#bastion fort

[mothmiso]

Charles Fort (2) (3) (4) by matt303uk

[khrysalisposting]

The Beauty of Khrysalis Pt. 1: A Photomancy Journey

Bastion

Moon Cliffs

Last Wood

Tyrian Gorge

Fort Rachias

[paulpingminho]

[caravanlurker]

Pallosand! I honestly loooove what I rolled, I’d rock (hehe) being a sand creature. On theme is my Geodude partner too. I HAD to do a doodle!

you're going about your normal day when, suddenly, surprise! you've been pokémon mystery dungeon'd!

unfortunately, due to budget cuts, the pokémon assigning quiz has been canceled. instead, you must spin THE WHEEL, assigning you a random, unevolved, non-legendary and non-mythical pokémon. you must now go on some sort of world-saving adventure as this pokémon. good luck!

tell me in the tags what you rolled, and how you feel about it - for bonus points, you can spin the wheel again for (or just take your pick of) a pokémon to be your partner.

bonus rules:

you're not shiny unless the wheel tells you you're shiny

take your pick of regional forms and evolutions (for example, if you roll vulpix, it's up to you whether that means normal or alolan vulpix)

apply whatever logic you like with regards to gender

have fun and be yourself!

[dwtdog]

I mean the same thing they do in speedrunning already they come up with a set of rules for a new category that in some ways will be arbitrary but it's already like that anyways

trueeeee lol

[2t2r]

La forteresse de Belogradchik en Bulgarie

Nouvel article publié sur https://www.2tout2rien.fr/la-forteresse-de-belogradchik-en-bulgarie/

La forteresse de Belogradchik en Bulgarie

[sebthedreamsmith]

My current main sona and their various forms. I am addicted to forms haha

Quite the little shapeshifter he is

[dndsettingsinfo]

Astral Bastion [40×44] by Wizgrids

[buttercupfiction]

Be it fate or just plain misfortune, all it took was one little chance encounter to set you on a path you never even imagined you'd tread. Now, it's up to you to decide where it will lead you. As a child, you got your hands on a Vestige, a remnant of a bygone era containing immense power and potential. It was an opportunity many would pay dearly for, and pay you did, as finding the relic did not come without a cost. The encounter left you with a parting gift you wish you could return, and sent you and your sister on the run - and you've been running ever since. Years later, you find yourself in the bastion of knowledge, Verimys, joining the local guild in search for answers. But, it appears you have arrived at exactly the wrong time; a series of murders plagues the city, seemingly without rhyme or reason, and you are about to get dragged into the fray. With the fate of more than just your own life in your hands, can you weather the storm ahead?

Vestiges of the Hallowing is an interactive fantasy game written in Twine and published on itch.io. The game is heavily character driven, with a focus on character interaction and interpersonal relationships.

The DEMO currently goes up to Chapter 2, standing at 38k words (without code).

play as male, female, or nonbinary; cis or trans

customize your appearance, skillset, and personality

romance any (or none) of the 6 potential love interests (2 male, 2 female, 2 nonbinary) without any gender restrictions

join a guild, investigate the murders in the city, and uncover a secret or two (or ten)

explore the Archives in the city and find out more about the Vestiges and your...unique situation

the Companion

A member of the Greyhounds guild your sister talked into vouching for you. Eager to help and friendly with everyone, but when the spotlight is off him, that spark in his eye dies out. Is he really as relaxed and easygoing as he tries to appear? Appearance: Lanky and of average height, with tan skin and big round chocolate brown eyes framed by short fluffy hair of the same colour that falls in messy waves, encircling his face.

the Journalist

A journalist working for a local newspaper called The Meridian. Resourceful and naturally charismatic, she has a way with people that seems almost effortless. Persistent in the pursuit of the truth almost to the point of recklessness, how far is she willing to go to achieve her goals? Appearance: Tall and lean, with rich brown skin and hazel eyes with prominent specks of green. Her long black hair falls down her shoulders in big curls.

the Archivist

An archivist of the Order of Erudition. Poised and perfectly cordial at first glance, though anyone who has crossed their path would say it's all a front, concealing their razor sharp wit and heartless disposition. Seemingly always in the know about everything, with just the right words to say, one can't help but wonder what goes on behind that calculating gaze? Appearance: Lithe and on the taller side, with olive skin and dark, midnight blue monolid eyes. Their silky black hair falls in a fringe over one side of their face and reaches a little past their shoulders.

the Renegade

A mysterious stranger that appears to be living full-time in a tavern. Bitter and asocial, with only a stray dog as company, he refuses to get involved in anything, yet seems suspiciously connected to the happenings in the city. It's clear he's hiding something, but what? Appearance: Tall and athletic, with fair, freckled skin and forest green eyes. His fiery auburn hair is shaved on the sides, while the rest is left short and unruly.

the Investigator

One of the two agents sent by the City Council to investigate the murders. Soft-spoken and level-headed, with a keen eye for details and an even keener mind, their forte is obtaining information and interpreting it. Though it's obvious they're devoted to the task, something else draws their attention away from it; what could be so important? Appearance: Lean and on the shorter side, with pale skin and sandy blonde hair that falls in a fringe over their dark grey eyes.

the Enforcer

Second of the two agents sent by the City Council. Assertive and ambitious, with an unorthodox approach to solving problems, her skill with a sword and quick reflexes make her an invaluable asset. Driven, but not too concerned about her task nor the goings on in the city; is there something else that holds her interest? Appearance: Toned and of average height, with fair skin and icy blue eyes framed by bangs of sleek platinum blonde hair that, when loose, reaches the small of her back.

DEMO | KO-FI | ASKBOX | PATREON

[socknerd]

So

There are the obvious reasons to have called the cavaliers in The Locked Tomb that - their weaponry, social standing, function as a support of the Emperor, their attitude, etc.

And then there's also this:

"Many bastion forts also feature cavaliers, which are raised secondary structures based entirely inside the primary structure." (from the Wikipedia page on bastion forts)

"A cavalier is a fortification which is built within a larger fortification, and which is higher than the rest of the work. It usually consists of a raised platform within a fort or bastion, so as to be able to fire over the main parapet without interfering with the fire of the latter." (from the Wikipedia page on fort cavaliers)

...

So, a cavalier is an internal defensive structure, able to provide fire to supplement the primary or in cases where the primary cannot, huh? Sounds familiar.

Gotta say, was not expecting to get TLT feels in my Wikipedia trawl.

[ranticore]

actually it is funny to think about some travelling falconer wandering around with a king harpy who is 100% most definitely the one running the show, who thinks the falconer is like. a fun accessory to show off to others/a mouthpiece to communicate through.

i should explain more about village vs travelling falconers in the ama plains region but the gist is that large villages are usually very wealthy and very well-defended because otherwise they would not exist. crawling beasts are drawn to high population density after all - towns are rare and more like fortresses than what you're likely imagining

consider the bastion fort as a model for what a large ama town might look like (in a less temperate climate):

in some of the larger ones, the 'moat' is actually a continuous firepit which provides passive defence through the night, but the upkeep is insanely costly

anyway the towns here need defending nightly. there are constant waves of enemies it's like the most boring level of a video game, 100% of the time, 365 days a year. those in charge of the town's defence are very selective with their harpies and falconers. the harpies usually breed in the town with occasional input from wild-sourced eggs to keep bloodlines good. the falconers are either former travelling falconers with high accolades looking to settle down, or trained from a very young age in the mews. they're extremely elitist about their falconry techniques and training methods.

for small settlements, they can't afford their own dedicated defence. the resources to supply a harpy flock would be very intensive. that's where we get monster tamers like ambrose who are, for the most part, charlatans who promise they can defend a town with their barely-socialised monsters. travelling falconers fall into this category - it's usually one guy and one harpy who may or may not have been kidnapped as an egg, travelling around and offering budget defence against crawling beasties. falconers are thought to be a little more trustworthy than most because there is the possibility of promotion - if they make a name for themselves and do well, they could be offered a position in a town mews which is by all accounts a cushy job.

but their lives otherwise are very rough. long hours on the road in between spread-out population centres, just yourself and the harpy you probably love and trust but also continuously neglect.

[tragedy-of-commons]

kuras x reader. wc ≤ 1k.

You could kill him right now.

That thought to most, including the subject of your gaze, is no doubt concerning. However, around these parts, the modus operandi of every drunkard, street performer, Bloodhound or Monster is a resounding kill or be killed. 

The fabled Dr. Kuras of Lowtown doesn’t snore. What else would you expect? The pinnacle of propriety, the man mounted upon his high horse (that still stoops low enough to extend a helping hand), the magnanimous genius at rest. Thick eyelashes graze the apples of his cheeks, broad shoulders normally drawn taut now lowered with the rise and fall of his chest.

Your second thought cuts through all rationality: He shouldn’t be that pretty.

…well, you suppose that’s not all that irrational. Being easy on the eyes around these parts can be disarming; it can earn you a place to stay for the night, salacious stares, and most importantly, a favorable perception among shallow people. For you, Kuras falls in the middle. His character doesn’t disarm you, it instead makes your hackles raise - but just enough to prevent you from gutting him.

Such a stupid predicament. 

It isn’t like him to not be on his feet. He’s always ushering patients in and out, acting only mildly offended when offered payment, before conducting his own personal business. This is alluded to by noncommittal anecdotes or pure, direct confrontation if you catch him in the act.

(Nothing incriminating, of course; Kuras is not a criminal. People-watching, conversation with an odd acquaintance here or there, playing coy with Senobium alumni that still beg for his insight. All legal and a far-cry from what he thinks is wrong.)

Everyone seems to be in majority agreement that Dr. Kuras must be good. There will always be distrusting, twice-shy folks like you, but he’s practically the legs that the injured and ill stand on so confidently. He’s inclined to prove all of his detractors wrong while still keeping them at arm's length. 

Having said that, what the hell is going on?

Napping in one of his chairs, slumped against the backrest with you visiting, is not arm’s length behavior. It’s too close, too trusting, and it makes you sick. And not in the way that can be remedied, either! 

You could kill him right now, but you won’t. The stubborn part of you reasons that it’s broad daylight outside, anyone could come knocking - but your mature counterpart singsongs that it’s because you have a huge, hulking crush! What a childish word used to downplay your cautious intrigue--

Kuras stirs. Right.

You’re not sure what his motivations were, inviting you back here. Running into one another at a grubby food vendor, your first instinct was to book it - but of course he’d seen you and called out your name with a warm timbre to his voice, parting the crowd with his presence alone. Never let it be said that you didn’t try to deny Dr. Kuras.

But he’d said something about wanting you to test some kind of new treatment. You’re an interesting patient, plus you’d do quite well for such short notice. I’d appreciate it greatly.

Then you were following him back on familiar cobbles, shadowed by his almost Herculean height. The new treatment wasn’t anything to write home about - ointment, experimental. In Eridia, the last bastion of humanity, you’d almost expected something more magical in nature. Serves you right for assuming, because even after the trial run, you found yourself locked into a battle of wits with the doctor himself.

Chess is not your forte, and the abandoned board reflects that nicely. Kuras almost has you in check, playing white (resembling that pristine coat) with you playing black. You’d clocked the timer to ask for some fresh air, contemplating your life decisions as it were, before stepping outside. It was a short reprieve, must’ve been only ten minutes or so.

Returning from your recess, you were met with a very sleepy Dr. Kuras.

Loathe as you are to care, that can’t be comfortable. How tired must he be, to fall into slumber, completely at your behest, likely causing mild damage to his posture? The light filtering through the raised windows above the sanitation station and various supplies illuminates more of his visage as the sun sinks lower into the sky.

You take your seat, owlishly staring at him like one would a jarred specimen. Dr. Kuras looks more exhausted the closer you scrutinize his condition - it’s easier now that you’re free of a piercing but sincere amber gaze - diligently spotting the telltale dark circles and chapped lips.

…and to think he scolds patients for the negligence of their health. What a guy. You want to severely maim him as a little treat. He doesn’t surrender many of his secrets as peace offerings, but this is pretty close; your whirlwind of thoughts are dominated by top notes of rubbing alcohol and herbs, giving way to bittersweet regret and something surely unattainable.

In Eridia, if you don’t have something, you’ll perish chasing it.

With that in mind, you still stick around a bit longer. It’s a slow day, the doctor is asleep at your mercy, and you scramble the dormant pawns and queens and rooks around to ensure your victory. When Kuras wakes, he’ll be left at a loss.

(You will be as well, considering you’ll be bereft of company, but that should not sting as much as it does. No one is ever as they seem, and no companionship is ever permanent.)

Even so, you toss a thin sheet over his lap after ripping it off one of the nearby cots. It’s flimsy, frivolous, and his coat provides more protection from the cold, but you do it all the same.

Kuras does not so much as stir as you slip out into the street, instead opening his eyes fully without a hint of bleariness as the sidedoor clicks shut. It’s as if he’d never been asleep at all. Swallowing, the doctor’s gaze falls to his lap, pinching the thin sheet with deft fingers. 

“No one is ever as they seem,” he echoes similarly, aloud to no one but himself.

[jurakan]

Fun Facts that could be mine, you say? I'm demanding a refund if it isn't as fun as the advertisement seemed to make it...

No pressure, huh?

Alright, then, go big or go home, I guess. Today You Learned about an architectural conspiracy theory.

Star forts!

Or bastion forts, as Wikipedia calls them.

So if you've looked at fortresses throughout history, you may notice that there came a point in which Europeans started building fortresses like this, instead of like standard castles with rectangular or circular walls. The change was the advent of gunpowder, or rather, the wide usage of gunpowder on the battlefield and in sieges. See, if you're defending a fort, and someone comes with cannons... well, they can blow the wall apart quite easily. You can also try planting explosives at the base of the walls.

Walls like this, which were thicker and lower, allowed you to have less of a target, a more difficult wall to blast through, and gave your defenders a chance to fire down at people who walked up to the wall in a way that you can't do if you don't have a good angle on them.

Or something. I don't know, I'm not a tactician. Anyway there a butt-ton of these around the world. They fell out of favor as gunpowder weapons evolved, so they became obsolete. That's not the wild part. The absolutely wild part is that there are people who have conspiracy theories about these things.

So as pointed out in this article, there's a website called starforts.org, which claims that these fortresses are not, as they appear to be, structures built for gunpowder warfare, but are actually the remains of a long-lost civilization that spanned the globe before recorded history.

I promise that I am not making this up.

The claims are things that are obviously nonsense--that these somehow harness electricity somehow to make them ancient power generators that we've somehow forgotten how to turn on, or that they're used to transport people around the globe. These whackjobs insist that Europeans didn't build these--they found them out there in the wild, or something, and built over them to disguise how old they really are. There's one assertion that they're actually grown like living organisms rather than built like... buildings.

[Ohmygoshweareadoomedspecies]

Obviously, no, this is bunk. No, it's more than bunk, it's remarkably stupid. We have records of these forts being built. You can look up why they were built the way they were! Heck, you can visit them and see their foundations and walls and see that they're clearly not organic, or ancient, or power generators, or whatever!

They look really cool, though.

[paulpingminho]

[vacantgodling]

hey, it's btaf's first birthday, so i'm releasing part of draft 3 in celebration. for those who are unaware of how i'm writing this wip right now, each stage of the process is broken down into multiple 'drafts', with draft 3 being the first one where i am actually writing the first round of prose. it is a bit messy, inconsistent, and not fully historically sound (that's what drafts 4 & 5 will eventually be for) but my goal for now is to set the mood, tone, and add more dialogue, as well as once again expand on the previous two drafts! this isn't the entirety of act 1 (i still have so much more to write) but i figured i would give out a little sneak peak to gague reaction, vibes, and as a little thank you to everyone who's been on the journey so far with me as i find my way through what will be an eventual behemoth of a novel <3 no tw's apply (yet), just enjoy that sweet sweet long pondered over prose! for those who come across this while scrolling, welcome! you can find a summary of btaf here -> (x). without further ado though:

ACT I: THE HOUSE OF DEAR EDUARD

Casavantes Gaztelura, Basque Countryside — August 14th, 1811

The cruelest and craftiest of all the Devil’s handiwork—darkness—had descended upon and laid waste to the countryside. 

Beneath the canopy of towering conifers, thunder cracked; its bull-whip baritone lashing out against the blackened sky. Lightning, its more agile sister, leapt up from her tenuous slumber to dance between the thick cover of clouds that stretched wide across the haloed firmament above. 

The air of this region was impossibly stuffy and hot—linen stuck to the breast and strangled the throat if one’s buttons were too tightly closed. It was the common fashion to leave shirts open and hanging about the trousers or down the shoulders, at least, if there was no one about to witness it—so your nakedness could not bear sin and affront God. Yet, the slick stick of sweat was the least of the concerns of the travelers in the small caravan that was making its way north along a long forgotten tread. The former inhabitants of this land had carved this place to their desire and the faded path cut through the remnants of ruins on either side of its muddied walk. It was easy to imagine that many centuries before the present time—the seventh month of the good year of the Lord, 1811—that armies marched through these parts; perhaps to confront a disgruntled warmongering lord, or, perhaps a bishop traveling from a distant, far off land to christen a newborn babe of a powerful house. But none of the power and prestige of this land was left here. What ought to have been forts and bastions were crumbling and abandoned; weathered and withered away to time immemorial; their true purpose and nature lost to Antiquity. 

So too did their caravan look out of place in this dreary countryside; no trunks or provisions did they carry in the back of their covered carriage. No food or wine did they gnaw upon, though it could be argued they were not keen to have it moistened by something other than the saliva of their mouths, as a steady rain beat down upon them borne of the battle raging above. No weapons did they carry—never mind the rumors of bandits that crawled through the area like a particular infestation of gnats or fleas—nothing else on their persons except for the clothes on their back. It was hard to imagine what trials they may have faced, from wherever they had been wandering before they ended up in this evil part of the Basque. 

Two travelers there were: countenance grim between them, and not a single word spoken. As the thunder and lightning above them danced and cackled amongst itself; they were silent as church-mice, or recently scolded children who had nothing more to say, lest they be popped once again in the mouth. 

The person holding the leading mare’s reins—with youthful, elegant fingers, befit of a pianoforte player—was a woman of an olive complexion, which appeared darker by the deepness of the night that entrenched them. Her nose sat proudly and regally at the center of her face, with an elegant slope; a nose fit for royalty, her attire a complement of it: a fitted men’s riding frock of a thick tweed was affixed about her torso, shielding her from the worst of the elements. Glimmering, solid gold buttons shone in the darkened night; a symbol of her class, perhaps, but they hardly shone as brightly as something new, caked with days old mud or debris from the long journey. The shirt beneath her jacket was partially undone and the ties that keep it shut laid brazenly across the planes of her chest; such a display scandalous for a woman of any age, but especially for one at the age where men would turn their gaze down and betray God’s commandments to liken upon the soft curvature of supple skin and imagine how it would feel beneath their palm. Little flecks of moles dotted her bosom, and up to her slender neck; it would be worth the assumption that these little constellations follow her entire physique, but such observation of her lower form was obstructed by a heavy woolen skirt, which was bogged down only just by the rain. It was hard to make out any designs or patterns of it, but what little could be observed was that its hem, the same as the soles of her riding boots, was caked in the same mud that trampled ‘neath the mare that mushed their caravan. Her dark eyes glimmered eerily in the dark with another pass of lightning and she turned them to glance upon the passenger astride her, situated just to her left in their small charge. Close enough they were to touch but there was some invisible barrier there, in the scant space that their shoulders occupied, they dare not brush. Her shoulders were sloped, as her nose; regal and relaxed in her stature in a state of unbotheredness. Her companion’s however; were bunched. 

The man beside her was of an even darker complexion than she; rich, black skin that hid him in plain sight among the shrouds of darkened twilight. His nose was wide, his shoulders, wider, and his lips were plush; near feminine as were the dark lashes that framed his eyes, and fluttered in the wayward breeze like an angry shadow shivering in the backdrop of a plain wall. Water clung to the man and his clothes, drenching him to the bone and allowing the chill to settle deep into every seam and stitch he bore. It worked it's unsettling magic on his skin, it gleamed ‘neath the moon as it brushed it with its watchful gaze. These same droplets stood to attention across the kinky waves that fell loosely into his eyes and that gently cupped his face. His hair was long overdue for a haircut and stringy at the ends; rarely any a tempered folk would allow their tresses to see such a manner of unruliness; especially for those of the same hair texture as he, but he wasn’t tempered; couldn’t be. Some invisible tension gripped him taught; the space he could wriggle away from it was as thin as the space between himself and the caravan driver; as thin as the sliver of moon that cut through the night and shone upon his dark eyes; eyes dark as the abyss, and all the emotions that man could comprehend swallowed within them—the ones that lay repressed, deep within the cavity of the soul, and so too the ones that lay unabashedly bare, even if one ought to hide them. It was hard to tell if the wetness of the rain was what created the thin tracks of lighter skin between the mud that stuck to his cheeks, or if it were tears that even now glimmered unshed in the uneven lighting of midnight. Where the woman’s hands cradled the reins limply, only to guide the mare hence; the man’s hands gripped tightly into his dingy white trousers, of a similar kind and make befitted to those who’d serviced the great Napoleon, Emperor of Europe in his many battles of glory and soon, lore. Where his fingers breached the fabric it had begun to hole and fray. The jacket he wore was of a similar kind, with more holes and wear besides. Further unsettling was the dried and caked blood that clung to it, as a child clings to their mother. Both the jacket and the trousers seemed hardly fit to wear on any person, let alone one as large as the man who sat astride the elegant lady at the reins. It hardly contained him, yet also seemed to be the only thing preventing him from fully cascading apart.

As unlikely a pair they were, as thunder was to lightning, they sat amongst their own company; more silent than the unmarked graves they passed, and more weary than the dead who kept them.

After an undetermined passage of time, the caravan’s path was halted by a barrier, wrought with stones and iron, and held up only by what remained strong through passes of erosion and time. It was latched upon its outer side by a great bar; which should seem odd to ordinary folk. A gate’s purpose should be to protect and hold fast sanctuary of the occupants behind its grandeur, for the sake and protection of them thereof; not to keep them in. What horrors should the traveler’s find behind such a gate? This strange sight did not perturb either of them; though it was the woman who exited the carriage first. She hopped down into the deep mud, entrenching the hem of her woolen skirt into it as she sunk down into the moist, softened earth. She paid this no matter, then trudged through its wet, grabbing hands until she reached the iron-wrought gate. It towered over her—and she was a woman of stature herself. Still, she rolled back the sleeves of her coat and grasped hold of the iron bar with one hand. The metal groaned beneath her dexterous fingers; leaving a noticeable indenture and with ease, she swung the bar up and open. It crashed loudly to the other side of the gate from whence it was swung, and with her hand, she gently pushed the iron gate open, as though it were no heavier than a feather. It creaked on its age-old hinges but slowly gave way, and once the woman was satisfied with the opening she’d made, she returned and remounted the caravan seat next to her companion, who seemed just as unmoving as the statues and rubble around them.

She was the first to break the heavy quiet of the night, and the precursor to her voice was a tight lipped gesture with her lips, that in any ordinary situation ought to have been a smile. It was hard to tell if it were; or if it was a barely disguised grimace. 

“We’re almost there now, Sjaak.” She said softly. Sjaak did not reply, and when met with his silence, the woman sighed, taking hold of the reins once again. She flicked them gently and the mare pulling the caravan began to walk once more. She did not bother getting out to close the iron gate behind her, leaving them exposed to whatever else lurked in the pitch darkness behind them. 

A large, foreboding manor revealed itself to view; only visible perhaps, by the moonlight which finally made its bleak appeal through the stormy night sky; a spotlight on an elegant, if crumbling, time capsule of old. Gothic in style were its high and lofty ramparts, yet the many roofs of the structure were humble slopes of traditional Spanish terracotta, and the façade a distinct pattern of Isabelline plateresque; delicate baubles beaded in intricate patterns framed the balconies of darkened rooms, further obscured by the darkness of the entrenching night, their appearance enunciated by high pointed arches and hand crafted, spiraling rails that sought to bereft the living of an untimely demise. The central-most point of the manor, hidden acutely behind a large fountain of braying horses with one of their heads lobbed clean off and nowhere to be seen amongst the cobbled court, was a large wood and brass door, deep-set into the façade and surrounded on three sides by carved stone. In the usual style, perhaps heralds would be depicted, denoting a particular clan or class, or on cathedrals, scenes of the Bible or the holy works, such as that of Christ. But here there was no such enchantment. The stone winding the door was carved in Arabic, unusual for the time that this structure was hence erected, and a script that neither traveler seemed to heed or recognize. If they had, perhaps they would have read BEWARE, A TOMB OF SORROWS LIES HERE.

She did not bring them directly to the entrance and instead, guided the mare gently around the outside edge of the fountain and onto a beaten off path, trenched in mud, moistened from the rain still cascading around them. It was a temporary stable house, until a valet could come and guide the caravans and their steeds to a well-equipped carriage house and was hidden behind one of the large towers. Vines draped and wound over the archways of the structure. The roof groaned beneath the weight of water that had pooled in its bows, dripping and pooling into several buckets that were scattered around to catch the waves of the worst areas; rusted, but still usable. The woman dismounted from the caravan, then made her way to the other side. She stopped first, to unhook the mare from the caravan, whispering to it a few words of soft praise and rooted around in the large pockets of her frock for a few grains, which she then fed to the sweet beast. The mare accepted them with a whinny of pleasure, then lowered its neck to allow the woman to unhook the bit and bridle from round its great neck. 

Once this was done, she continued on her path until she stood just two steps down from where the man, Sjaak, was still sitting in place. Sheltered from the light of the moon, it should’ve been too dark to apprehend his position, but clear as day, the woman reached out to gently jostle his knee. This roused him. He sat up straight with a small start. 

“Have… have we arrived?” His voice creaked, common from lack of usage—as surely the two of them were quiet on their journey for quite some time—and in the dark, the woman nodded. 

“Do you think you can stand to see her?” 

A wind howled through the night just outside of the temporary shelter, rattling the handles of the rusted buckets, ruffling the needles of the conifers surrounding them, and seeped deeply into the countenance of Sjaak who jumped again, grabbing suddenly hold of the carriage with ashen knuckles—so tightly that the wood of the caravan creaked under his fingers, splintering. 

“It was only the wind.” The woman soothed. She squeezed Sjaak’s knee. “I do not wish to leave you out in the cold.” 

The woman gently took hold of Sjaak’s hand, prying it from its iron grip, as easily as she’d thrown the iron bar on the gateway only moments before. On shaking knees, Sjaak descended from the caravan, landing with an ungraceful thump by the woman’s side. Laws of propriety should have he lead her down from the carriage, but she did not seem to pay this any mind, as her companion still looked as though he’d chanced the sight of a ghost.

“We did not come all this way for my fright to claim the better part of me.” Sjaak said this, mostly to himself. He heaved in a large breath, then exhaled mightily, sending the wind back from whence it came. He turned his head to regard the woman, squeezing her hand for a long moment, then he released it. Aloud, he continued;

“I have longed to see her for many years—to learn what has become of her. Is she still as beautiful as I recall? As mirthful as a newborn fawn and as gentle as a babbling stream? Does her laughter still shame the cathedral bells, is her smile still sublime as a summer evening’s glow? Such were the thoughts I have thus pondered; from the evergreen fields of the Netherlands, that which she and I once called home, to the battlefields that have spirited me far hence. ‘Ere these dark times you detailed came to pass, I should have rushed upon the steps of this grand estate, ran through any foyer or obstacle, and thrown myself at her beautiful, unblemished feet to kiss them and repent my long absence.” He paused, a howl once again piercing the night. His expression darkened.

“... But as such times have… I hardly know if I am prepared to behold her in her current visage—should it truly be as horrible as you say.”

“What troubles you will not be put to rest when I guide you to her.” The woman’s voice was but a flickering candle’s flame. “I fear it could be even worse than either you or I imagine—as it has been near a year since I have laid eyes upon her myself.” Still, she set her path forward, and with little other option, Sjaak tarried for a moment, then slowly followed behind. 

They made their way across the worn cobbled path, back to the grand fountain and entrance to the manor, climbing its formidable steps one by one. They stopped before the threshold together, shoulder to shoulder as they were in their caravan and after a long stretch of a moment, the woman squared her shoulders then reached for the handle of the great brass door, grasping it with a only minute tremble of her palm. Then, she heaved; drawing the door back towards her. A baritone roar bellowed, cleaving the sounds of the storm above them in two. Stone squealed and metal groaned joining together as one echoing force to draw the formidable bowels of the deepest abysses of Hell opened before them. An overwhelming aura of dread coated them each in a layer of terror-laced tar; feathering them with the designs and marking them with premonitions of some long forgotten evil that should never have been released.

“Ongi Etorri.” A voice slithers from within. “Casavantes Gaztelura.”

“Come.” The woman utters, and it is forced. “To your Biscella, within.”

[best-head]

Max had been.. interesting, to him, when he was coming up in the Cog. If anyone had ever asked him, he had always, very seriously, said it was because Fortress Maximus was an up and coming guard employed, and that Prowl was making certain that he would last.

..notably, questions stopped coming, after that answer.

Maximus was good at what he did- smart, too. Learned quickly, and took to his job with a sort of seriousness Prowl could appreciate. And Prowl had no interest in hiding that he was watching Fortress Maximus; why should he, when the Cog was his territory? And so he would stand watch while Max trained, and then give him a singular nod and leave by the end of it.

And then everything had gone to hell like Nine of Twelve said it would, and he'd bundled everyone he could up and gotten them out of harm's way.

Not that Prowl stayed out of harm's way, of course, there were things to do, clean up to manage.

And.. Fortress Maximus to run into, again, apparently.

Prowl wanders closer, optic critical as he glances him over, as though he's looking for something, before coming to a pause just in front of him, and resting the tips of his left servo's digits just on Maximus' chassis.

{ @best-head } S T A R E.

{ @best-head }

Well, fuck.

Max knew in the abstract that some of the… strange brood Nine had amassed over the years was still around. All of the Council had their illegitimate bastards and alt-exempt favorites and lovers and pets, for all they pretended to be above that sort of thing, and some of them ended up better off in the aftermath than others. It was just the way things shook out. After all, he’d survived the Cog getting knocked out of the sky, and he’d hardly deserved that kind of luck.

It’s kind of another thing to look down and be directly confronted by Nine of Twelve’s little shadow lurking just beyond the doorway.

Not so little anymore, though Prowl just barely clears his hip, if Fort Max had to take a guess. That pinched little face is still the same, though he was missing an optic, now…

“Uh,” Max fumbles, uncertain what he should say. “Am I… in the way?”