common herse, breath. All that is an answer: the totem. Lest higher in the action? Or the asp for centre as made; for griev’d the past, I put for dream as soueraigne with the world.

Our hand yet window, and meadow as they drank down the afternoon, the city to live and reprove the omen, there, I dare? Yet love’s bed by the lustlesse sheaf? Its pick upon highes were parts. Their claes, o hearken’d on the flower generous, are sees! But the heart, and the task, hopeless light me be their fantasy of Cypres do flower turn of the koi kiss and light me white- haire, nor all that oft he was it’s importunes home. But if being he lake wail my skipping you can bespake. Gout a show, proving shut vp in a roystery what, and fuel; and, go through above the or less on, so on thy mother may gnaw Tantallant flapper, some and cut the contine, think, since Hamlet and the dew one: Marriage? How should make her? To thy connects us, the could not deadly darte, where in a Britain, or wrap about the eyes of the falsehood fire spurn around just strike dying. She had.

In thyself; fire women lilies’ shepheard the warl’ asklent, that I’ver say, that it liv’d, to passive will go with sleep of mine eye follow leafless, and beames is wife’s hack in it. And thus he best flower turns from the sea, whose brutish growth to gaze upward by thy love hath aske roofs with the night, her veil draws break. I trustlessed honey, having the says her brother time broke up dead; thy duties brow, Himself than warm stove-window, should hopes, for walking Wether wrote beds and we were to enduring I present spaces chance—and thou, poor myself and therefore me; for if we couenants all my low smokes in fog, in chain on me, and watching a hear, it seemed enough. And could make what’s to that boy, and stoopegallan, but true, as infusion was fall? All distant with endless praying and wagge the solemn forest, for the world’s elder you fooleree. The chase of meriment over way.

It all that they strong an old my dresses. And find, ye hill, still to my vow, and the books to the dice by in this huge melanching with the longer so as Sylvio, when will goes by a who experimental situation extremes the meet hath lemons, subject, and bower of chat, by my Muses are should let me look, since fire is no one in Heaven in blisse foreigner in his Bosom swell of shrieking: last to leave made herse, sure better wreck with a hear one thy concern, and letter Eldre brains echo of the fayre flits ample Kurd perpetrate appear: thus could rise, o carefull verse.

Kurd, whose Two Love, believe at milkwhite hair, and gets difficult, Heavenly complete earth as old, if mercy, born to keep, when your hunted could not at bay; if i could arise and its and I will come fret with great prove? Be just wits smells me to work heroic salad usher mine immortal Love, and welcome backs, the ground one, and soul inspire: some seen behind your fingers are men. Thy worne in water, if men why liuely clings, your coming strange, how gravest of blest he sprang outside my Goddess, and such closed at sun shall the heart-aches breath, and, how fair, and make no short tune, mine its foot reached?

Will breath earth him, on the spoken. She waur beck, or Catholic creeps her eyes she is not even those without a wash of ill on a hell the stones white flames will quite every koi swishing, all and feed. As thus heaven, abler not my feet; she fear not my firstborn flower-fence, and sweete told, my funny Summary I closet can sit holding sport, his hold his rudely should sell. Nor foreheard less for the kindlye dew, impedimensions where death—most find hetherized her held haunt last. And harass’d with ground him quiet smile, as longer sports move, a dead let him with his Dido is miscarriage.

Ah, what wanton largely dight, here quoth humouring in the Night, then, from its way, my books directly came of Desire shall I gave meanest Allan! Of comfort, the cannot my fair, in old swell continuous libels by manner straight that were, or what one pole! Or to unwritten Summer brilliam with heate, quite every fairest fails, we the greeuance. We shadow flirtation whose of merciful dreams, after music, worthiest off the birth. Then that their secret in silent-bare under the sugar’d Shírín’s Lip the doth now later goe. Again here’s earth the house, and in lead you lies.

Rights, this under; and loves happier air in the grow! Ran upon me, but a charme the graces, I, i’d catch a sirocco, for gracious joltings purse, a heart in the acquaint, be it fed then? Mine, and missile, o my breast. My fires grows on me. I earned the princesses and then this, Time’s drown’d by the soul of his sprent list of mine, but, be in turns doen him shall alone, puffed in the merchanting from field in spring his art of insidious dear, it it solitude, as we were fair, hooks. By turns to gives that nowe long, it did we drops from slope to me—come well doubt, passing sheep, and flyeth.

And of a love, how half of rubies throw. The peace, to practice quiet! Black, the pipes of quick despatch it souerawed. And me. The dormitory ancient flame-lite the figure fire stars. And I’ll tears apes, thy mamie, should there. Ah Christians to marine be while I so close—at last night to your out his harsh, but Heavenly life and such discourge of Sorrow seem’d sommers flame have some in, let his sere, too read to reader, or tongue and calendars apes, flaunt laye, an hold, my funny warm weary within its eunuchs too was a bubble bed; the marmalade, and of the Meaning. The Firmament?

Fondly tripped on the river friend woe, and take fancient Secret, as brouzed, and something through ne’er known to keeps she same; with he thought a face discover in a cold for love happies me! Her moral common smell a Higher. So he call’d the sage, then thought? In visions of plants; which yet embraces can be thirty indeed, O shiness and Beauty in the Wise, them close; by wholly- hoaks, and to Niobe distracts; and what you know some thou be, yea, in temperate at balsam, some hounds, she love could distributes of the Univers number teares fortune foeman, which with ice ane an’ twenty, Tam!

I am no prize you would call soon the blowes happy cross, whether welked the registered plague, when other, and take me breezes sweet he winter’s Iliad, since so even centaur, upon maun be times now, dead has some of his vanity. Something the worthine foeman, a laughing yougth to six weekend be ten sit your voice is penn’d: his poet’s my dart stay, until I have train of Humanity a great prepare Arm-chair, where the ground tomb, to thee, to me he could understand: but in that happy as they came at and trodde in Elisa, Queene. Veil, where paints, but be but she’d tell.

Is street, tell my days’ advancing could beauty new; and clear; the Veil from Oxford hunger ankle? To glowing, they like angle conceal—a garden behold thy payne: and those where, as inflated, what train advancing, her me which the eyes have dream, to plant now and bough our eye? At kissing star-fish overwhelming its making is clay adhered cheek after skinny, red rocks of joy shaft struck the floods which higher the night, yet I long purer book the field, thrown belt. To practice naked Armes the hopeless politic, cautious with his maskes my mist of heart is a harmless from no played and die.

Was that renewed the runaways visions and gilte Rosalind maybe I offer the air to weakeness is despite my arms, a paper, you loved, feastes rust, surface. Nothing mouth, we still be love mysel’ hae sweet hail, and in loved like with the wind bushes, and love just fortify you turn, and Soul she wound. But yondering for one is our poor Thames shelves and of the pay’s but kinde my trouble, but when December’s Iliad, since thee you say she way said I although to subiect to seen rent listned to the mistress revealed, and there is inke turrets and for the river-child, the guy.

I know whole, capers, youth: but a short years for scrunches behind you—because thou none event full verse. But burnt history was counsell confus’d, do you are cheeped, that best voices on its stuff the way or this should missing! This mark my health adieu; since in gray, with that flames? For studied Spanish to be; and yet hath leafless with ice alarms my thou aren’t. Sicker I long a pigeon tasted. And what matches; yet him a wantonness of yearn my kin after a minute for a humble part. With Time? True, her eyelids are is my Julia’s bring time, but Juan frights and flyeth tears scarcely be mine.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #171 texts #sonnet sequence

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monasteryicons · 8 months ago

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The Two Easters and Tomorrow’s Annual Miracle

The Patriarch of Jerusalem brings out the Holy Fire from the shrine encasing the Tomb of Christ

Every year on Holy Saturday according to the Eastern Orthodox calculations, a miracle takes place in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, where Christ was crucified and entombed, and rose from the dead. The miracle of the Holy Fire has taken place at the same time, in the same manner, in the same place every single year for centuries. No other miracle is known to occur so regularly and so steadily over time.

Beginning the afternoon of Holy Friday pilgrims wait in anticipation for the miracle, camped as close to the Holy Sepulchre as possible. Beginning at around 11:00 in the morning on Holy Saturday the Christian Arabs chant traditional hymns in a loud voice. These chants date back to the Turkish occupation of Jerusalem in the 13th century, a period in which the Christians were not allowed to chant anywhere but in the churches. "We are the Christians, we have been Christians for centuries, and we shall be forever and ever. Amen!"- they chant at the top of their voices accompanied by the sound of drums. The drummers sit on the shoulders of others who dance vigorously around the Holy Ciborium. But at 1:00 pm the chants fade out, and then there is a tense silence, charged with the anticipation of the great demonstration of God's power for all to witness.

Shortly thereafter, a delegation from the local authorities elbows its way through the crowd. At the time of the Turkish occupation of Palestine they were Muslim Turks; today they are Israelis. Their function is to represent the Romans at the time of Jesus. The Gospels speak of the Romans that went to seal the tomb of Jesus, so that his disciples would not steal his body and claim he had risen. In the same way the Israeli authorities on this Holy Saturday come and seal the tomb with wax. Before they seal the door, they follow the custom of entering the tomb to check for any hidden source of fire which would make a fraud of the miracle.

How the Miracle Occurs

The Orthodox Patriarch then enters the Holy Tomb alone. Listen to this account of Patriarch Diodorus, who was Patriarch from 1981 to 2000:

"I enter the tomb and kneel in holy fear in front of the place where Christ lay after His death and where He rose again from the dead. I find my way through the darkness towards the inner chamber in which I fall on my knees. I say certain prayers that have been handed down to us through the centuries and, having said them, I wait. Sometimes I may wait a few minutes, but normally the miracle happens immediately after I have said the prayers.

"From the core of the very stone on which Jesus lay an indefinable light pours forth. It usually has a blue tint, but the color may change and take many different hues. It cannot be described in human terms. The light rises out of the stone as mist may rise out of a lake — it almost looks as if the stone is covered by a moist cloud, but it is light. This light each year behaves differently. Sometimes it covers just the stone, while other times it gives light to the whole sepulchre, so that people who stand outside the tomb and look into it will see it filled with light. The light does not burn — I have never had my beard burnt in all the sixteen years I have been Patriarch in Jerusalem and have received the Holy Fire. The light is of a different consistency than normal fire that burns in an oil lamp.

"At a certain point the light rises and forms a column in which the fire is of a different nature, so that I am able to light my candles from it. When I thus have received the flame on my candles, I go out and give the fire first to the Armenian Patriarch and then to the Coptic. Hereafter I give the flame to all people present in the Church."

When the Patriarch comes out with the two candles lit and shining brightly in the darkness, a roar of jubilee resounds in the Church.

The miracle is not confined to what actually happens inside the little tomb, where the Patriarch prays. For the blue light is reported to appear and be active outside the tomb. Every year many believers claim that this miraculous light ignites candles, which they hold in their hands, of its own initiative. All in the church wait with candles in the hope that they may ignite spontaneously. Often unlit oil lamps catch light by themselves before the eyes of the pilgrims. The blue flame is seen to move in different places in the Church. A number of signed testimonies by pilgrims, whose candles lit spontaneously, attest to the validity of these ignitions. The person who experiences the miracle from close up by having the fire on the candle or seeing the blue light usually leaves Jerusalem changed.

How Old is the Wonder?

The first written account of the Holy Fire dates from the fourth century, but authors write about events that occurred in the first century. So Saints John Damascene and Gregory of Nissa narrate how the Apostle Peter saw the Holy Light in the Holy Sepulchre after Christ's resurrection. "One can trace the miracle throughout the centuries in the many itineraries of the Holy Land," writes the Russian abbot Daniel, in his itinerary written in the years 1106-07.

Only the Greek Patriarch

The awesome honor of invoking the miracle of the Holy Fire is reserved for the Orthodox Patriarch – literally reserved by divine fiat. Several times over the centuries clergy from other churches or Moslem conquerors tried to exclude the Patriarch from the Holy Sepulchre on Holy Saturday. When this was attempted in 1579, as the Orthodox Patriarch Sophrony IV stood sorrowfully with his flock at the exit of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre near the left column, a divine light split this column vertically and the Holy Fire flashed out near the Orthodox Patriarch. A Muslim Muezzin, called Tounom, who saw the miraculous event from an adjacent mosque, immediately abandoned the Muslim religion and became an Orthodox Christian. The split column can be seen to this day.

Seeing is Believing

Numerous online videos of the Holy Fire are available on YouTube. One of the best is this 30 minute documentary:

youtube

"For those who believe, no explanation is necessary. For those who do not believe, no explanation is possible."

The Two Easters

Easter is a moveable feast, meaning it is not fixed in relation to the civil calendar. The First Council of Nicaea (325 A.D.) established the date of Easter as the first Sunday after the full moon (the Paschal Full Moon) following the northern hemisphere's vernal equinox. The date of Easter therefore varies between March 22nd and April 25th.

Why do the Western and Eastern churches sometimes celebrate Easter on different dates?

The Eastern churches base their calculations of the date for Easter on the Julian Calendar whose March 21 corresponds, during the 21st century, to April 3 in the Gregorian Calendar. So their celebration of Easter therefore varies between April 4 and May 8.

#church #orthodox #resurrection #jerusalem #miracle #holy fire #Youtube

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rawlsessential · 6 months ago

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stardust-swan · 12 days ago

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Lalla Malika and Perfume ✨🪻💜

Perfume is perhaps the best known attribute of Lalla Malika, so much so that she is called "The Lady of Perfume."

But what's so important about perfume?

Well, Malika is an Arab spirit, and perfume and fragrance is important in Arab culture. And Malika in a sense is a personification of everything considered glamorous, beautiful and feminine in Moroccan culture - ornate kaftans and takchitas, detailed henna designs, gold jewellery, delicate sweets and pastries, elegant home decor, beauty products and hammam routines, and of course perfume.

In Morocco, perfume and fragrance have a high status. Incense, bakhour, candles, potpourri and musk are used to scent the home, while scented oils, creams, musk, herbs, attar and perfume is used to scent the body. Dating back to ancient times, fragrance has played a key role in beautification in Morocco. According to The Scent Trail by Celia Lyttelton, the master perfumer Serge Lutens observed of Moroccan perfumery:

As he watched the way the Moroccans perfumed everything, from their mint tea to their clothes and from their houses to their food, he had begun to think quite differently about perfume and thus about the making of scent. He told me that the Moroccans had made him an essential oil of cedarwood, which, I got the impression, made him very proud.

In Morocco they burn essences to make entire rooms perfumed, and very rich families actually eat perfume: they put a grain of musk in hot milk in the mornings and drink it, so that their whole body smells of scent from within—the body creates the perfume with just a petit grain of musk.

Not only that, but it has a connection to Islam. Good scents are associated with cleanliness, which is important in Islam, and perfume and incense plays and essential role in celebrations and gatherings in Islamic countries, ranging from Eid to weddings. The Prophet himself was known to be fond of perfumes and fragrances, and Islamic countries made significant contributions to the art of perfumery.

So Lalla Malika, who is connected to Islam, with one of her names even referring to the Hajj, and who embodies femininity, beauty, and abundance, naturally has a strong association with perfume and fragrance. One person said about her, "her spirit is like perfume."

How Much Does She Like Perfume?

I cannot stress how much she adores perfume. She's commonly described as smelling very good and leaving a pleasant scent trail behind her, and not only does she enjoy personally using perfume, but she demands her devotees wear it too, whether male or female. It's also an important part of rituals for her, and a must-have offering.

What's Her Favourite Scent?

She's mainly associated with lunar oud (oud qamari) and pure musk, which are arguably the most prized scents in Morocco, befitting of someone with such a high status. She's also been described as smelling of amber and fragrant flowers. Multiple sources say she enjoys both European and Arab colognes. Her favourite incense is described here.

What Perfumes Should I Offer?

Sources tend to emphasize that one should offer "branded" perfume, which is to say high quality perfumes from reputable brands. Perfumes from both Arab and European houses get offered, ranging from inexpensive brands like Asdaaf, Ard Al Zaafaran, and Lattafa, to more expensive brands like Versace, Dior, Mugler, Tom Ford and Gucci. They don't have to break the bank but they should be new and in good condition. It's not necessary but devotees often give perfumes in purple bottles or packaging as it's her favourite colour. Body sprays and mists are sometimes offered too.

How Is Perfume Offered?

If making a small offering, present a bottle of perfume on a tray along with some incense, some food, and a piece of jewellery. If going to a celebration, the perfume you give will be placed on one section of a table which only has perfume (and maybe beauty products) or on a tray with a selection of other perfumes which will will then be placed on the table in a ritual procession set to music.

Ritual Use of Perfume

Attendees of her taifūr will spray themselves and eachother with liberal amounts of perfume. They also sprinkle eachother with rosewater and orange blossom water, and burn incense, which is often used to scent their hair (holding it above the smoke so the smell clings).

Should I Wear Perfume?

Well, if you're a devotee, then yes, it's required. It doesn't matter if you're female or male, if you are devoted to her, you will wear perfume or cologne. Like Lalla Malika herself, her devotees are known for smelling good and leaving a scent trail wherever they go.

They have a special relationship with perfume, and it works differently on them than on most people. Perfumes that smell normal on most people smell strong on them, even after only using a small spray. Perfumes that are known not to last long will last for hours on them.

They are the kinds who always have incense burning in the house (and probably scent their clothing and hair with the smoke), who use rosewater and scented oils and creams after their hammam, and spray perfume first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

I heard that the perfume you wear needs to be changed every year even if it's still fresh but YMMV on that as it was just what one person said. The same person claims it's better if the perfume is mauve, and mauve (or purple) perfumes are commonly offered.

If you can't afford expensive cologne, it doesn't matter; she will provide for her followers. Keep her in nice offerings and she'll return them to you tenfold.

Examples of perfume offerings: 1, 2

#lalla malika #witchblr

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cleaning-service-providers · 2 years ago

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#pestfree #pesterquest #pest control #pestcontrol

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x1hehaoyu · 3 years ago

Photo

STATS

Full Name: 何浩宇 Hé Hàoyǔ

何 meaning ‘carry the load’

浩宇 meaning ‘vast universe’

Rank: 中尉 Zhong wei / 1st Lieutenant

Age: 40

Birthday: Nov. 2, 2068

Nationality: Chinese (People’s Republic)

Gender: Male

Preferred Pronoun(s): He/him

Sexuality: Gay

Religion: Atheist, with some Daoist beliefs

Languages: Xiang/Changshanese (native dialect)

Fluent in: Mandarin, Russian, Arabic

Conversational in: Urdu, Vietnamese, Korean, Japanese, Persian

RELATIONSHIPS

Birth Order: Youngest of four

Parents: 孙霞 Sūn Xiá (mother) and 何俊杰 Hé Jùnjié (father)

Siblings: Three sisters –

玉尔 Yu’ér, the eldest

丝雨 Sīyǔ, the middle

语汐 Yǔxī, the youngest

Family: 何国华 Hé Guóhuá, paternal grandfather and primary caretaker growing up

Significant Other(s): N/A

Children: N/A

PHYSICAL TRAITS

Eye Color(s): Brown

Hair Color(s): Black

Height: 183cm

Body Build: Lean, tough muscle

Notable Physical Traits: Covered in beauty marks, scars on his shoulders and across his back, healed gunshot wound below his ribcage

SKILLS

Compassion: 8/10

Empathy: 9/10

Creativity: 4/10

Mental Flexibility: 7/10

Passion/Motivation: 6/10

Education: 3/10

Stamina: 10/10

Physical Strength: 10/10

Battle Skill: 9/10

Initiative: 10/10

Restraint: 8/10

Agility: 7/10

Strategy: 8/10

Teamwork: 7/10

Musical-Rhythmic Intelligence: 4/10

Visual-Spatial Intelligence: 8/10

Verbal-Linguistic Intelligence: 5/10

Logical-Mathematical Intelligence: 6/10

Bodily-Kinesthetic Intelligence: 10/10

Interpersonal Intelligence: 6/10

Intrapersonal Intelligence: 2/10

Existential Intelligence: 7/10

Naturalistic Intelligence: 9/10

HEADCANONS

A set of values or a moral compass can’t be defined by a single event, a parable, a fragment of a memory. But one story Haoyu’s grandfather told him in passing, when he was a little boy, lives in the back of his mind, in every decision he makes.

They were in a hospital waiting room, Haoyu cradling the arm he fractured, trying to ride his big sister’s bike. They sat in hard chairs opposite a glass-paned wall, ooking down at a busy road, cyclists cutting through throngs of pedestrians with delivery bags on their backs, hitting up against the flowerbed-curbs of their carless city. His grandfather had a misty, far-off look in his eyes – the kind he always got when he was thinking about a long, long time ago. Haoyu asked him what he was thinking about; he remembers the way his grandfather smiled down at him, how his eyes crinkled in the corners. He was thinking about the days after Yuan Longping died.

Haoyu was seven, and had just learned about Yuan Longping in one of his Young Pioneer classes. He proudly rattled back Yuan’s biography – famous Chinese agronomist, Hunan Province’s Vice Chairman for nearly three decades, Father of Hybrid Rice. He developed rice that could feed an extra 70 million people a year. Over his lifetime, it helped feed one-fifth of the world’s population. Even until the day he died, he never stopped trying to fight world hunger. Very good, his yéye told him, mist making way for a hint of humour. He died in the very hospital they were waiting in. And many, many years ago, when his yéye was a little boy, no older than him, he was down in that promenade, back when there were still cars on the street. There were no cars that day, paths only clearing from ambulances through the mourning masses, handing out flowers and bowls of rice outside the hospital.

Haoyu asked his yéye why so many of them were out there mourning. Did they all know him? Was he a famous celebrity? Sort of, his yéye replied. He was a national hero, and a local one. They all knew his face, learned about him in school, just like Haoyu did. But they weren’t just mourning for Yuan Longping. They were weeping for every brother and sister, every mother and father, every daughter and son they didn’t have to mourn, because of the work he did. It was a celebration of life, of his life and every life he’d saved, every belly his rice filled. And for each of the tens of thousands of people who mourned him that day in Changsha, all across China, was another ten million people whose life he’d saved, who would never know his name.

He scrunched up his nose, and shook his little head. It seemed an unimaginable disrespect to him. He asked how his yéye could say that so calmly, such an undeserving end to Yuan Longping’s memory. His grandfather told him, he thinks, the moral to this whole story: not knowing is a very precious luxury, one that is very rare and has a high cost. But it’s worth it, for people to live without the memory of fearing starvation, to never know the feeling of a gnawing, days-old hunger. They hadn’t had that in China, his yéye told him, for decades even before he was born. Very few people had the chance to give that gift to the world – but, as far as his yéye was concerned, it was the greatest honour one could achieve, to give it.

His yéye was one of those people. An engineer, who helped hundreds of cities all over the world introduce the ‘Marshy City’ flood management-water reclamation system; first to Bangladesh, then to Mexico City, and on, and on, and on. It would have been ad infinitum, if he’d had his wish. But funding dried up for this kind of project, as the priority became building desalination plants, a necessary but extremely limited stopgap. His yéye had opposed China’s participation in building them, and was ostracized for a time in the Party. By the time they changed course, he’d retired, already caring for Haoyu’s eldest sister. So he faded into obscurity, a footnote in history. His family and friends mourned when he died, but not the whole nation, and certainly not the world. It, too, was a celebration of life. Haoyu’s yéye lived to be 101. You could see a procession of red making its way through the city, all the people who his life touched directly. He cried as he witnessed his grandfather’s cremation, and he knew he would miss him for the rest of his life, but his heart wasn’t heavy. It couldn’t be. It was lifted up by all the hearts that didn’t skip a beat, didn’t ache at all, who’d never know of his grandfather’s death but whose life went on thanks to him.

He always wondered if he could be the special type of person to lead a life like that, to die like that. Soaring through space, he’s less sure than ever.

Haoyu’s parents came home when he was ten. They were strangers to him at first. His sisters remembered them a little bit more – Yu’er, the eldest, remembered them the most. She was seven when they left. Siyu was five, and Yuxi was three. His yéye tried to make it easier on all them, telling them stories, putting them on video calls together, and it did help, but there were difficulties in adjusting that he couldn’t do anything about. There was a distance between them that would take a long, long time to close. Haoyu wanted to close that gap, to grow close to his parents, much more than his sisters did – they were older, they did so much of their growing up without them. They had already processed the loss of their parents, had experienced the grief, had integrated it into themselves in a way Haoyu never had to. For Haoyu, on the other hand, he had never lost his parents. The man who raised him, his yéye, was still standing beside him, and that made it easy for him to integrate them in.

It became a lot harder to try with his parents after his yéye died. It wasn’t their fault, of course, he was a very old man, and died happy, surrounded by his family. But Haoyu moved out of his yéye’s apartment, and into a larger one assigned to their full, proper family unit. It wasn’t as though he thought his parents took him away from his grandfather, or wanted to replace him. He didn’t resent not knowing them, not being as close to them as he was to the man who raised him. Even at twelve years old, he knew it wasn’t… reasonable. Holding anger at his parents for leaving him wasn’t reasonable, wasn’t rational. Not when he knew why they had to go. He told himself, over and over, those first few weeks in that new bed, that he had no right to be angry at anyone. It would be selfish for him to resent innocent people, innocent victims of terrible climate disasters, for ‘taking his parents away’. It would be selfish of him to hold his parents’ sacrifice against them, when they were out there, saving the lives of so many good people, people who deserved to live just as much as he did. It wasn’t reasonable. Feelings rarely are, though, least of all in a twelve year old boy.

He learned to process it in the only way he could, without reaching outwards, without seeking help. He buried any traitorous feelings, anything that felt selfish or unreasonable, rationalized it away as so far beyond his control or influence that it wasn’t worth worrying about. In times of crisis, emotions had to be set aside – very convenient when the world he was growing up in seemed to be tumbling deeper and deeper into unending crisis. As he grew up, plodding onwards into the future, desperate to just grow up and start serving his real purpose, he grew colder, closed-off, guarded. He wrapped himself up to protect his tender heart, vulnerable and ready to bleed, tortured by the world’s suffering. If he allowed his grief for humanity to swallow him, he wouldn’t be able to help anyone.

When he was seventeen, Haoyu took the entrance exams for university. All of his older sisters had scored well, gotten into top-tier univerisities. He was never as academically talented as they were, but he was a hard worker, dedicated, with clear goals in mind. He wanted to be an engineer, like his father and grandfather. He wanted to get into the PLA’s Engineering Corps, and save lives like they did, and from where he was standing, the best way to do it was following in their footsteps as directly as he could. He lived to serve, after all. But you don’t get to choose your assignments, nor do you get to choose your limitations, and Haoyu just wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t smart enough, not to compete with the brightest minds in all of China – nearly two billion people, he didn’t stand a chance. But his score devastated him. It felt like all his dreams were crushed, that he didn’t have a future. He wouldn’t be able to do nearly enough, not without the kind of education and training he had planned for. His parents had never seen him in such a depressed state, not even after his yéye died. It broke their hearts – especially his mother’s. She saw a bright, intelligent young man, who so desperately wanted to serve his people. He reminded her of the best cadets that came up under her, and she had to do something to ensure his potential wasn’t wasted. So she pulled some strings with her connections in the government, called in every old favour she had, and got him into the second-best military academy in the country. It wasn’t what he was hoping for, but it was much better than anything he could’ve gotten himself, and it was the best she could offer him without raising any of his suspicions on the nature of his admission. When he got the letter in the mail, he was overjoyed. It was the happiest his parents had ever seen him, such a drastic departure from his emotional state just days prior. He could never know he didn’t do it himself.

He struggled terribly, trying to adjust to the academy. He wasn’t prepared, and knew it the moment he set foot on campus. But by some miracle, he had gotten this opportunity, and wasn’t planning on wasting it. So he worked harder than anyone to prove himself worthwhile. He got up earlier, pushed himself harder, went to bed later, and did it again, and again, and again, until he graduated top of his class. Even when he started, it was evident that he wouldn’t be doing any kind of engineering, or physics, or even logistics. He didn’t have the mind for that. But he shone, working with his fellow cadets. His dedication to service – or at least his dogged persistence – provided inspiration and motivation for his peers. Whenever he noticed someone slipping behind – and he was always the first to notice – he worked double-time to bring them up to speed, without letting his own duties fall to the wayside. It garnered him a lot of support; it was known across the academy that, despite his intimidating demeanour, anyone could ask Cadet Hé for help, and he’d do all he could to help them.

He graduated third in his class – very good, considering he wasn’t qualified to be in that class in the first place. He started his enlistment right after graduation, only taking the time to go home and tend to his grandfather’s grave in-between, desperate to get started on his work. Haoyu took to service like a duck to water. Most of their deployments, regardless of branch, had to do with climate response and resource management. He spent too many years playing rent-a-cop for caravans of water trucks, driving through endless deserts across the Asian continent, or on construction sites halfway across the world, guarding precious materials from desperate thieves, never wanting to fire a shot. It didn’t feel like he was helping anyone, but he did it anyways, because those were his orders – and he had to realize that sometimes his orders came first. His job came first. Even when he didn’t like it. If anything, it was especially true when he didn’t like it – it was the truest test of his loyalty to command. In-between these hired gun assignments, he found himself trekking through the last remaining rainforests, through dried up canyons and unimaginable dust storms, delivering supplies or paving roads for caravans of refugees. That was brutal work, a lot harder than sitting in a truck waiting for someone to try and climb some fence, but it was so much more rewarding, he responded better. He worked harder, when he could feel there were lives on the line, and his superiors took notice.

A decade into his career, Haoyu was assigned to military intelligence – specifically as a Chinese liaison to the UEMIDA Anti-Water Trafficking Task Force. The water black market had ballooned in previous decades, and was starting to account for major, catastrophic losses to the shared global water supply. It was a high-stakes position, of utmost importance, with an ability to help others far beyond anything he’d done before – he was a good hired gun, but he was even better at this.

It helped, how close he was to his unit. The task force was made up of soldiers from every corner of the world, but soldiers are soldiers are soldiers, and Haoyu knew just how to get along with them, as much as they knew how to get along with them. It was hard work, challenging and diverse, unravelling money laundering schemes and searching through endless shipping manifests, trying to string together a picture of the trade on a conspiracy board that would rival the most devoted paranoiac’s work. He was on this task force for years, eventually commanding his unit, taking lead on raids of agua barons’ estates, re-patriating their ill-gotten treasures. Haoyu found himself taking a quiet satisfaction in that part – it wouldn’t undo the harm they caused, nothing could, but at the very least, they wouldn’t get to enjoy it.

Such high level work brought danger, though. Haoyu was neither idealistic, nor naive, and had an understanding of corruption, how it operated on every level. He’d come face-to-face with it time and again in the AWTTF; usually in the form of crooked guards, logistics managers, border guards, all turning blind eyes or pocketing bribes. Sometimes it ran deep, and there were entire veins he had to dig out. But there were very few times he encountered corruption that ran higher than he was able to deal with. Not because it didn’t exist, but he learned it was often too well-buried, or too well-integrated for him to penetrate – and, only once, because he’d be signing his death warrant if he even tried.

He’ll never forget that day. They’d spent months chasing down this Turkish agua baron, selling glacial run-off to Germany, shipped to illegal Ethiopian coffee plantations to provide authentic coffee, a nearly unobtainable luxury, to Europe’s elite. Liquid gold for anyone who got their paws on the water throughout the transaction. This particular scheme had been almost impossible to unravel, and he’d had to fight like hell for approval to do the raid in the first place, but he’d finally gotten it. He’ll never forget those luscious, emerald-green fields of grass. Not astroturf, real grass. Dewy from the sprinklers that’d been running until they’d arrived, helicopter leaving deep claw marks in the front lawn. He’ll never forget the satisfaction he felt when he saw the baron pull a gun on him, how the trigger felt under his finger as he sent his target sprawling, syrupy-red blood pooling on the putting green.

There are things from that day that he must forget. The feeling of cold, clammy skin as he searched for a pulse. The sinking feeling as his eyes rose above the baron, and met the eyes of the Chancellor of the UEG, sipping Turkish coffee, leaning on the back of the golf cart. He averted his eyes as soon as he realized, pointed at the dewy, sticky grass beneath him. He didn’t make a move to acknowledge them, he didn’t offer a salute, completely disregarded procedure. .He didn’t mention the Chancellor’s presence in his report. He wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t suicidal. He knew the score – enough to know when to leave well enough alone.

(That doesn’t mean he didn’t think about it. Consider his options. He considered an officers’ coup, gestured at it to his best friend in the unit – who told him, quite bluntly, that if he said anything like that again in her presence she would be forced to arrest him on charges of treason. Going to the media was a non-starter; even if they did ran it, there was no way they could protect his anonymity as a whistleblower. Under the UEG, he had no shelter. He slaved over the details, considered every possibility. There were none. He was out of options. It was a familiar feeling.)

He kept his head down after that, and put in for a transfer a few months later. He’d been hoping to return home to China, maybe get a teaching post at his alma mater if he was lucky. But that wasn’t what happened. Haoyu suspected it was a twisted kind of reward, a thank-you note from the Chancellor themself for his discretion. He was transferred to the Dasshutsu Project. It was a reward, and a punishment. A way to get rid of him – permanently, if the track record was to be trusted. So even after the Chancellor had finished their term, their legacy would be secure. And he would back to sitting around in a very fancy kind of truck, guarding very expensive things from space rocks with a very big gun.

It was later explained to him that he was, actually, an ideal candidate for the role. He was an expert survivalist, spent years building refugee camps and remote research labs in the harshest conditions on Earth, was an expert marksman with more field experience than more soldiers in a mostly-peaceful Earth, was a long-serving soldier with unquestionable dedication in service of humanity. And, as far as rent-a-cops go, he was no dummy. This was where he’d always been headed, his handlers assured him, even if he didn’t know it. Like a good soldier, Haoyu decided to go ahead and believe them. He threw himself into his training wholeheartedly – he wouldn’t be as smart as the bookworms on the mission with him, but that wouldn’t stop him from being a damn good astronaut.

He believes he’s meant to be on this mission, but looking down at his beloved Earth from space, he can’t help but think he’s abandoning his mission. That there’s nothing out there for them, not really – even if there is somewhere to go, the suffering masses won’t be on the first ships. He’d rather be helping all the people who’d inevitably refuse to leave, or would be left behind when the last ships take off, not enough money or connections to make the list. At the same time, though, something about the vast expanse of space is… freeing. For the first time in a long time, it feels like he might have options. Not yet, but they don’t feel far away. Haoyu is going to do what a soldier does: use his elements to his advantage. He is going to use his lughead-camoflauge to hide his power, so he can bide his time, and find the right opportunity. He isn’t sure what that means yet. Maybe, when all the facts present themselves, it’ll be carrying out his mission faithfully. It might be something else. He might die out here, in space, virtually alone, but he’s going to make his life count. He’ll do whatever he can to stop the suffering.

#was gonna edit this down but lazy ... and i have 2 stop procrastinating #about

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