#because that's how you get the white ghost armour

[mockerycrow]

HELLO the biggest congrats on 4k, you absolutely deserve that and so many more!!!

Could I see a female!reader x Ghost with the prompt:“I had a nightmare . . . can I stay with you tonight?”

TY and yet again, congratulations 🤍🤍🤍

REASSURANCE (Ghost x Fem!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION

authors note; thank you so much anon <3 i hope you enjoy!

[WARNINGS; not proofread (like most of my fics), silent panic attack + light dissociation, implied you’ve never seen his face, hurt/comfort.]

You know Ghost has nightmares—everyone knows Ghost has nightmares. No one really wants to talk about it because he doesn’t, but everyone has seen the man up at ungodly hours of the night, or perhaps beating the absolute shit out of a punching bag at the on-base gym.

No one except for Price knows what Ghost’s been through, but no one really questions him. It’s unrealistic to think Ghost is the only one waking up due to their dreams—even Price does on the occasion. What Ghost doesn’t do is ask for help.

You had a weird gut feeling about tonight; you weren’t really restless, but you weren’t tired. Every time you laid down to try to get some sleep, your eyelids would slowly open back up. You tried multiple methods; white noise, thinking about nothing, thinking about a story, taking a sleep remedy—nothing.

You had a weird tightness in your stomach that you couldn’t shake. It’s no big deal, you’ve had several nights like this. Nights where you stay up, half expecting something to happen. You aren’t sure if its the military-esque anxiety flaring up, expecting an attack of some sort or if it’s just one of those nights.

You’re laying in bed, trying to think of what you have to do tomorrow. Might as well try to think of something useful, right? Let’s see, you have to do morning training and then you have to eat, brief with price, it’s your turn to help the armourer—the weapons master, you like to say to piss them off—and you also have to do paperwork.

A very tame evening, you think, avoiding the Q word everyone oh so desperately hates; including yourself. Because the second you say it, you’re going to be called by Laswell, or General Shepherd, or some other CIA federal agent bureaucrat about some fucking thing that’s happening in the god forsaken world that only, and only task force 141 can handle—

—Someone knocks on your door, breaking your disorganized thoughts. Your eyebrows furrow; no one should be up, maybe Price is, or Ghost. Did you forget some paperwork? You sit up, slip your slides on your feet, and you walk to the door. You unlock the door and open it, wincing from the bright light of the hallway pouring in, and you’re met with the large figure of Ghost.

You blink, unsurprised. “Hey.” You utter. “Did I wake you?” God, Ghost sounds rough. It sounds like he garbled glass—er, maybe that isn’t the nicest way to describe one of your superiors voices right now. It’s clear he just woke up. You shake your head in response, stepping aside. “Here, come in. It’s bright.”

Ghost silently obeys, stepping inside of your room. You close the door and head over to your desk. You feel around in the darkness until you feel your lamp and you click a button, turning it on, illuminating the room just enough for you to see Ghost. He’s wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants with one of his black, long-sleeve compression tops to go with it.

He’s wearing a basic black balaclava without the iconic skull, but.. His eyes are different. Distant and weary, cautious—panicked almost. Your eyebrows furrow together as his broad shoulders are tense, fists clenched.

“Ghost..” You call softly. He seems far away—he needs your help. “Ghost.” You say more insistently and louder, noticing the way his chest is barely moving. “Ghost, hey, can y’hear me? You need to take a breath..” You murmur, slowly approaching him.

He’s frozen but you see how his eyes flicker towards you, taking a moment realize where he is. You offer a soft smile you always show him and you nod. “There you are, big guy. Can I touch you?” You make sure to ask because you never know; a soldier during a flashback, touching them? That can be fatal—you trust Ghost as you don’t think he would ever hurt you, but you never know a person.

It takes him a moment to nod, which makes you promptly and gently grab his wrists. You gently guide him to your bed, and you sit him down. You’re nervous—you’re about to calm him down in one of the only ways you know how to, but you’re worried about the consequences you’ll receive afterwards. Oh well, you don’t care, not when Ghost’s eyes are as unfocused as they are.

The bed dips under his weight and you gently spread his legs, standing between them. You grab his arms; they’re deadweight, but his eyes flicker some recognition, allowing you to guide his arms around your waist. You guide his head to lay against your stomach, your hands cradling his masked jaw and the back of his neck.

Ghost takes in a harsh, shuddery breath which makes you hum in approval. “There you go, Ghost. Breathe, you’re alright.” You say in a mellow manner, your thumb brushing over his masked cheek. Ghost takes in another harsh breath as his arms tighten around you. You continue to try to ground him, talking and praising him for his efforts to stay calm. You know he isn’t in the right mind, but you’re still shocked he’s allowed you to touch him for as long as you have.

Something in your gut unravels as Ghost pulls his head away ever so slightly, ripping his mask off and throws it away like it was constricting his breathing. He buries the side of his face back into your stomach, taking you by surprise. Your met with his blonde hair in the low light, your heart stuttering.

You hesitate only for a moment before you bury a hand in his hair on the back of his head, your other hand returning to his jaw, your heart hammering as you note he has stubble as well as something on his skin, like deep scar tissue.

Ghost lets out a noise which you quickly hum in response. “It’s okay, let it out.. Won’t tell anyone about this, okay?” You assure him, causing another noise to escape him, almost like a laugh. “Kinda hard t’do that when a pretty girl is comfortin’ you.” He croaks, his voice broken—both his voice and sentence making your brain short circuit. You laugh in return, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. “Shush,” You murmur. “Just relax.”

Ghost nods against your stomach, shakily exhaling. You stay like that for a while; neither of you are sure for how long, and neither of you care. You’re enjoying the rare vulnerability Ghost is displaying, and he’s enjoying the grounding touch you’re currently providing him. The silence is comforting as you comb your fingers through his hair, and you enjoy the weight of his head and his arms.

“I had a nightmare…” Ghost utters. You hold your breath as he looks up at you, and oh god, he’s hot. “..Can I stay with you tonight?” You’re mesmerized by the way his nose is curved—clearly has been broken a couple of times and wasn’t reset right—by the way his eyebrows are furrowed, his big, beautiful brown eyes.. You nearly forget to respond. “Yes,” You push out, resisting the urge to reach up and rub the tension between his brows. “Always.”

[raisindave]

[Chapter 62] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

If your drill sergeant back and basic training had seen the state in which you'd left your quarters, he'd probably have you running the mile until noon. That dress you'd spent so much time searching for lay in a shrivelled mess across the bedroom tile, a single stiletto in your bathroom, another just under your bed. To your shock, your pearl necklace was still clinging to your throat, leaving lingering pink dents from a haphazard night's rest. Last night was a blur, but precious few memories that do flicker in your waking mind make your stomach flutter. You have to get up, even if sleep-deprived muscles make their protests known with every movement. 

It's nice to know that the barracks are quiet once again, seeing as most of the exalted generals and commanders have fucked off to whatever decorated offices they'd spawned from. Although, as comforting as the architecture might be in this stunning vista, it'll never ring as comfortable. A solid sleep being a consequence of sheer exhaustion, not a peaceful state of mind. Familiar halls steered you toward the common room where you'd previously found your colleagues lounging on other mornings, so you'll likely find them there. An odd sense of self-consciousness washed over you, not quite guilt per se, but a sense of abashedness that made your eyes flicker to make sure you're stepping through this wooden threshold with all your clothes on. No lingering glances, or even a glance at all; Soap was weaving blades of long grass into twine for whatever reason, and Gaz and Price were enthralled with their soccer on the grainy screen. 

"Cricket," Price grumbled; it made you flinch. "Good morning."

"Morning," you called, rounding the corner to find Ghost seated beside Soap's weaving station at a table by the window. 

"Seeing as you're excused from training today, I thought we'd get you out in the field to compensate," his piercing blue eyes saw through your soul when he turned to look at you.

Getting out in the field. That only means one thing. It's hard to say if Ghost's words with Price mentioned your aforementioned lack of participation in the practice. It might be Ghost's way of including you in an activity that distracts your mind from your cancelled training, or maybe he's trying to punish you for abandoning your post at the gala. Or, maybe it's just as simple as Price including you in rucking because you haven't accompanied them in a while, and that's the whole of it.

"Yes, sir."

"Get kitted. We'll be out and back before the afternoon sun cooks us," he grumbled, taking another long drag of coffee from one of those white mugs. 

Unluckily for you, this time around they had no intention of stopping in a pub on this excursion. No, it's for real this time, evidenced by a single twenty-pound pack of equipment slung beside four other kits laid up against the stucco wall by Soap. Still 'babying' you, as Ghost so uncharitably put it, as their packs looked to be easily fifty pounds, not counting the layered jackets and denim pants you're expected to equip. The military-grade jeans could probably stop a bullet at the right angle, starchy and heavy, finely woven to catch serrated blades in their place. It's easy to forget how weighty this armour and steel-toed boots feel once you've got them all equipped, but that's the purpose after all. And that purpose is to make this tactical equipment feel like a second skin, teaching harsh lessons of endurance and self-discipline with every agonizing pound. Buckles and velcro pull at unusual locations, grounding themselves in the sensitive flesh of your inner elbow and thigh, even with a thick barrier separating them from your skin. Eventually, you're all kitted up, only making your teammates wait about five extra minutes, despite only needing to apply half as much equipment. 

White sunshine made your pupils burn at the change in brightness, but pushing through the strain, you could barely make out Gaz's raised hand ushering you to the mode of transport. Of course it's in one of those trucks. And not just any truck, either. It's the same fucking one from the night before. At least you were wise enough to collect all of your garments before you left, or rather, most of them, but the thought still made your blood run cold. Soap gestured for you to slip in before him, oh-so-gentlemanly using saying 'ladies first' as an excuse to give you the dreaded middle seat in the back of the vehicle. The universe seems to have an odd sense of justice though, as only seconds later, after he'd assumed his position on your flank, Gaz's seat kicking backwards stripped him of the extra legroom. Ghost sat in on your other side, effectively sealing you into a horrifyingly claustrophobia-inducing situation. A front passenger seat had been dragged forward so far that only someone like you could've been seated there, but nobody bothered to question. That's weird. 

Chilled morning steam contrasted with warm breath created the most mortifying sight. A sight that even Ghost didn't initially spot until he followed your mortified gaze. Perfect imprints of sweaty palms and dragging fingertips imprinted on glass perfectly choreographed a sinful scene. Soap was contentedly distracted enough by arguing about soccer with Price and Gaz in the front seats, seemingly insulted by his opinions being intentionally disregarded. The Englishmen have banded together in an unsteady alliance, rejecting the inputs on the sport from the resident Scot. The distraction was enough for Ghost to think on his feet, rolling down the windows to drown away the scene on the glass. Fresh air didn't hurt either, and it felt like a crisis averted. Still, the stress is enough to make you forfeit your breakfast right then and there. 

Eventually, the vehicle came to a halt, and Soap's door swung open before Price even had the opportunity to take the keys out of the damn ignition. It came with fantastic timing because the sense of surging claustrophobia was just reaching a new high. The Captain had steered your hike through a lightly wooded scape that dramatically dropped into a sheer cliff that sloped into the rocky sea below. Kicked pebbles scuttered into freefall, the ensuing splash only barely audible over churning waves, white peaks of crashing saltwater lashing at the cliff face down below. 

So long as Price is satisfied with how exhausted you are, all while bearing it with a stiff lip, he'll relent his grip and let you shed this cruel equipment. You have to look tired, but not too tired. Dirty, but not too filthy. You have to keep up, but not enough to look like your equipment isn't a significant burden. At least the view is nice, where the morning sun had a way of making the late-night mist sparkle on the lush branches of proud cypress trees. Salty air sucked away simmering heat from under your jacket, where cool air breathed across the sweet spit that pooled over your tongue as you heaved. Rucking is exhausting and mentally draining in a backward sort of way, where you're in a constant state of willing creeping thoughts of weariness to silence. 

A fluttering bird over the horizon caught your attention, soaring and drooping with sleek wings, slicing through the air and stopping on a dime with a flash of flared tailfeathers. An osprey, probably. The speed at which it tears through your vision makes it difficult to identify it beyond a blur of brown and white until it deems whatever fish it'd spotted as an unworthy cause, instead flattening angular wings to catch the calming gale. Not delicate and demure like a sweet songbird, those seem to be plentiful in this patch of birch. It seems like every other branch is dotted with a spatter of yellow feathers, contentedly harmonizing with the next branch, little beacons of sunshine in their tiny bodies. 

But a trill, slicing through the air above crashing waves and thundering footsteps, enraptured a swivelling glance from all five of you. That osprey, commanding respect. They could be described as meek when held up to the mighty eagle, but they are independent and fierce, especially in their native environment. They don't have to fight for attention or prove themselves. Their worth is effortless, natural. But you couldn't get too lost in thought because every once in a while, you'll catch the tail end of cheeky banter between Soap and Ghost that sounds more like a married couple's squawking. Soap'll push Ghost's buttons about something menial, Ghost will have some stony and grim response, and Soap will cut the tension with some intentionally obtuse quip. It's like fire and ice with those two; it's easy to forget they're both career killers. 

In your eavesdropping, you'd uncovered the trivia that Ghost sometimes plays the drums, surprising as you'd always pinged him as a bassist. Soap used to play the bagpipes, but he'd apparently never graduated beyond playing the reed and not the full bagpipe, a detail he was fiercely defensive over when Gaz pushed for more information. Price glanced back at you as if to posit the same question of preferred instruments, but your heaving gasps seemed to communicate that you don't have the breath to contribute. And the assumption was entirely founded, because your lungs were burning in your chest just by keeping up this enduring pace. 

Your wandering mind made it possible to submit to your hiking, finding the same winding trail through tall birch and cypress trees reversing before you. You'd survived another session of rucking. Though this only counts as the second, and a half, rucking outing with these guys. Even still, it's enough to make you comfortably surrender to the fact that you're not cut out to be in the Special Forces. Conversation was easy whenever you found the breath to participate. Of course, it was easy for these guys; it was more like a leisurely stroll, swatting damp branches and kicking pebbles into the turbulent sea below. It felt like everyone was just contentedly avoiding the elephant in the room. It made your skin crawl, and your skeptical eyes dart to Ghost up ahead, on the vanguard of the trail.

Just as the afternoon sun was becoming unbearable, honing in on dark equipment, the cool wind from the opened windows in the truck gave you the comfort your slippery skin was begging for. You were getting dangerously close to heat exhaustion, but you'd never admit that. And Price would never knowingly put you in a situation he didn't think you could handle. Or so you hope. The sweet smell of manufactured coolant from the air-conditioning sang through your system, breathing life into dragging joints. Just as the rest of the gang was eager to unwind tense muscles and shower, you caught Ghost on his way down the hall, glancing for company before skipping to catch up. 

"What did you tell them?" You pressed, forcing him to halt his rigid pace. 

You knew he'd know exactly what you meant. Not a peep of concern and where you'd disappeared off to in a huff after just over an hour at the gala, never to be seen again. Nobody's asked where you and Ghost slinked off to, inconveniencing the lot of them by hijacking their ride. How did they even get back? Maybe they caught a ride with Laswell, or maybe they hiked back in the damp night, suits and all. Not exactly a hero's welcome, in spite of their medals and ribbons. 

"I told them the truth," he pledged with a cold and unabashed tone. 

Your heart plunged, frigid blood crashing through your system. The truth? He told them about your time at the park? 

"And what's the truth?" You croaked, feeling your forehead crinkle in abrupt concern. 

"That you're struggling to understand why you're not getting any recognition," he replied simply, edging on a challenging tone. "I said that I explained it to you, that I gave you a pep talk, and that it won't be an issue anymore."

"And you were the wise and valiant hero that wrangled me from that ledge," you scoffed, redirected horror manifesting into creeping agitation. 

"Yes," he replied arrogantly. "And I have the trophy to prove it." 

"A trophy you plundered from another. That's very British of you," you chirped, sealing your pack shut with a satisfying zip.

"Funny," he snarled flatly. 

It took the willful command of every muscle in your body not to swing your palm to smack him, striking that snide look off his face as he looked down at you. Yet, a sneaking sliver of yourself found discomfort in his initiative. He'd taken agency of your mental health, capitalizing on it to get you out of a sticky social situation. But at the same time, it's not like you had the willpower, nor the rank, to bring up those concerns to the Captain on your own anyway. And it's not like you weren't eager to take any opportunity to conceal a sneaky link on company hours. A part of you knew that he was aware of your dilemma. You'd given your trust to him, wholeheartedly laying your soul bare. But you came out of a willful disobedience of orders scot-free. Hell, if anything, he's the one who's under the magnifying glass now, seeing as his objective was to retrieve you from fleeing the gala, a mission he'd failed. Appearances that would've been damaged were saved by charisma and probably a handful of white lies. Effectively wriggling you free of a scolding from Price or Laswell, bringing up your concerns that you'd have to silently bear otherwise to your superiors, and permitting you to selfishly imbibe in another encounter with this coworkers-with-benefits relationship. Well played, Simon. 

"Lieutenant, sergeant, pack your things. We're in the air in thirty," Laswell called in your direction, already disappearing in a flurry of steps down another connecting hallway. 

"Do you know where we're going?" you posited, glancing back over to your colleague with a sudden surge of energy. 

"Berlin," he began. "You should really start paying attention to the news."

<< Prev Chapter           Next Chapter>>

Master List

[ae-neon]

Still interested in writing something for Eris/Cresseida? What about a scene when they decide to get married? Or just anything with them

💚

"You're serious?" Cresseida cocked a white haired brow, bangled arms crossed as she angled slightly towards Eris.

He leaned against a marble pillar, tall, pale skinned, bright haired, tightly wrapped in burgundy clothing. A contrast to her own dark skin, white hair and vibrant cerulean slip of a silk dress.

She half expected him to shrug, he always played close enough to the edge to back out of the game. But he turned to her, golden eyed and...earnest.

Cresseida shifted on her feet, "You really are serious." The repercussions were immense, both in their appeal and in their risk.

A marriage between them would cross a line drawn as much in blood as it was on a map. Amarantha had forbade inter-court marriages for just this reason. And before her, the families had found themselves too much at odds, locked in unending power struggles.

But now Rhysand, with three Made Fae at his back, moved to impose his will over all of Prythian. And Lucien wrestled with Day and Autumn in his blood.

Everything had changed, an alliance between the seasonal courts might save them but Winter-

"Don't."

Cresseida pulled herself from the board in her mind and met the Autumn Prince's golden gaze, finding again that strange sincerity. "This isn't something to be taken lightly, Eris."

"No, it's not." He agreed, taking his hand from his pocket and closed the gap between them; reaching for her, the calloused pad of this thumb ghosted over the wrinkled space between her brows. "Marriage is more than an alliance. I already know what the Princess of Adriata thinks, I want to know what you think."

Her walls were a second skin, existing without thought. They protected her heart as much as they did her people. Cresseida had been untrusting of even Tarquin at first. And then when her brother had left, abandoned his duty...and her, for them...

So how now had she come to trust Eris Vanserra, to let her muscles ease and her eyes reflect the uncertainty and hope she felt inside?

"Where would we even live?" Her own words surprised her and she saw his face quirk, an almost laugh.

"I'd build you a palace on the border if you like. A west wing in Summer and east in Autumn."

"Realistically, we'd need to establish an integrated household for that, including an army and while I trust your experience-"

The brush of his lips against hers stole the breath from her lungs, killed the words on her lips and ignited a fire in her gut.

They'd tiptoed around this. Flirted and fought with their words, danced so close they shared breath but never...

She tilted her face, angled for another kiss and almost moaned when he pulled her close and gave her everything she'd wanted and so much more.

She pulled back with a grin tugging at her lips as he chased her mouth, "I thought you wanted to know what I think."

"I do," his eyes still lingered on her mouth for a second before they met hers. She fought a smirk and signalled for him to continue.

"You think a palace on the border is perfect for centralising power and that consolidating our armies will help to secure Spring's border too." A frown tugged at her lips and his gaze dipped to them once more before he continued, "You think that because you can't help it. You're the Princess. You can't escape that part of yourself anymore than I can. Which is why you trust me to think the same. To work with you for the benefits. And you're right... But you also know that's not the only reason I asked."

She did know. She felt it as well as he did. Saw her chance at something more with him. Cresseida once again put away the armour of the Princess, let her heart be vulnerable and trusted Eris Vanserra, "Then you already know my answer."

Eris smiled and kissed her again.

*

CRESSERIS!!!!!

Thank you for this ask ☺️

[zero-cycle]

In death's eyes

They say beware the pale eyes.

In their worlds, pale means death. Pale is the colour of the thing that haunts their nightmares and ghost stories. Pale eyes appear in fairy tales and stories you tell little children to get them to behave. Pale is the colour of things not being quite right in the way that signals danger. Pale eyes haunt empty forests and quiet nights. Pale is the colour of the silent death that will appear behind you.

Pale is the colour of no return because once the player with the pale eyes is in your world, you will never be able to come back.

They say beware the pale eyes.

They do not know that they should fear all of them.

Grian’s eyes are normal. Really, there’s nothing more normal than his eyes. Just look at Scar, if you want an example of weird eyes. Or have you seen Mumbo’s silly mustache? Has anyone shown you Impulse’s latest shop building obsession by the way? You should really check it out, it’s as crazy as always. Did you hear he managed to become a revolutionary? Yeah, really, Impulse. It’s quite strange.

Grian’s eyes are normal and his wings are normal and everything about him is normal. He’s just a builder. He makes things and he’s bad at fighting (except sometimes) and his buildings are incredibly ordinary compared to Mumbo who makes living things out of blocks (except… sometimes). He’s fast and a good flier but it’s just practice and growing up with wings and he likes the colour purple (except he does not).

His eyes are normal.

Except when people threaten the server that gave him a home, gave him everything, they glow purple.

Grian does not like to talk about his powers. He wants to create silly things and not build the back of his castles and prank Mumbo until the other starts to chase him with end crystals again. But sometimes, the world does not let him and he will not let this life be destroyed again. He worked too hard for it.

People say pale white is the colour of death. For Grian it is the purple he glows with when he rips enemies apart as easy as Xisuma rewires a small bit of code.

Eret’s eyes are the colour of death. It tends to mislead people.

They know that the sunglasses are probably the only reason they’re still alive. People generally only have two reactions to their eyes: One of them is attacking and the other is screaming and the second one usually ends in everyone trying to kill them too. So they wear sunglasses all day every day and make sure to be extra helpful and share their building tricks and to never stay anywhere long enough so people can question.

Dream SMP is the exception. On Dream SMP, people have learned one crucial truth about Eret, the player with Herobrine’s eyes: It is not their eyes that are the death bringer.

Eret can do that well enough on their own.

L’Manberg bleeds for that discovery and Eret only feels a twinge of regret amidst the overwhelming feeling of triumph.

Scott was born with the bluest eyes any baby has ever had and he learned early to hide them. If you make blue your entire aesthetic, if you cover yourself in it and dye your hair to match and make sure to never ever appear weird, people just think you’re really committed to the bit.

And who are they to judge him for that?

They do not know of the way his eyes glow when he raises walls of ice around his kingdom to protect his people. They do not know how he shapes ice into weapons and the blue on him into armour. They do not know that they should not fear the slow death in the white of snow but instead the fury of turquoise power coming over them.

They will learn, in time, but it might be too late.

Feinberg meets Scott Smajor on the battlefield and they have the same shade of blue eyes.

Fein’s own eyes are cyan, normally, matching his jacket and helmet. But when he fights, he can feel the Universe reaching out and nudging and darkening the shades of power he can send out, the lightning crackling around his fists. When he meets Scott Smajor in the middle of a storm made of frozen crystals, their eyes are nearly the same shade and Fein has to spend a minute to wrangle back his control from his own surprise.

He has met people with strange eye colours before. He’s heard about how pale white is the colour of death.

He never thought he’d meet somebody who would prove that statement as wrong as he does.

Rad’s eyes are every colour in the world.

Sometimes they’re green, like the pine needles on the trees she’s spent hours running past, always in the hope that this run, she’ll be fast enough.

Sometimes they’re a pale pink, like concrete on village houses that she has torn apart more times than she can count.

Sometimes they’re red like the fire in the nether or orange like the lava burning her very soul.

Sometimes they’re pale yellow like the endstone crumbling to dust under her fingers as she gets ripped away for being too slow.

Sometimes they’re black as the void, as obsidian, as the dragon.

As the end of all things.

People say that pale is the colour of death.

Raddles knows that death does not have one colour.

Death is inevitable. Death is never the same. Death is running, again and again and again, hoping that one day you will be fast enough in a world where the goalposts are also running.

Illumina’s eyes are never remembered.

People remember the sword. People remember the black shape making seemingly impossible jumps. People remember the dragon exploding into a wave of purple and new numbers carving themselves into the bedrock of the end fountain. People remember the mask, the ender pearls, the blaze rods.

People do not remember Illumina’s eyes because the void stares back.

Illumina’s eyes are nothing in the sense that Raddles’ eyes are everything. Where life reflects in her eyes, absence reflects in Illumina’s because nothing is there. They are windows to the entire universe. Illumina knows, because Fruit has told him what he can see. He didn’t stop talking for an entire afternoon when he tried to list everything.

But when Illumina looks in the mirror, there is nothing to see because a mirror is not meant to look at itself.

Fruit’s eyes are incomprehensible.

Starlight is a funny thing. It has its own, firm opinions sometimes and one of them is that Fruit’s eyes should be its colour. So they are and nobody asked Fruit about it and quite frankly that was annoying because now half the people trying to look at him get sunburnt in the face.

He was only asking for things to make sense, so really, Universe sue him.

Fruit’s eyes are not what is deadly about him. He spent years making himself as deadly as possible, honing his skills in trapping and fighting and gauging potions as fast as possible. He can use a bow as well as a crossbow, a sword as well as an axe. He’s terrifically fast and he can kill you in more ways than you can greet him.

But still, all people remember are his eyes. Not pale, not the eyes of death, but full of light and joy and magic. The rest of him is stained with blood but his eyes precede his reputation and it’s so, so annoying.

They say beware the pale eyes. They do not say beware the blue eyes before lightning or ice rip you apart. They do not say beware the purple eyes since it marks watcher-born. They do not say beware the colours of everything, as you should never want too much or else you will be given more than you asked for.

They do not say beware the black eyes, for they are a mark of a vessel for something greater. They say beware the pale eyes and do not watch out for the knife in the back or the smile in the dark.

They say beware the pale eyes for they mean death. They don’t know that purple means despair, that blue means revenge, that void means inevitable and light means untouchable.

They say beware the pale eyes and they understand so frighteningly little.

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Destinytober24: Day 7 - Prismatic

A Gambit match, an insensitive comment, forgiveness, and a hole.

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

The satisfying crunch of a Hive ghost being squished came through the speakers in the Derelict as Eris and the Drifter sat together in front of multiple screens displaying different angles of the current Gambit match in progress. About half of the screens were black & white with very specific settings for brightness and contrast to enable Eris to see them better.

The Drifter tapped on a keyboard in his lap with one hand and leaned over to flick a switch. Eris sipped tea.

He pressed a button on his headset. "Invader's on the field. Get 'em!"

He pressed another button. "This is what the Taken feel."

Eris waited until the headset button had been pressed again before asking, "How do you know that is what the Taken feel?"

The Drifter smirked. "I don't. That's just marketing."

"Hmmm…. I wonder if Sloane would be able to corroborate or disprove your statement."

"Corroborate, huh?"

"Confirm." Eris sipped tea from her mug.

"Why didn't you just say confirm?"

"Corroboration involves evidence or experience. Confirmation is simply a statement of assent."

He looked over at her quizzically. "What does it matter what somethin' smells like for that?"

"Smells?"

"Yeah."

"I do not follow."

"You said a scent."

"No. Assent. One word. A S S E N T. It means… agreement or… approval. To concur."

"Concur, huh?" He grinned as he flipped some more switches. "Incoming hostiles on the island."

Eris sighed.

"Sloane's never played Gambit," he continued. "And to be honest, I don't know what goin' through an invasion portal would do to her."

"How does it work, your invasion portal?"

"Truth be told I only understand about half of what's goin' on in there. A lot of it was just kit bashed experiments, throwin' things together and seein' if they stick."

"But it does function, and has remained stable for over a decade."

"Yeah, I been tweakin' it for a while now."

"You must have learned quite a lot."

"I have." He tilted his head, looking back at her with a small smile. It was a genuine smile, not his practised friendly grin, his leering smirk, or the toothy menacing smile he used when he was intimidating someone.

The Drifter was almost always smiling. When they had first started working together, Eris had treasured the moments they'd shared when he was willing to let the facade drop and stop smiling. She understood how rare it was that he was willing to let any of his many, many masks slip off to show the genuine expressions which lay below them.

But the small smile he showed Eris now was something especially precious to her. It was so rare because it was genuine, and Eris was quite certain the number of people, alive or dead, who had ever seen it over the extremely long period of the Drifter's many lives could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

"One thing I learned recently," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, his eyes sparkling with the secret he was about to share.

"Yes?" Eris asked, leaning forward.

"Prismatic makes it react funny."

Her three eyes narrowed. "Really."

"Yeah. First time someone went through all pink it damn near crashed the system. I had to put in special dampeners to deal with it. Shielding basically."

"Interesting."

"Yeah. Light or Dark separately is just fine, but send through a guardian wielding 'em together and the interface goes haywire. Good thing it's a short trip or the circuits would be melting."

"Hmmm…. I wonder why."

"Me too. Haven't figured that part out yet."

"But you were able to shield against it."

"I basically just slapped on a bunch of chest armour mods. The resistance ones. Got 'em for all five subclasses kitbashed into the tunnelling. Had to melt down quite a few exotics to do it, but I got fucktons of those."

"Of course you do. All legitimately acquired, I'm sure."

"Depenin' on your definition of legitimate, yeah."

"Because you are a law abiding citizen."

The Drifter chuckled.

"And you pay your taxes."

He winked at her before turning back to the screen and clicking a button. "Incoming hostiles at the garden!"

"In theory, could you not learn to wield Prismatic yourself?

"What… go sit in one of them intense cracks of Light inside the Pale Heart and have special brain snuggle time directly with big ol' happy fun ball?" The Drifter shivered in disgust. "Ugh. I'll pass."

At Eris' elbow, the Drifter's ghost emitted its single tone once.

He looked away from the Gambit match on the screens and glared down at it. "No one asked for your opinion."

Eris held out one hand. The ghost floated down and pressed itself gently into her fingers. Eris tilted her head.

"No fucking way I'm doin' that," the Drifter growled. "And I sure as hell ain't doin' it for him, that's for damn sure."

Eris ran the tip of one finger along the misshapen ghost's shell. "I would not mind such an experience."

"Well you can have it."

Eris tensed and was silent.

"I- I didn't mean it like that." The Drifter looked away from his screens, Gambit forgotten. "I- You know I didn't mean it like that. I'm… I'm sorry."

"It is true that without my Light I cannot wield Prismatic but… I might still like to… 'go sit in a crack' and experience 'brain snuggle time with big ol' happy fun ball' at some point," she said softly.

"Of course." He reached out and brushed his fingers against her arm. "I'll take you and watch over you… make sure you don't get sniped while you're doing it if… if you'll let me."

The Drifter's ghost in Eris's hand emitted its tone again. He looked down at it sharply, paused a moment, and then sighed. "Yeah, you can come too. Sit with her if you like. Maybe you can like… I dunno… talk to your friends or something."

Eris straightened her head. "Do you think… Brya might be… inside of it?"

"I don't know. But we can go there and find out. Maybe he can like… ask for you or something."

Eris sat back and sipped her tea. "I would like that."

The Drifter bit his lips. His hand against her trembled.

"And yes, you are forgiven. I know you did not intend offence. It is… discomforting at times… your disdain for something that was… so precious to me that I still keenly feel its loss… but your feelings are shaped by your experiences… as are mine… While I do not share your sentiment toward the Traveler and the Light… I do understand… and I accept you as you are…"

The Drifter squeezed her arm gently and he opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could say anything, his ghost emitted its single tone again and rushed over to float near one of the screens, spinning its shell, blinking its light blue then red then blue again.

Eris frowned, looking at it. "Has that team banked all its motes?"

"Shit! Shitshitshit." The Drifter started pushing buttons frantically.

"Primevil's here. Kill it to win!"

He pushed another button.

"Other team's got a Primeval. You gotta finish yours first."

He hit the mute button and licked his lips. "Thanks."

"He noticed first."

"Yeah," the Drifter sighed again and turned to his ghost. "Thanks."

On the screens a Warlock player crossed their wrists with elegant and precise finger positioning, glowing brightly as they ascended to Prismatic. Eris' lip quirked into a smile at the crystalline chiming sound.

A pink and purple grenade landed at the feet of the Primeval Ogre on the screen, forming a swirling black hole of Void and Stasis energy.

"Wish you could see the colours," the Drifter muttered. "Warlock pink stuff grenade is so damn pretty. The others look good and all, but the Warlock one is… weirdly beautiful."

"It is aesthetically pleasing even without the colours. I still enjoy it."

She placed her empty mug on the console and took his hand, then gave a small laugh as that same Warlock missed their jump and clumsily fell into the chasm between the edge of the central platform and the island beside it.

The Drifter chuckled. "I should set up a counter for that pit. Give it a score. Put it on the leaderboard. It gets more kills than the invaders. Especially Warlocks. Oh so wise and pretty. Can't jump worth shit."

Link to the entire month's worth of prompts on Ao3, posted daily.

[january-summers]

Whoopsie, More Wash centric AUs, now with OCs for extra flavour.

What if he wasn’t court-martialed until the very end of the war so he never joined PFl, and instead of David, Agent Washington was some douche named George who either legit died on the cliff with Meta, or never recovered from Epsilon.

And, David kills some people in self defence, like has to shoot his direct superior in the head very publicly to stop them from ordering his entire platoon to their very avoidable deaths, or during his slap-on-the-wrist free-with-court-martial two months prison time he kills some guys in the showers because they were trying to kill/harm him, so he ends up with *serious* prison time.

Like ends up on the Tartarus, serious. And naturally he makes friends with the other inmates near his cell, including someone who probably shouldn’t be there because she’s technically still a teenager and her crimes were more white collar than murder even if they were very very serious. (Hacked ONI for the lulz, they’re trying to scare her into compliance/working for them.)

Think Emily Grey but with a more limited area of hyper-focused intelligence and higher anxiety/obvious autism.

Meanwhile with the Reds and Blues, Alpha Church managed to basically eat Sigma, O’Malley and Gary, because he didn’t have anyone to Emp them out in a last stand and Meta got their hands on him so it was eat or be eaten.

And he reconnects with Epsilon who basically treats it like a backstory update and goes on being Epsilon Church (Caboose is stoked, double best friend!)

(All Churches get their therapy moment and Tex gets to decide on her own personhood, going off to self examine for a bit and meeting up with Carolina, they get to talk out their issues and decide to kill Director. Tex gets to have her “I exist now, no matter how I was made I have experiences of my own and I am my own person, not your dead wife.” moment, and Carolina gets her, “you died when mum did, and I can’t, I won’t keep chasing your ghost.” moment.)

And the Reds and Blues get to keep the rest of the AIs by virtue of not mentioning they have them to others. They all still end up on Chorus.

In the Tartarus, David figures out what Felix is planning, and even though he has no interest in working for or with him, he still grabs the bars and warns his nearby inmates what’s probably about to happen. (It’s way too easy for David to think “if I was a sack of shit what would I do?”)

By cosmic coincidence, David ends up with the old Freelancer armour belonging to KIA Agent (George) Washington. (Price recognises David and mentions later that he’d actually been on the list for the project.)

David gets to be in charge of his own little strike team, not that anyone on it is particularly interested in working for team Felix.

“Do you think the locals will let us swap sides?” Asks one of David’s men.

But David shakes his head, “not after Felix and Locus pulled their multiyear double agent crap.”

“… is it Locus or Locust?”

“What?”

“The big scary one, is it Locus or Locust?”

“Locus?” Now David is questioning what he’s been hearing, because it could easily be eith- “Wait, where’s the kid?!”

The team is one short, the hacker teen who shouldn’t have been there is missing. She should be back up on the ship, but David didn’t like the idea of leaving her unsupervised. For her safety sure, but also the safety of others.

“Spread out, find her. Don’t engage with anyone unless you have to, finding the kid is priority.”

David finds her with a soldier in… Teal? Aqua? Cyan? Blue, it’s a shade of blue.

The kid is trying to poke at a small hologram next to the soldier and David makes it just in time to stop the kid from taking a knife to the anything.

“Hey now, let’s all just calm down and everyone respect everyone else’s personal space, okay? No putting fingers or knives in others, okay?”

“Well that’s definitely not Washington in there,” the soldier says, “that guy was a grade A asshole who would love to see knives in people.”

“You can call me D.C. Sorry about the kid, she gets excited about techy stuff. So, from what Counsellor Price said, you must be Agent Carolina?”

“That’s right,” Carolina confirms like she’d like nothing more than to stick her knife in David.

“… has he always been that much of a creepy asshole?” David asks, then notices the kid’s reflection in Carolina’s visor, fidgeting with her helmet. The kid stims by chewing on things, normally her braids, David knows. “Kid, I need you to keep your helmet on for me, okay? It keeps your head nice and safe.”

*someone gets headshot in the background*

“…er, safer.” David corrects.

-

And through the power of being him, David and his team get to join team good guy. the folks on Chorus.

And all is well with the world. Until the kid and dr Grey meet and everyone has to deal with the “oh god there’s two of them” perfectly reasonable fear response.

-

Sorry for any typos in this mess of a plot bunny, I wrote it on my phone in bits and pieces during a bbq, which lead to another, competing bunny asking the tough and distracting questions: who is the best griller out if all the Reds and Blues and Freelancers, who shouldn’t be allowed near a grill, and who is a great bbq master but is someone everyone thinks shouldn’t be allowed near a grill? (And vice-versa)

This whole bunny thread was just a way to lead to the “keeps your head safe *bang* -er. safer” joke. Was not expecting the Tex and Carolina detour, but stuff it, ladies road-trip of murder and justice!

[lolitastories]

BLACK AND BLOOD

Y/N L/N is the daughter of the Great Khal Drogo although she was raised by the king of the unknown lands. After finding out he died she travels and finds the one who caused his death. Along this adventure she meets the mother of dragons. Jon Snow. Night walkers. We will see if she really has the Dothraki blood flowing through her veins.

Chapter 17:

Ghost lays down probably over the whole situation. While my hands were shaking and my head spinning I tried to open my mouth. “My Queen, you need us to arrest this man?” I look back and there were 2 guardsmen there.

“No. Leave us, go back to the castle”

“Yes your grace” My gaze fell to the ground. I took a deep breath breaking down in my minute what I needed to get out before anything else happened.

“Queen?” I turn to him and give him a small shrug.

“Not officially. Just filling in until Stella is old enough.” I walk closer to him. He was close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him even in the summer weather. He had gotten rid of his fur but the leather armour is still on. “Or maybe if someone kills me” I let out a chuckle which only covered the tears that were threatening to come out. “Some people will fight it” How can anxiety fill me up so quickly? “ I know for a fact one of the council members will” That's when I feel his hand on my chin and he lifts it up so we are looking eye to eye. “I don’t want any of this and I don’t know what I am trying to prove anymore” Looking into his brown eyes only made me feel vulnerable in his presence. I look away but am pulled back to him.

“You don’t need to have all the answers, just a goal.”

“But what goal is that? Place Stella in the throne? Give Omnis the ruler they deserve? Give into every request to make them happy? You know they want to sentence my father to death?! I can’t do that. I can’t stand infront of everyone especially Gris and Stella and pretend I know what I am doing because I don’t!” My heart was speeding up.

“You are a natural leader. I know it can be sufficating but you have to remember who you are doing this for.” Then it hit me. His words and what Bran told me the day I left. I hadn’t gotten the chance to stop and think about it but the signs were there. It has been a month and nothing. “If anyone can deal under pressure is you” I took a second to just look at him. He was here. How was he here? Well I have an idea on how but, how? And why? What happened at Kings Landing? “Can you get out of that little head of yours?” I playfully hit his chest.

“Shut up. I didn’t know what I want to know first” One hand drops down and wraps around me to pull us closer.

“You know what I want to know?” The other hand moves my hair away and pulls my face closer. “Did you miss me?” I stare blankly at his grin. Of course I missed him. I thought about him all night and day. Whether he had survived Cersei. I know for a fact he would have told Daenerys about his true heritage and she probably didn’t take it lightly. I wished and prayed for him to be saafe and in no harm's way. Hoped for the day I will see him again. Hold him again “Am just going to kiss you already” And what a kiss it was. My arms finally wrapped around him. A part of me was scared that if I touched him he might not have been real. Maybe a part of my imagination. But he was truly here. His lips moved in sync with mine. I tangled my hands in his hair. “So you did miss me?” I roll my eyes pulling backwards towards the trees.

“Can you just kiss me again?” I didn’t wait for an answer and pulled him in. My back hits the tree and a moan leaves my mouth. His lips move over my jaw and down my neck. “It's hot. I think you should get rid of all this leather”

“I agree, it's hot even for this silk” I looked down and my knees buckled seeing the sight of his hand wrapping my clothing in his fist pulling on it.

“I agree.” He pulls me up straight as I gain the strength back on my legs. I pull the clips out and his armour falls. The cotten white undershirt caused another issue for me. I caress his chest slowly untying it. I felt his quicken heart and my movement stopped. “Jon” he picks up his head to look at me. His smile dropped at my whisper tone. “Its no you and I anymore”

“What?” A smile appeared on my face. It was probably a bad time to bring it up but I needed him to know. What if he has other feelings about it? I want to be able to walk away with nothing but his loving memory in Westoros. I wouldn’t bear losing him after I lose myself with him again.

“I’m pregnant” I looked into his eyes for any sign of life but no emotion was there. I realize he wasn’t looking at me but a haze was probably blocking his eyes. I ignored every question and doubt to fill my thoughts. I needed to give him some time to think. I ball my hand and move it away.

“No” He catches my wrist. Pulling my hand gently so it finds his shoulder just like the other and as soon as he lets go he pulls me closer into a hug. “Bran told me to come find you” I hear him whisper. “I wanted to give you time and let time bring us together. Daenerys attacked King's Landing. She did the thing she said she wouldn’t become.” He pulls away, grabbing my cheeks with both hands. “I knew if she was still here she wouldn’t stop fighting for the throne” I gasped. Daenerys is dead?. “I accepted whatever came after my actions. Bran became the protector of the six kingdoms. Sansa, Queen of Winterfell. For my action they exile me to the wall, per the request of the unsullied. Arya brought me over to begin her travels”

“Hey” It was my turn to get his attention. “I know your actions had their reasons. I know it wasn’t something you wanted on your hands”

“I gave my word” His eyes moved down to my stomach. “I must travel to the wall. I know I can wait for you but now,” He looks up to me again “I love you and now Its not longer you and I”

“Everything is going to be okay. We don’t need to have all the answers right now” I smile taking a hold of his hands. “Let's go and get some food for you and figure everything out. It's still you and I, this little person is just going to have to step aside for a bit” He chuckles.

“Hey” He pulls me back holding on to my hand. “Don’t get lost in that mind of yours. This is nothing to think about with this. It's still us” He places both hands on my stomach. “This is us. You and I”

[necros-writing-stuff]

Hey so I procrastinated too close to the sun and this time made a Ghost x GN Reader where he noncons them while he’s been put on leave. Warnings for: Ghost having a horrible little time with his own thoughts and PTSD, noncon, penetrative sex but the hole it goes in isn’t specified, photography/exhibitionism, outdoor sex (in a forest), seriously none of this is happy or healthy, especially what’s going on in Ghost’s head. Elements of pet play, staged scenarios with sex toys, mentions of werewolves but no actual werewolves. Mentions of kidnapping at the end. Y’all like angst?

Its hard being off duty. His head feels murky. His limbs feel heavy. Its similar to being stuck underwater. But he's the only one who is in a room full of people who seem to be just fine.

A winter market, half inside, half outside. Stalls lining the walls of the town hall and the cobbled square outside. Countless comforting smells in the air, laughter ringing around seemingly as loud as a church bell and making his ears hurt.

He stands out, he always does. Even though he's exchanged his regular mask for a more subtle plain black one, even if he's wearing a hoodie and a leather jacket instead of a vest made to hold armour plates. He's just too tall, too well built in a sea of farmers, vendors and happy families in their earth-toned wools and cottons.

He'd chosen this town because a city would have been too much. Chosen a little cottage on the outskirts, to try and avoid needing to talk to people as much as humanly possible. If they were going to force him to go on leave, to rest, then he'd do it in his own way.

Sadly, he'd gotten the small village vibe wrong. Everyone was so nosy, always asking questions and trying to poke a tale from the new guy. He couldn't relax at the local pub without some old men circling rumours about him right behind his back. Couldn't go to the market without that ever present crotchety grandma stumbling around behind him as if to ensure he'd not steal anything. Couldn't cross by the local school or playground on his morning runs without kids stopping and staring.

The tattoos didn't help, naturally. Not many had them here. Not with the ageing population and white-bread middle class families. And the total 3 members of the village alt community said they were too tacky (without his initiating a conversation, mind you).

He should have just gone and settled in another big city. Should have taken advantage of how they had odd people everywhere instead of being the poster boy for antisocial behaviour in a place where everyone knew everyone.

They were the worst of it, of course. A local photographer, constantly crawling and jumping around for the next best shot. They found him to be very interesting, constantly pestering him for a moment of his time, just one little picture. He always said no. They always came back.

Their stall is near the back off the hall, a make-shift studio set up so that everyone can pile in and get lovely little sets of themselves and loved ones for the holidays. Tourists from out of town coo over all of the little goodies the photographer had made from their shots of local animals and sites.

Seems they'd gotten some of the crocheting people on board, too, a line of stuffed foxes meant to represent a local hero. To Ghost, it was just a fox, but to everyone else it seemed to be a point of pride. This little thing that had once sat on some chicks instead of eating them, like that clip he'd seen of a cheetah not eating a baby gazelle.

It worked, though. People were lining up to get the stupid things.

The photographer takes notice of him as soon as he crosses by, no matter how small he tries to make himself. He just wants to go get some of the nice Arabic coffee someone had imported. Something to remind him of his time on the field, of a visit he’d made to Farah’s base of operations last time he was in that neck of the woods. Why did it have to be right next to the pestering shutterbug?

He ignores their waving, pays no mind to the pout they make when he keeps walking. But he can still feel their eyes on him. They know his mind insists. They know who you are.

He shakes his head as he reaches out for the cup being presented to him, nodding to the vendor and giving them a little extra cash for not talking more than necessary. His senses are already overwhelmed as it is, small talk is not in the cards.

Ghost doesn't look behind himself as he beelines it out of the town hall. He's sure he unfairly bumped into some people, but it got so hard to breathe in there that he didn't care. He just couldn't stand being looked at like that.

The paranoia doesn't subside. Not even after a few days of being alone, in his house, not being bothered by a single soul.

They know you repeats again and again in his head. It's ridiculous, aggravating, that one person has been effecting him this much. But they really have been.

Ghost keeps his morning runs to the fields and forests around the town. He survives on the food in his fridge and cupboards, eating every last scrap to avoid having to go shopping and chance another encounter.

He keeps his curtains closed, afraid that he'd open them and the photographer would be there, insisting that they could take some photos in the forest.

What was it they'd said? "You look threatening, I think if I gave you some rope and made you crouch, made you look right at the camera pointing up, it would be an awesome shot. A knife too, that would fit."

As if the viewer were his hostage. His little victim about to be bound and God knows what else. The last thing Ghost wants is to have any physical evidence of his existence, never mind photos that would be circled around fetish sites - and they would be circled around fetish sites, despite their insistence that they wouldn't.

"I won't even post them anywhere, they're more for me than anyone else," they'd said that afternoon, following him through some hiking trails. They'd been gathering a collection of winter flower photos, apparently.

Their eyes had widened after realizing the implications of the phrase 'personal use' after he'd said 'fetish website'. "Not like that! I mean, just that I think you look cool, and I appreciate horror aesthetics. I don't want to bang Michael Myers, for example, just thinks he looks neat!"

He'd rolled his eyes, walking away from the conversation even though they'd called after him.

Honey. Trap. that voice insists once more. They're a spy, someone recruited to seduce or befriend him. Someone to get evidence of his face or name. Maybe Roba hadn't actually died. Maybe Roba had a son wanting revenge. Maybe it was one of the hundreds of others related to Ghost's job.

Maybe he was just so hard programmed to be a soldier that he couldn't get his mind away from work no matter how many months he'd been stuck out here.

Eventually, the food ran out. He had to go into the village, had to do his routine of pretending not to notice granny-stares-a-lot taking note of every produce he passed by.

The stalls were gone, the tourists cleaned out. Only the locals left now. It was much better this way, much quieter. Way less faces to look at and wonder if they were sent to end him for good.

It was meant to be only for a month, you know? His staying here. Just a regular break imposed upon him because he was never not on the job. But then the psych eval had come back, and he'd been grounded for longer. And then it happened again.

"I know more than anyone why you don't like talking to them, son, but you have to start working with them if you want to get back out here with us," Price had insisted. He'd refused. No shrink was going to fix his non-existent issues.

Ghost knew how to compartmentalize, thank you very much. He understood what was and wasn't appropriate behaviour. He just didn't think he had to engage in all of this community bullshit. Didn't think he had to dismiss odd behaviour from certain photographers who didn't listen to boundaries.

Boundaries they'd broken once again. When Ghost returned to his cottage, a gift basket was on the doorstep. He approached it cautiously, looking for anything dangerous hidden in the nesting of shredded red paper.

There was nothing dangerous. Not physically dangerous, anyways. Just some of the coffee that had been at the fair, some sweet treats, a pair of warm socks and the worst offender of all - a stuffed crochet version of him. Holding a note.

He worked his jaw as he brought it inside, intending to dispose of it as soon as possible. But curiosity got the better of him, and he read the stupid handwritten note on fancy craft paper.

"Consider all of this an apology for how annoying I've been," it begins.

"I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. I just remembered when I first moved here, and people seemed to hate me because I didn't know how to herd chickens. It was pretty isolating. So when you first arrived, I thought I'd be the warm welcome I never got. Obviously, it backfired.

I'll stop asking to take photos, and I won't bother you as much. Still gonna say hi every so often, though. I'm still determined to befriend you until told otherwise.

Enjoy your mini-me by the way! Took me ages to make him, I wanted to get your skull mask thing right. Saw you wearing it that one time, thought it was cool. I didn't make any more, just this one, so take care of him.

Here's my phone number by the way. You don't have to do anything with it. Just thought I'd offer the choice. You can even text me to tell me to fuck off if you really want to."

It signs off with their name, number, and a silly doodle of them sticking their tongue out and doing a peace sign.

It's a bluff. It's not. It's a nice gesture. The socks are the perfect size, how would they know that? His feet are huge, they probably just grabbed the biggest ones on the rack. They're only giving you their number so they can get yours and use it to track you. They're a fucking photographer in a small village in rural England. Somethings in the-

"There's nothing in the fucking stuffed me!" he growls. The kitchen is deathly silent after, no one there to respond.

Ghost sighs heavily, ripping his mask off and rubbing his face to try and shut that voice up. A small feeling of panic rises in his chest, subsiding only after he'd rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face.

He'd covered the bathroom mirror with a towel when he'd first arrived. Didn't want to really look at himself. He wasn't used to it, not anymore. He was used to seeing the mask.

Ghost gulps as he pulls the towel to the side, flinching slightly when he makes eye contact with himself.

"Hello, Simon," he whispers.

He's a man covered in scars. Not a surprise in his line of work. One bothers him more than the others, and its the newest.

It crosses his temple. A slash, evidence of the latest helicopter crashing fiasco. It'd knocked him out for a second or two, but he'd gotten right back up and finished the mission.

Still got his ass grounded though. The fucking psychs still thought they had a Phineas Gage part 2 on their hands, didn't they?

He covers the mirror again before he gets the urge to smash the damn thing. Re-masking, Ghost leaves the house and heads to the forest for yet another hike around the trails. It was one of the only things that kept his mind clear these days.

It's later in the day, the sun having set early due to the time of year. Nice and dark, no one would be around to interrupt him. Just Ghost, whatever creatures live out there, and some vegetation. He can handle some foxes and badgers, no problem. They don't try to show him baby photos.

This time as his heart hammers in his chest, he doesn't feel the need to puke. Doesn't feel a violent urge swelling beneath his skin, doesn't see red. It's that good breathlessness brought on by running yourself to the brink of collapsing.

He gets confident enough in his loneliness to lift the mask a little, just so he can breathe better and run for longer. To work himself down so that sleeping is easier tonight. He always had less nightmares if he'd been working out more.

It's a few hours later when he finally stops. His legs feel like jelly as he finds the fallen log he usually uses to sit and take a breather on. His watch tells him it's around 7pm. Ghost practically breathes down the last remnants in his water bottle. Everything hurts, yet he'd never felt so right since moving here.

He feels loose, relaxed, almost happy as he stumbles back down the trail. Confident that he's doing a-okay and that it was just irritability from missing his job that has made him so surly.

The sound of a camera clicking knocks him out of that happy little place.

Jumping into action, Ghost gets to cover behind a tree, pulling his mask down as he does so. His eyes scan every silhouette in the darkness, looking for the a sparkle in the trees, moonlight reflecting off of a camera lens.

Another shot is taken, and this time he listens well. Its coming from his left, a bit further away than he thought he'd heard the first time.

Some branches crunch under the foot of whoever is out there (he has a very good idea of who), before a soft "Ah fuck," can be heard through the trees. More rustling. Another click, this time he sees the light going off.

Ghost's training comes back to him eerily quick as he sneaks forwards. A sadistic part of him wants to jump out, to scare the photographer, but he doesn't. Especially when he sees what they're doing.

Hidden among the foliage, Ghost's dark eyes widen when he sees the photographer completely naked. In the forest. In the middle of winter. With some interesting props laying around.

Fetish sites, he thinks once more as they lay down, having angled the camera to point down at them as they check the fake blood dripping down their face and chest, nipples hard from the cold.

They're on all fours, staring up at the camera with their tongue out as they arch their body seductively. A collar sits around their neck, a chain attached to the tripod to make it seem like someone is holding it. From where he sits, Ghost gets a lovely little show of what's between their legs.

With the trees being more spaced out here, the moon shines down nicely on the photographer. No doubt that’s a special little camera for night-time photos anyways.

But it just means that he can see something slick on their thighs, and further investigation of the site leads to him sighting a bottle of lube and a frankly ridiculous dildo laid out on a blanket, just behind the tripod. It's knotted, he notes. They must have already fucked them self on it, or rather, staged that they had for the photos.

The moral thing to do would be to leave. To never mention it again, to let the photographer keep their secret and not embarrass them. Yet Ghost can't seem to move. Can't seem to get the proposition they'd made to him all those weeks ago out of his head.

They'd asked him if he'd come out into the forest and pose as some dangerous man. To pose as the counterpart of whatever they're doing right now, really.

He wants to laugh, he really does. Turns out that little voice in his head was half right about the photographer wanting to seduce him, just that the reasoning as to why was off. Not a spy. Just a degenerate, literally crawling around in the mud with a dripping hole, fake wounds and probably the intention of showing off the results to a lot of people.

Of course. Of course he'd only attract the freak who'd get off on him for the mask. Who'd get off on the fear of it incites.

Disgust bubbles in his chest, a sneer carving it's way onto his face as he clenches his hands. How presumptuous of them to assume he'd even say yes to this shit.

He can't stop his mind when it goes back. Little memories jumbled up, of being trapped and chained, of being hurt and being forced to hurt. Things he tries to keep buried deep.

He'd never hurt someone like that. He'd made that promise to himself. That he'd only ever do it when strictly necessary, when doing so would ensure the safety of millions and make it so no one would have his PTSD that makes Christmas the most unbearable time of the year.

Not even faking it, like those into BDSM do. He just couldn't do that to a person he trusted to get that close. Because he knew. Of all people, he knew what it felt like when it was real. He could compartmentalize a lot. But not this.

You should teach them a lesson, mate. Some manners while you're at it.

It's a stupid and cruel thought. They know who he is, he's the only one around here who wears masks.

They know Ghost. They don't know Simon.

He winces, still frozen in that Bush as the photographer poses over and over. He's seriously not actually considering that, is he? He's not listening to those horrible thoughts?

If they did it to you, they'll do it do someone else. Bet they only stopped with you cause you're threatening. And they're really just making them self an easy target for an actual murderer, aren't they? You don't have to hurt them. Just scare them a little.

He'd only do it when it meant ensuring safety. Yeah. This is ensuring safety, isn't it?

They can consider it your thank you for the basket.

He waits until the photographer gets up to check the newest round of shots before he moves, taking the mask of and stuffing it in his pocket. He's wearing a long-sleeve shirt, so his tattoos are hidden. He won't say a word to them, so they won't recognize his voice.

Simon wails until they're posed again. Waits until they're face down, ass up, the camera having been moved to get perfect shots of the lube dripping out of their hole. It's that special semen looking lube he finds as the camera flashes.

They don't realize he's there at first, too busy writhing around to make sure the photos are slightly different each time. He stays out of shot, stood with a hand cupping his slowly hardening cock through his sweats.

Don't need to put it in. Just make it seem like you're going to. Then leave them there, scared and shaking. Lesson learned.

A shiver travels up his spine, patience breaking. He moves without thought, a twig snapping beneath his boot.

Their head twists in his direction, eyes wide and panicked, body pushing up onto all fours, ready to push off and run. The camera goes off once more.

He doesn't say a word. Just keeps staring, eyes roaming up and down as he starts pumping his cock through the thick material of his trousers.

They don't scream. They don't run, just slowly get up and start backing away. For every step they take, he takes one closer, his hand dropping from his crotch to his side as he smiles at them.

Sticking to his no talking rule, he decides instead to make a "Come hither" motions with his finger, smiling wider when they frantically shake their head and whimper.

That's it, lad. Keep going like this and they'll never endanger them self ever again.

He breaks first, bursting forwards and grasping the photographer by the neck. Pulling them close, turning them around and pressing their now-struggling body against his own.

"Let me go, please, please, I won't say anything just-"

Simon doesn't want to hear it. He really can't be bothered either excuses right now, so he covers their mouth with his large palm. They're too small, his cock rubbing against their lower back instead of their ass like he wanted. So it's back to the floor they go, on their knees with Simon falling in line behind them.

He could draw it out. Could touch them, make them squirm and heighten the fear as much as possible. But that would cross a line, he thinks. Best to just be direct.

Letting go of their mouth, he shoves his sweats down, boxers with them. His hard-on bobs in the cold air, an unpleasant feeling. Not that it'll be cold for long; while he won't fuck their hole he can use their thighs for a bit.

And so he does just that, slides his cock between the soft plush flesh down there as he nips at their ear with his teeth. They'd used so much of that lube that it's incredibly wet, so easy to just slide back and forth, back and forth.

The photographer's weak clawing at his arms doesn't phase him in the slightest. Their tears falling onto his hand just affirms that he's scaring them as much as he wanted to.

With this thrust, he pulls back further than he had for the others. Just too feel more pressure on the head, just to selfishly have a bit more pleasure in this than he really ought to be. He didn't mean to catch the tip on their hole.

He really means it, he tries to tell himself. Really really means that this is only for the photographer's benefit. Really believes that he's nothing like those who hurt him before. Really convinces himself it's not too far to slip just the tip inside and lazily grind his hips, the soft wetness of their insides feeling like heaven around his cock.

Their whines aren't turning him on. The way they shiver and cling to his arms doesn't make him feel powerful. The pathetic groan they let  out when he pushes himself in as far as he can go doesn't make Simon "Ghost" Riley want to empty his balls in this pretty little photographer's hole.

It does though, doesn't it? All of it is driving him up a wall. All of it gripping it's way into his brain, making him realize things he knew, but kept hidden for years and years.

Watching the photographer stage things wasn't angering because he was reminded of his victim hood. It was angering because it reminded him that he was one of the ones not strong enough to stop himself becoming just like the fucked up cunts that made him this way in the first place.

Simon screws his eyes shut, biting down into the photographer's neck, tasting the horrible fake blood on his tongue as he does so.

Stop thinking, Simon. You've got a nice little thing all limp in your arms, just enjoy them and make yourself feel better.

It's not a separate voice in his head. It's his voice. One he really likes listening to in this moment.

Growling, Simon bends the photographer over, forcing them to put their hands down to stop their face being squished into the forest floor. He wants to hear them now, wants to hear the things they'll say as he takes them like a bitch in heat.

That's what that dildo means, isn't it? Some werewolf fantasy? The irony of a dog leashing a human and breeding them?

It's admirable how sad their attempts to stay quiet are. How half-hearted the escape attempts have gotten, how their body shows off the pleasure they're getting from being his little fuck toy for the night.

They seem as much of a liar as he is. They seem to like this just like he does, that attempt to get away just an act to retain what little virtue they falsely held.

They're not doing that now. Not with their head pressed to the floor, full, unbroken moans spilling from their lips as his shaft pummels them over and over again.

It's been a long while since he's last gotten his dick wet, so to speak. He's not used to the warm suction of a hole, not used to how good it feels compared to his hand. He won't last much longer. Much less so when the photographer cums, the sensation of their orgasm only massaging him more than was already happening.

He pets their hair gently, feeling the softness of it before he twists it into a ball and pulls their head back.

Simon's aware of how vicious he's being right now. How unfair of him it is to go at his hardest when they've just came, body over-sensitive. But he needs it. He needs it more than he's needed those exhausting runs he's been doing. Needs it more right now than he needs anything else.

Just needs to hear them scream, to hear them scream for him as he fucks them till he finishes, and keeps going after that until it hurts his cock too much.

Satisfaction fills him when he pulls out, letting go of their hair and letting them crumple down. It's a struggle to get up, to fix his clothes and be made aware of the fridged night cold seeping into his bones once more.

He's going to leave. To just let them fix everything else them self. To let Simon Riley become a nightmare for this sweet photographer that had only tried to befriend Ghost.

He can't stop himself from doing one last thing, though.

Striding over to the camera, he takes it from the stand and ventures back over to his little victim. They haven't moved, practically glued to the spot as they sob uncontrollably. Poor thing.

Kneeling, Simon pulls their ass cheeks apart with one hand, the other pointing the camera between their legs, just as they'd done to them self earlier. He gets close, ensuring his hand doesn't get in frame.

He takes a couple of photos for them. A few of his seed dripping out of them, rather than some fake stuff. A reminder of the reality, rather than the fantasy. Would their viewers be able to tell the difference, he wonders?

He puts the camera back on the tripod before he sets off. He doesn't feel guilty over this. He knows he should. Knows he should feel terrible. But he just feels... relaxed.

They're still there. Still haven't moved. Still crying. And he's going home for a hot bath.

"Was it the socks you didn't like, or my crochet?"

... and looks like someone's coming with him so they can't snitch.

[abyssembraced]

I've briefly mentioned this before in the past, but I've given it some more thought recently and can now safely say with confidence:

Ghost's (and by extension, all other Vessels') "cloak" is actually a set of wings.

By default, these wings don't actually work, however, which could have been caused by multiple different things. Maybe it's some sort of genetic thing that came about because of how different the Pale King and the White Lady are species-wise (though since they and the vessels are all gods, maybe they wouldn't have any issues like that?). Or perhaps the Void prematurely halted the development of the wings when it was introduced into the Vessels' egg(s). Or maybe the Vessels did initially hatch with working wings, but being in the Abyss damaged them and rendered them unusable. Regardless, the point is that the Vessels have wings, but they don't (usually) work.

(More under the cut, this post is long dgsgshf)

If nothing else, the "cloak" is definitely part of the Vessels' bodies in some way, considering that they're present on the Vessel corpses in the Abyss, so it has to be something they hatched with:

And yeah, sure, the "cloak" doesn't really look much like a set of wings, but the Radiance has similar noodle-y things that are almost certainly meant to be wings:

Same goes for Markoth, who, being a moth, should logically have wings:

And Grimm, who also has a tendril-y segmented cloak that later turns out to be very wing-like:

And Grimmchild, who flaps its wings and flies:

And the Maskflies and Belflies:

Among others.

So yeah, I'd say that the Vessel "cloaks" look similar enough to other wing designs in Hollow Knight! And also I don't know enough about bug biology to have any other ideas of what the "cloak" can be dgdgsgsf

And also, to go off on a quick, non-Ghost-specifically-related tangent, I imagine that most of the "cloaks" and "clothing" that the bugs in Hallownest seem to "wear" are actually just part of their body in some way. Pretty much only the Weavers and the bugs rich enough to afford their creations had actual clothing garments that were separate from their bodies. So like, Hornet's cloak and the things the husks in the rich half of the City of Tears are wearing are Weaver-made clothing, but, say, the "cloak" that Elderbug has is just part of his body. Clothes are a symbol of status, not something everyone is expected to wear.

Hollow's design, more specifically their appearance as Pure Vessel, also points to the "cloaks" being some sort of body part. Looking at two of their sprites from their pre-battle cutscene, you can see that Hollow's armoured cape that they destroy and the shorter cloak that they actually fight in are two clearly different colours. They're two different garments, with the grey cloak being underneath the white cape. The grey cloak being part of their body would explain why Hollow wasn't just wearing the white cape alone.

It is true though that Hollow's "cloak" as an adult really doesn't look like wings, even for Hollow Knight's artstyle, unlike the ones the baby Vessels have. So, continuing with the idea that it is, indeed, still a set of wings, maybe Hollow's have been clipped?

Considering Broken Vessel/Lost Kin, it seems like the wings normally grow to be pretty long. I imagine they'd get in the way quite often when trying to fight with a nail and stuff.

So, with that in mind, as well as the fact that the wings don't even work, and that even if they did work, Hollow is so large that there wouldn't be many places where they really could fly much, I could see parts of their wings being trimmed to make fighting easier. Probably by the Pale King, or perhaps even by Hollow themself. Or maybe it wasn't a deliberate action at all (at least at first), and the wings just got sliced off in a training accident because of how large they were. …And then PK/Hollow continued to clip them if they ever grew back in subsequent molts, since it was just more convenient that way.

…But anyway. Back to Ghost.

The Mothwing Cloak and the Monarch Wings that Ghost obtains on their adventure aren't their own separate items—they're more like upgrades to Ghost's existing wings. The dead Greenpath Vessel's wings happened to be more intact than most others', and Ghost was able to basically absorb those wings' energy (and/or the "mothwing strands threaded within them") to strengthen their own ones. In doing so, Ghost gained a slight control over their wings that they previously did not have. That, combined with them observing Hornet's movements before and during their battle (in order to get a sense of the technique they'd need for the rest of their body), granted Ghost a short dash using their wings to propel them forward!

The Monarch Wings, meanwhile, were able to restore enough functionality in Ghost's wings to allow them a short burst of flight, though it's still far from proper flying. The Monarch Wings strengthen and lengthen Ghost's "cloak" wings by temporarily transforming them, which is something we do see in their sprites when they use it:

Also, in my old post about my Ghost's postgame design references for their masked and Shade/Void forms (which I actually wanna make an updated version of eventually with a timeline and added information and stuff), I mention that Ghost's "cloak" in their masked/stable/normal form transforms into Void tendrils in their Shade/Void form. This is, of course, because the "cloak" is their wings, and is part of their body! So when Ghost breaks or otherwise exits their mask, their wings also transform into pure Void alongside the rest of them.

And of course, in their Void form Ghost has access to full, unrestricted flight/floating. It's just a Void Creature Thing. There are stranger things about them dgdgsf (*cough* Shade Soul passing through solid surfaces)

[cardistrymagic]

MI7 spoilers (my long rant)

extremely religious takes on the enemy lmao. i think because i'm a sucker for tech being used in spy movies that the airport scene was my favourite. 1. ethan not being found through the cctv- what a fun intro! 2. benji with the bomb- nice to see him do something...( i mean you made me think him running in the airport trailer scene was important 🙄)

IMF team: luther talked more than he has in other movies and i demand more. thanks. i kinda wish they'd use the team more ig. because they are literal field agents so they can fight? i hope? and the whole train scene benji was just gone like waiting thinking "wow he should be here by now" like LET HIM DO SOMETHING!!!

the fact that the entity has control over lots of techy stuff so benji n luther cant really do much??? makes me sad. like let them talk to each other :( i like the gadgets. i liked the little banter luther n benji had.

lastly- the scene where ethan jumps off the cliff- only women are in his flashbacks?? like i thought we'd established the IMF team as his. family lowkey y'know. it was just like okay...

in venice: white widow wasnt bad i guess. the benji dupe voice- love how it played on ethan's loyalty! i think it showed well how dangerous the enemy was- but for some reason i'm still more afraid of the past villain- lane, due to the many examples and horrors he's actually committed. ig im not into the blue ai enemy.

grace: my one thing is that i get that she might have had to be brought into the team to be safe BUT compared to ilsa, she is a pickpocket. a crime commiter at best. she is not at the level of a field agent (unless plot armour??) . not much fighting skills. to me she's kinda a liability. not to mention her constantly running away like. i was endeared to her at the airport because of her confidence. i get that maybe she becomes aware of the world-threatening shitshow she's been dragged into unwillingly but still. idk if she's cut out for the job. compared to ilsa a literal ex-agent with ties to MI6. even on the goddamn train she didnt really trust ethan YOU almost DIED?! if not for the plot armour of ethan parachuting into the carriage. girl literally almost killed him by handcuffing him to the car like very funny he just saved your life. literally not trusting ethan on the piano scene What? i dont care thats shes a orphan you've literallly been through so much. with ethan.

one second she's like not able to do much besides throwing a key around. on the other hand she can fight knife to knife with a super skilled killer (gabriel) like what? a citizen thrown into stuff out of her league-driving a car (she cant) playing a good white widow (id forgive her for never doing this ever) and the train (ok thats fine) like i just dont see the value of her being in the team besides being able to play. a woman? which im sure the og team could do to be honest. . can grace shoot a gun?

btw i feel like her relationship w/ ethan moves so fast?

grace: i dont trust you. i will let the police capture you. you saved my life but im still running!! i messed your plans up (sorry)

ethan:( holds her face) my life is worth less than yours.

What is this intimacy??affection idk closeness? i know ethan is a loyal guy but???

villain: dark messiah. death as a gift. ghost. ai. gabriel (angel wow) i love more religious imagery. the flashback was like a decent window into ethan lore BEFORE imf (oooo) but i just dont really get what gabriel wants? the entity is messing shit up already. and gabriel seems to already work with it (comms faked in venice) i assume that ethan is a variable the entity needs to eliminate but just kill him? hahaha? gabriel probably likes seeing ethan suffer but compared to lane's stuff i'm not really. amused. (ethan literally has nightmares about lane)

also paris i didnt even know if they ever said her name? she was angry and dressed up and had some rabid dog scenes (like go girl) but i hope she does more in the next part! like the part where she holds up ethan and grace with a stab wound (woah. strong)

other stuff: the dutch angles being used in like 50% of the shots like CALM DOWN i love the mi:1 references but were they always so disorieting maybe im just getting old

the scenes? ilsa dies and ethan looks a bit distressed. the scene where they're hugging was so like woah okay but felt really like. shoved in there like. Okay yeah something bad is gonna happen to her 😭😭

in the end, rogue nation + ghost protocol are still my #1s. characters like brandt and ilsa had really interesting backgrounds and fit into the IMF team easily- the films centering around their teamwork is why i got so into MI in the first place. grace doesn't offer any like addition i dont think she can even bicker with the team for funsies (like brandt/ilsa) . she's not cool shes a poor girl that didnt know what she was getting into 😭

things i did like:

action scenes. awesome((besides the lack of luther and benji there)) ilsa being awesome in the desert

the cinematography (beautiful. as always.)

everyone in suits ( lawyer ethan. benji. )

thanks for reading and feel free to yell at me about your thoughts!!!!!

[violettesiren]

This is a simple poem. for the mothers sisters daughters girls I have never been for the women who clean the Staten Island Ferry for the sleek witches who burn me at midnight in effigy because I eat at their tables and sleep with their ghosts.

These stones in my heart are you of my own flesh whittling me with your sharp false eyes searching for prisms falling out of your head laughing me out of your skin because you do not value your own self nor me.

This is a simple poem I will have no mother no sister no daughter when I am through and only the bones are left see how the bones are showing the shape of us at war clawing our own flesh out to feed the backside of our masklike faces that we have given the names of men.

Donald DeFreeze I never knew you so well as in the eyes of my own mirror did you hope for blessing or pardon lying in bed after bed or was your eye sharp and merciless enough to endure beyond the deaths of wanting?

With your voice in my ears with my voice in your ears try to deny me I will hunt you down through the night veins of my own addiction through all my unsatisfied childhoods as this poem unfolds like the leaves of a poppy I have no sister no mother no children left only a tideless ocean of moonlit women in all shades of loving learning a dance of open and closing learning a dance of electrical tenderness no father no mother would teach them.

Come Sambo dance with me pay the piper dangling dancing his knee high darling over your wanting under your bloody white faces come Bimbo come Ding Dong watch the city falling down down down lie down bitch slow down nigger so you want a cozy womb to hide you to pucker up and suck you back safely well I tell you what I’m gonna do next time you head for the hatchet really need some nook to hole up in look me up I’m the ticket taker on a queen of rollercoasters I can get you off cheap.

This is a simple poem sharing my head with dreams of a big black woman with jewels in her eyes she dances her head in a golden helmet arrogant plumed her name is Colossa her thighs are like stanchions or flayed hickory trees embraced in armour she dances in slow earth shaking motions that suddenly alter and lighten as she whirls laughing the tooled metal over her hips comes to an end and at the shiny edge an astonishment of soft black curly hair.

Scar by Audre Lorde

[helltechnicality]

@pareidolah asked: charles is just… gonna kiss edwin, just because he can.

quiet nights are uncommon now that the agency has grown from two boys to the small army they have found. but that did not mean that it was an unwelcome relief from the back to back cases. edwin enjoys his work, sure. but sometimes he wonders if they have lost the reason the agency was founded in the bureaucracy.

he is sat on the couch in one of his dressed down outfits. tie absent, white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and altogether at peace with the silence of the room. he does not like to be without his suit of armour often but charles is a special case especially since they finally stopped dancing around the candles they held for each other.

at first, the ghost believes charles merely wants to hear him read. after all, edwin presently has a first edition copy of his dark materials which he has finally gotten around to reading. so when charles sidles up to him on the couch he slides back to let the other boy get comfortable tangling their forms together. it is still a new sensation and he takes a second once the other boy has stopped moving to acquaint himself with it. charles is pressed against him from ankle to cheek and is looking at him like an astrologer looks at the stars.

the book almost slips from his hand when lips meet his own. his eyes slipped closed and he forgets all about daemons and the machinations of metatron. instead focusing no how sparks flash between the two. the kiss breathes life into a boy long dead and he craves it. if they both were not professionals on the job he is sure many cases would have been derailed by various degrees of make out sessions.

when the kiss ends and charles pulls back edwin's lips chase before he settles for resting his forehead against the other boys' to stare into his eyes. " hello to you too. " his voice is breathless despite the lack of a need for breath when dead.

[which-hospital]

✧ Casualty Review Masterlist ✧

The most recent episode is listed first, with the one that aired the longest ago at the end. My reviews, or at least non-spite reviews, have been a bit thin on the ground since the start of this year, if I didn't review an episode I've linked to posts tagged with it's name and if I didn't post about an episode at all I've put it in bold.

✧ ????

I hope I actually start doing reviews again after this hiatus...

??x?? | Christmas Special!! | 28/12/24

✧ Storm Damage

I didn't get any better at consistently doing reviews or at least discussing episodes this miniseries so I've made a tag for it too.

SDx12 | Freedom | 07/09/24

SDx11 | The Truth Will Set You Free | 07/09/24

SDx10 | The Right Amount | 31/08/24

SDx09 | Absolution | 24/08/24

SDx08 | Downfall | 17/08/24

SDx07 | All For Love | 10/08/24

SDx06 | Man’s Best Friend | 03/08/24

SDx05 | Duped | 27/07/24

SDx04 | Ghosts | 20/07/24

SDx03 | After the Flood | 13/07/24

SDx02 | Sinking Ships - Day 2 | 22/06/24

SDx01 | Sinking Ships - Day 1 | 15/06/24

✧ Breaking Point

I did not, as far as I remember, write any actual reviews during this miniseries because I was largely VERY ANNOYED at the writers throughout it! Here's: a post I made about all the things I did like about this miniseries, and a tag for every post I made ranting about how this miniseries handled Teddy's storyline. I would separate them into individual episodes, but it's mostly just a blur of the same complaints increasing in intensity over three months.

✧ A History of Violence

Charlie (AHOVx12) Tag

AHOVx11 | Trauma | 09/03/24

Easy Way Out (AHOVx10) Tag

AHOVx09 | Haunted | 24/02/24

Last Words (AHOVx08) Tag

AHOVx07 | Willing and Able | 10/02/24

AHOVx06 | Take the Strain | 03/02/24

AHOVx05 | Liability | 27/01/24

AHOVx04 | Red Flags | 20/01/24

AHOVx03 | Barriers | 13/01/24

AHOVx02 | Aftershock | 06/01/24

AHOVx01 | Tinderbox | 30/12/23

✧ Driving Force

DFx11 | Switzerland | 16/09/23

DFx10 | Too Much, Too Young | 16/09/23

DFx09 | Hard Pill | 09/09/23

DFx08 | One Hundred Years | 02/09/23

DFx07 | The Ostrich Effect | 02/09/23

DFx06 | Aftermath | 26/08/23

DFx05 | Too Young, Too Soon | 19/08/23

DFx04 | Pull Together, Push Apart | 12/08/23

DFx03 | Dog Days | 05/08/23

DFx02 | Little White Lies | 29/07/23

DFx01 | Hooke’s Law | 22/07/23

✧ Welcome to the Warzone

WTTWx13 | How to Save a Life | 15/07/23

WTTWx12| Burning Bridges | 01/07/23

WTTWx11 | Lose Yourself | 24/06/23

WTTWx10 | Deliverance | 17/06/23

WTTWx09 | Separation | 10/06/23 

WTTWx08 | Armour-Plated | 03/06/23

WTTWx07 | Once Bitten | 27/05/23

WTTWx06 | Believe Me | 20/05/23

WTTWx05 | Keep Breathing | 06/05/23

WTTWx04 | Screwdriver | 29/04/23

WTTWx03 | With a Bullet | 22/04/23

WTTWx02 | Pride and Prejudice | 15/04/23

WTTWx01 | Welcome to the Warzone | 08/04/23

✧ Spite Reviews

02x04 | Cry for Help | 03/10/87

02x01 | A Little Lobbying | 13/09/87

NOVELx01 | Casualty: How it all Began | Published 1986

✧ 80s and 90s Casualty Thoughts

Part 8 - First episode of Series 7

Part 7 - Tag for Posts about the Casualty Novels

Part 6 - Late Series 3 and Early Series 4

Part 5 - Mid Series 3

Part 4 - Late Series 2 and Early Series 3

Part 3 - Mid/Late Series 2

Part 2 - Late Series 1 and Early Series 2

Part 1 - Mid Series 2

[weatherman667]

Ghost of Tsushima:  Items and Progression

Enough whining, let’s get onto my ideas.

In the game there is a white dye merchant who lives on the top of the tallest mountain.  The hat comes free from an amour set upgrade.  If you buy the red dye for the set it turns red.  If you buy the white dye, it... doesn’t change.  In fact, in order to dye it white you have to play in NG+ and give ghost flowers to a demons.  This is just silly.  Just let more things be dyed.

As for masks, in one of the tales you have to fight a spirit wearing a Tengu mask.  I got so excited, only to be disappointed that you don’t get the mask when completing the tale.  There’s another where you think you are hunting down a Kappa, and again, don’t get the mask.  There is a couple dozen times the game could have given you masks and refuses to.

Crafting:  Instead of low ammo limits that you have to rely on random drops to replenish, let’s add a simple crafting system for you ammunition.  To get Black Powder, you have to raid Mongol strongholds.  To get wood you have to... pick up wood like you do with bamboo.  Or just use Bamboo.  I keep maxing out my Bamboo.  The poison can be made from the ingredients you pick up.  Obviously, this would allow you to increase the ammunition size.

Equipment Weight:  Instead of being strapped like an old-school FPS protagonist, have an equipment weight.  This weight is divided into levels, and if you pass a level, you get slower.  Like Dark Souls.  Because Ghost of Tsushima is basically an anti-Dark Souls.  Instead of ruined Western kingdoms being written by Japanese, it’s a battle you can win, because historically it was won, (by typhoons, but that’s another story), and is written by Western developers.  The heavy armours, Broken, Clan, Gosaku, Sakai, Mongol, all have weight and provide protection.  You might say this will unbalance the armours, and yes.

Instead of a three pre-selected traits that upgrade in a pre-selected pattern, you get 3 traits, but the heavier armours also increase health and defence.  Every time you upgrade, you get to decide what trait gets upgrade.  We can even add four, five, or six traits, that you can pick and choose what they get upgrade.

But, you might say, this will lock you into a path!  On NG+ you can get another copy of the armour that you can upgrade differently.  Or have an NPC blacksmith that had an epiphany that destruction is an inherent part of creation, and can undo your upgrades.

Likewise, the lesser charms are instead replaced with stat progression.  Get this, every time you level up, (which is 100% what happens, no matter how much this game tries to pretend it’s not).

Strength:  Increases you melee damage, melee stagger, bow stagger., throwing damage, throwing stagger, and throwing distance.

Precision:  Increases you melee and bow damage.

Constitution:  Gives you an upgrade to HP, resolve, and equipment load.

Wisdom:  Increases stealth, ghost weapon damage, and increases the size of the headshot hitbox.

Clarity:  Increases the range of Focused Hearing, bow damage, concentration, and standoff window.

Intelligence:  Increases resource gain and allows critical strike.

Agility:  Foot speed and ghost damage.

Now for simplifying the complicated control system.

So, for Ghost Weapons, the game LIES TO YOU.  You don’t just press R1, you HOLD R1.  When you do, it goes into a slow time for you to target it.

So, when you hold down, you have four places you can map:  [], /\, O, X.  The game slows down as you decide what to use.  The game automatically has a throwing arc if you have any arced weapons equiped.

For four ghost weapons you can equipment.  But, there’s only four quickfire ghost weapons, why do we need to map them?  Okay, first off, get rid of Kunai, (don’t worry, it’s going to come back).

Weapon Throw:  Throw whatever weapon you have in-hand.

Shuriken:  Ninja stars.  Basically works like Kunai does.

Sticky Bomb:  Ambivalent, but leaving it unchanged.

Wind Chime:  Can be upgraded to Poisoned Wind Chime, (why the hell do you need a Charm for this?)

Fire Crackers:  Not just used to attract enemies, but also to distract them.

Smoke Bombs:  I never use them, but don’t see a reason to change them.

Caltrops:  Slows down and distracts enemies.

When you have R1 pressed, and hold R2 you will prep a Black Powder bomb.  It will be thrown when you release.  If you just release R1 you will drop it, which is useful if you are running.

All of this equipment has a weight, and you have to decide what maximum levels you want.  You can’t go passed the limit of your container, but the limits are basically doubled.

But, what about Way of the Flame?  R2 (first) + L2 (second).

While we’re at it, R2 + (-up-), (down), (left), (rght) allows you to change your weapon.

You can change bows, (if you want both), along with weapons.

Wait, what?  Isn’t your sword your main weapon?!  You are a Samurai!!!!11111

Ignoring the Ghost aspect of the game, SAMURAIS USED MULTIPLE WEAPONS.  Spears were the common man’s weapons, while naginata were used by women, (and AWESOME FIGHTING MONKS),

Sakai Sword:  The game’s default weapon, to the point it won’t let you fight without it.  I mean, no melee.

Tanto:  Light, quick weapon.  Basically an emergency weapon, if you don’t have another weapon equipped.

Jujutsu:  Light is close-ranged, rapid strikes.  Heavy is longer ranged, more powerful attacks.  Hold /\ for a throw.  The game slows for you to select the target you are throwing them into.

Crane:  Long ranged, powerful attacks.

Viper:  Mediocre except for fact it’s unblockable.

Kunai: Light weapon with decent stagger and can block.  Can carry multiple weapons.  Not recognized as a weapon.

Jo Staff:  Rapid weapon with better a shorter range than the Katana, but higher stagger.  High reduction to recognition.

Short Spear:  Short, thrusting weapon.  Mediocre stats other than the fact it is extremely hard to block with anything other than shields.  Can be thrown.  Moderate reduction to recognition.

Heavy Weapons:  If you have a heavy weapon equipped, and use any other weapon, you have to plant the weapon in the ground.  You can only have one heavy weapon.  If you move away from your heavy weapon planted into the ground, you have to move back to pick it up.  You will automatically pick up the heavy weapon and switch to it.

Enjo’s Naginata:  A copy of the weapon used by the Yamabushi.  They FINALLY have a Yamabushi as a main character, and have him taunt you with his underwhelming combat performance, (I’M NOT INSULTING NORIO, just his combat AI).  Anyway, you pick up his brother’s Naginata along the way.  It has a butt spike for finishing off enemies and planting into the ground.  Quick attacks are quick, but wide sweeping.  Heavy attacks are extremely heavy downward strikes.  Hold /\ and release for an extremely wide-reaching sweep.

Firelance:  You get a broken firelance and have a Japanese woodwright make you a haft with a buttspike.  Quick attacks are slower than Enjo’s, shorter ranged, but have a LOT of stagger.  Heavy attack is once again heavy, over the top attacks.  Hold /\ to prime a shot, that has a short range for a ranged weapon, but deals a LOT of damage and fire.  The shot takes ammunition.

Legendary Yari:  Another relic from an ancient hero that protected Tsushima from somesuch.  Rapid, long-ranged thrusts.  Heavy attacks are much narrower than other heavies.  Hold /\ for a weaker sweep.  Can be thrown.  Must be retrieved after throwing.

Bo Staff:  Counts as a heavy weapon, without any of the weaknessess.  Slows recognition, just not as much as not having a visible weapon.  Moderate recognition reduction.  Does not have to be planted to use other weapons.  High range, moderate damage, decent stagger.  Does prevent other heavy weapons from being equiped.

If you don’t have your sword, or a heavy weapon equipped, recognition takes a lot longer.  Recognition is based off the lowest reduction.

[crispyjenkins]

2/2

part 2 of this round of responses, 'cause they were getting so very long!

@catamaranthenonnewtonianfluid

#I'm glad my silly phrasing is hitting xD #The too big armour - the growing into himself and the bigger growing to fit the shoes#(armour c'mon armour but I have to say shoes) of the mand'alor#The pieces of the clones culture? My heart my heart my HEART#Ghost stories about disappearing but also ghost stories about seeing someone who Disappeared#but they turn the corner before you reach them and are gone#or even the you have lunch with someone in the mess hall and you're worried about your scores being low#and someone comforts you and you note their number or name and you never see them again#but if you mention the conversation a shaken batchmate tells you that you couldn't have talked to them they're gone

#On the front being covered for by someone with paint you don't recognise (too shiny) but others in your squad#when you're looking for them to thank later do and are you sure that's what was on their pauldron cause that's - it couldn't be-#Do you think after too many scary stories in their bunks a clone ever has a full nightmare where they're looking at a brother and the#brother smiles and says it's okay and then their neck elongates and they turn cold and kaminii because I just horrified myself#Oh white is a complicated colour right because it's the clinical the unemotional the fear and struggle to measure up to survive on Kamino#and it's the shinies with their comparative innocence and vulnerability and also between the two an association with death#(cause being in the dark in your bunk with your brothers is safety and maybe you try and spook each other with the dark of the ocean outsid#but the first association is the place least monitored the place closest to your vode to your safety)#(white is death and innocence and black is safety and breathing in sync in the quiet#and it's the wearing only of your kute when it's downtime and you're relaxing and safe safe safe (mostly))

am enamoured by your additions, especially on why white is such a complicated color for the clones, that is SO GOOD

#Crying about the last change of the sheets#gods #The clones living on through patterns and turns of phrase and rituals that spread from Obi-Wan is making me feel So Many Things#remembrance through adoption of pieces of them into your normal and selfhood is a mismash of all those youve known and loved AH its so good

i'm glad these two bits stood out to you, i'm very proud of/happy with them! the sheets changing specifically is entirely my own, and was sort of spur of the moment, but i just. love it so much. care as a love language, chores as one of the very few ways the clones can give to each other, and how do you ritualise mourning with literally nothing physical of that person, not even their armour? i imagine this practice started in Kamino, and then just translated so well into the actual war, in ships and camps. most do remembrances, of course, i imagine that's a bit of Mando culture that spread really easily through the clones, because it's so practical a ritual, requiring nothing physical and not necessitating like location or anything. but then the clones need/want/need rituals of their own, and hey, they're already changing the sheets on the now-empty bunk to get ready for the next occupant, whenever that may be, so why not make it mean something. those closest to the deceased start doing it instead of just anyone, and they all realise it now means something.

i think this is something Obi-Wan didn't learn from his troops until after Umbara, when both Boil and Cody change Waxer's sheets for the last time. Cody lets Boil decide whether or not to explain the significance to Obi-Wan, and it actually helps Obi-Wan process his own grief and guilt for the whole clusterfuck. i imagine Obi-Wan and Boil get really close afterwards, so of course no one is surprised on any front that he and Cody promote Boil to replace Waxer as lieutenant.

i think something about it all would remind Obi-Wan of the Young and their own burial and mourning practices, how little time and space and objects they'd have (i imagine it's Obi-Wan that taught them how to bury a body at all, where and how to do it, when, and to always collect their dead from skirmishes so the Elders don't realise their numbers or how many they're losing). i think the Young have a shrine in the sewers, with a single personal possession of every child that dies, but no one labels them or anything, in almost direct contempt of the Halls of Evidence, so no one can use the dead to further the violence the way the Halls do

sorry for the tangent whoops ANYWAY

#Luminara and Quinlan being so attuned on different ways to the Now and the Then that future Obi no longer registers to their force senses#is nuts and I love it so so much like how concerning can you GET and also it makes sense that something would be strange about you#(a lot a lot of things would be strange about you)#having dropped though time or dimensions - this you is just a little out of phase with the world <3 <3 <3

i agree!! i don't think it's explored enough, especially in a sci-fi settings like star wars, just how WEIRD you'd be after going through time! especially to others that can straight up SENSE that shit! Obi's just lucky two of his closest people can sense (or can't sense, as it were) it all on another level 🧡

#Vhonte being like “DW is dead and how do you know this”#and this spooky verd in the too big armour just looking at her#and going “well if I'm wrong then [way too specific thing] won't be there/happen”

this is EXACTLY the vibe i've going for, especially because Obi-Wan won't be like. excusing his knowledge ever, and specifically won't be lying about it being because of visions or future-sight, so he isn't like. troubled by people not believing him, it's understandable after all, expected even, but he's also on a mission, Obi-Wan has a purpose, a heading he's more sure of than anything else in his entire life, so people can either learn to trust him if not believe him, or they can fall behind.

part of this will be because his sense of Manda will affect his physical awareness (not sure how to describe this, so it'll be extra fun actually working it into the prose), he's not spacey exactly, but his eyes don't focus on the world around him quite right, it's like he's gained this extra sense of the people and the planet, maybe something similar to auras but then also not at all. part of Obi-Wan just doesn't notice how weirded out everyone is by him, because he has a purpose that he feels like he doesn't have time to slow down for. he is marching forward, always, whether the people around him believe him, regardless of if they're following him. he doesn't steamroll people exactly, but he certainly isn't slowing down for them

-

#im very annoyed tumblr ate the back chunk of my tags what a mess but heres the other half which DO lead on from the first which#ANYWAY

rip, my guy, that seems to be happening to us all ✊🏻

#and then of course he's right and the whole thing is unsettling smooth -#if someone jokes that he's obviously in touch with tarre viszla and vhonte is like “he's for sure in touch with fucking SOMETHING”#and you know what#she thinks#maybe he does actually have the past mand'alors feeding him Intel#this day (week#month#year) is already so goddamn weird.

LOVE Vhonte going "he's for sure in touch with fucking SOMETHING" god she'd be so tired after their Keldabe run, just from trying to keep up with Obi-Wan physically and emotionally and goddamn spiritually. she's not desensitised to him yet, not by a longshot, but she's good at rolling with the punches, and at some point during this lil mission, she realises Obi-Wan needs someone who can roll with the punches. she stops doubting whether Oyia Vha was wrong about her specifically needing to have been at the summit. she can be that person for Obi-Wan. she wants to be. Obi-Wan needs her to be, and like i said in the last "update", people are so very ready to be what Obi-Wan believes that they can be

#Oh is this offhand also how vhonte finds out about the kid stealing in general cause#“How do you *know this*” like okay MAYBE you were right about DW not being gone but#Hordes of brainwashed children is a blaster of a different calibre you feel me#Manda says the spooky sad kid knows what's up#Did he escape from death watch and unbrainwash himself?#Is that how he got to melida/Daan in time for the worse verdgoten ever? What the kriff everything that comes up is worse#I'm having a wonderful time <3

hmm hmm maybe this can tie into Vhonte wondering if Jango or someone from the time of the schism mentored Obi-Wan, because there isn't really any other way for him to be so aware/knowledgeable of Jaster's deprogramming... programs (for lack of a better word). Obi-Wan, of course, did so much research post-Mandalore the first time around, and again after Jango's death, but to Vhonte her two options are sort of: a) Obi-Wan was taught by someone involved with Jaster's program itself, or b) Obi-Wan has first-hand experience with brainwashing and a vested interest in past attempts to fix it. maybe Vhonte thinks Melida/Daan was his sort of "graduation" from the Death Watch program but used it to escape?

Vhonte is STRUGGLING trying to make sense of Obi-Wan, because even though he's cin vhetin, she feels like she needs to know more about his past, to know how to help Obi-Wan, to understand why he is the way he is, because like. he's sixteen. he shouldn't even be cin vhetin, he's only been a verd for three years, and everything she does learn makes her wonder how this teenager's squishy growing brain isn't oozing out his ears with trauma.

she hopes the Manda and the Ka'ra know what they're doing, asking so very much of him, and then asking for even more.

#also this is not super related but#I keep thinking about the jedi as academics at a conference#and you know that one tumblr post about the Edgar Allan Poe panel and discovering that “we do not talk about the orangutan”#on account of the like fisticuffs and snideness and whatnot I bet there's a Jedi version#like some poor young knight decides to name drop the reading they did laSt night in their first “being before the council” experience#and they want to make a good and learnéd impression and just . Chaos erupts.#turns out thats a heresy MAYBE#or foundational to the code#depends on how you translate these two phrases but the author was writing in their third language#its a whole thing#Arguments in seven languages and three varieties of hand signs#the most passive aggressive politeness you can imagine cause we don't shout here#its only 9am and mace is so tired

must have read about the orangutan thing at some point, because i got the Vibe of what you meant, but did go look it up again and i'm so glad i did because YEAH i can only imagine what Jedi debates look like, especially because they have written academic history spanning literal thousands of years.

-

okay entirely unrelated to all of that, i don't know why but it's only just occurred to me how reluctant the Old Guard, at least those that don't blame or hate Jango too much, would be when faced with another actual contender for Mand'alor. they've been holding out hope for what, four years? that Jango would come back to them (for them). even with Worro Wren confirming Obi-Wan is backed by both the Manda and the Ka'ra, oh man, some of them would fucking hate it. lots of complicated feelings all around, maybe even some like Silas (who i have still leading Grunt squad, in honour of Jango) getting pissed at the Ka'ra, feeling like their ancestors have abandoned Jango

so Obi-Wan will probably need to reveal his conversation with Jango at some point, but oh boy are people not going to be happy about it, and likely won't believe him. oh the CONTENTION this would all cause, because Obi-Wan won't lie to them, though he does try to be delicate about it all, but he would need to tell them Jango is dar'manda, by his own choice, and the Old Guard would need to learn to accept that. maybe Silas takes his Grunts and tries to hunt Jango down, and Jango basically tells him to fuck off. i like to think Silas doesn't actually manage to find him, but Jango hits him with a cease and desist message, probably puts his foot WAY up his mouth and only proves Obi-Wan's story and oh now i'm having so many Silas feelings oh no

also unrelated, i also really need a name for Obi-Wan's faction, especially as it expands to include more than the Old Guard. was playing with Troch Mando'ade or Troch'ade, with troch being an archaic of "certainly" like saying "verily", but couldn't figure out how to make it "certain" or "certainty", if we're going with that translation. but i really like the idea of them like. honoring the "True" part of the Haat'ade, while accepting they're a different faction than those that followed Jaster and Jango, because it is in Obi-Wan's plans to take over leadership of the whole sector, which very much wasn't the True Mandalorians' intention (or at least from what we see in legends/canon). i also love the idea of it being an archaic word, because it will absolutely stir the pot on "is Obi-Wan a reincarnation of a previous Mand'alor" theories, and you can pry "word nerd" Obi-Wan from my cold dead hands. poetic motherfucker and all that (which i have a pervasive headcanon across multiple works that he gets the poetry thing from Quinlan, and only after Obi-Wan is a senior padawan).

-

and then also @skyshinigamialchemist here’s some more food 🧡

and then also also @ranahan love your force meta!! i don’t have the spoons for a full response but i greatly enjoyed reading your thoughts!!

mandalore the young cont.

original post/discussion here! it was just getting really long and i for one hate scrolling so far, so. here's this. have also added this au to my masterlist in my pinned post!

@malcontent-crow

#i had a whole wall of tags and it didnt save! lets try this again#i am loving this. the potential for world building and the consequences of knowing more than you should (literally)

#i had forgotten that DW wasnt in peoples thoughts as a threat during the Clan Wars#and the idea that Pre was so far underground with the movement is a very good thing to remember as well! #on one hand you have this driven and spirited young verd that is inspiring Clans to start reassessing who they are fighting and why#on the other you have this clanless outsider that knows waaaaay too much about all the potential major players and is saying#that this major threat isnt really as gone as everybody thought and hoped. sith parallels out the wahoo for ppor obi#and hes standing there watching them all argue over his head about this threat that he KNOWS needs to be dealt with#he is seeing himself as pretty on par or above with the Old Guard in terms of mental age or prowess or large scale battles#so he sees them doubt him maybe even to his face and knows he'll need to get things started on his own

#and becauae everything in the galaxay has at least one person watching it from the outside... how quickly does the news of a jedi padawan#going off the rails on this mission get out? whos keeping track and who points fingers at the jedi for attempting to control the outcome#of the war of their historical enemies in their favor? the senate (read sith) want mandalore defanged before their war but what does it look#like the jedi want? how does the council answer for his actions? do they condemn or condone him? do they try to stay out of it?

#the world building potential of the Manda and the Ka'ra is delicious.#what does it mean to be a mando or darmanda? can you walk around and have people look at you and know you have failed in your oaths?

#and ouch! Obi-Wan considering the fact that he has never been allowed to be his own person.#from padawan to knight/master and then a general and councilor and sheesh. hes really never had the chance to see who he is as a person#outside of his responsibilities to everybody around him and right now hes a war worn adult in a war worn teens body#hes always had somebody else there. as a battle companion a teacher a student as somebody to protect and guard and guide#and now he has this entire culture looking at him and waiting for his next move. and im guess it still feels like less than a burden than#the care and raising of an entire child on his own. sure he had the temple resources and other jedi to lean on but anakin always looked to#him first to solve any problem or teach him something new or cuddle him after nightmares as hes trying to hide his own dreams#and grief and flounding to find his footing as an independent adult

#so right now hes looking around at the entire mando population and realizing thats he might need to reshape himself again for somebody else#to make himself what others need and knowing he can and will do it if it means saving somebody else

#and when exactly did he come back from the war? did he have satine die in his arms and see the ruin that is madalore after a pacifist reign?#does he see the potential for that ruin to happen right now if he doesnt succeed? where does he see himself in regards to the jedi?#has he considered the consequences of stepping up to be the Mand'alor to this culture he has never seen as his own?#has he let himself think about the choices he needs to make and how some things you cant always come out the other side the same as before?

(following the trend of each of these getting longer, this has hit just under 5,000 words, so just a heads up lol? so much world building is happening in this one)

sorry you had to rewrite so much! that last exchange was cursed, it seems lmao

it's so easy to write Obi-Wan as prescient, or the route I'm going with in Dha Kar'ta, so i think it's a fun change-up to have him knowledgeable for completely different reasons! I'm actually going to avoid visions almost at all for this Obi, but everyone else certainly won't know the difference, and he doesn't tell them otherwise (though he won't encourage it either. I do actually have a Naruto time travel where Nart pretends to be psychic à la Shawn Spencer, so that isn't the route I wanna go for this Obi). the consequences of knowing too much, indeed

hmmm many of these questions depend on how deep into Jedi and galactic politics I wanna go, and I'm not sure it's very deep at all. or at least, not very dragged out. i'll explain in a mo

SO first: yes, this Obi is from after Satine dies, in 19 BBY, maybe a month or so after, but before the bombing of the Temple so before Ahsoka left the Order. He was back on the front, no time to properly mourn, though he was doing his best, and was meditating on the whole war, but especially the Sith and their hand in everything that happened on Mandalore. It went deeper than Maul, he knew, had been going on longer than Maul and even Dooku, and it occurred to Obi-Wan that the Sith either wanted a Mandalore that will side with them but not be too much a threat, or they wanted them not a threat at all. He realised his hand in that, in helping put the New Mandalorians on the throne that led to the demilitarisation of the entire sector. Obi-Wan had practically teed Mandalore up for Dooku and then Maul's interference, and if the Republic won the war, he could all too easily see them doing another excision. won't get too much into it to save it for the fic, but he is mediating with something beskar, and he gets a lil too deep into the Force, and of course this is post-Mortis so...... 👀

so this Obi-Wan, back in time, is helping Mandalore to prevent any more Sith machinations in the future, to change the future for the whole galaxy, but even before he's Chosen, he realises he's also doing all of this for Mandalore. for his own hand in its destruction, for the Jedi's hand in the Excision, for his personal connection to Satine drawing Maul to it. it's for atonement, for reparation, and also because Mandalore deserves to be saved, and Obi-Wan is in a place he can help do that. it isn't just about the health of the galaxy, anymore.

I usually shy away from having Obi-Wan leave the Order, no matter what AU I'm throwing him in because I believe in the fundamental goodness of the Order and the people in it, and Obi-Wan is fundamentally a Jedi, one of the best, one of the best. however, in this case, I don't think he can have his cake and eat it too. if Dooku had to leave the Order to accept his countship, then Obi-Wan would have to leave to become Mand'alor. Jedi are (supposed to be) politically neutral, and Obi-Wan is all too aware he'd nullified his own neutrality the moment he decided to go for Keldabe to find Jango.

one of my favorite... tropes? in time travel fic is Obi using his future fellow councilmembers' access codes to get into things he shouldn't, and he certainly knows how to work the Order's internal systems in his favor, so he

wait so i was gonna have him go in and tender his resignation from the Order directly into the systems, and backdate it for before the Mandalore mission, so that anything he's done on Mandalore so far cannot be blamed on the Jedi BUT WHAT IF he just. deletes himself. like completely. from admin to the Archives to the crèche's own internal systems to the Shadow's private servers, Obi-Wan Kenobi was never a Jedi, was never a Temple bastard, was never Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan. his mission records are all in Qui-Gon's name now, his medical file simply doesn't exist, his crècheling clan is listed as simply having been a person short compared to other clans that year. he goes so far as to delete comm histories with him or mentioning him, it's like Obi-Wan Kenobi just doesn't exist anymore.

he does this first thing after leaving Jango, he spends the entire week back to Mandalore ensuring he's been completely erased from absolutely anything relating to the Jedi, and then uses his future councilmember knowledge (and lessons from Quinlan) to erase himself from Republic systems, too. any planet he'd helped as a padawan will suddenly have no records of him as having been there with his master, so the senate or Order can't subpoena them for the info, though Obi-Wan knows he can't have gotten everything (such as any planet not in the Republic, or who don't have holonet access to their files, or both, like Melida/Daan), but he figures he's done enough to absolve the Order if anyone comes knocking about what he's doing.

he buries his lightsaber in the deserts of Mandalore, not knowing that in his old future, he'd have done the same on Tatooine.

so as far as the Jedi are aware: Obi-Wan went on a mission with Qui-Gon that (predictably) went to hell, got separated from his master for weeks to months, then suddenly changed, at the same time their Jedi with the highest prescience collapsed due to his visions, which have also changed. Obi-Wan left Qui-Gon behind to hightail it through the Mandalore sector, and Qui-Gon couldn't catch up or find him, and then Obi-Wan disappeared from anyone's radars for two weeks. then Qui-Gon senses him reenter the Mandalore system, right before breaking his training bond with him, and the Order wakes up to Obi-Wan completely erased from their systems like he never existed in the first place. everything is going so so wrong, and yet. and yet.

and yet the Force is telling them all that this is right, that this is the least Dark course of action, that whatever Obi-Wan is doing is indeed the Will of the Force

so the Order mourns one of their own, and tells Qui-Gon to let him go. and then the Order ups their cyber security because what.

i think he leaves an unsigned letter/comm message for a few people. Bant, Quinlan, Mace, Feemor, his old crèchemaster, Yoda, maybe Jocasta Nu. it's short, basically thanking them for their hand in his upbringing (Feemor hasn't even met him before so is very confused by this), apologising for leaving abruptly, but to follow the Will of the Force, he had to leave; the first part of the message is all the same, but ends with little individual notes. he apologises to Madam Nu for fucking with her archives and hopes she can one day forgive him; he asks her to keep her friends close and to mend the tension between her and Dooku, that Obi-Wan should not know about. He tells Yoda that the future is always in motion but they must move with it; he asks Yoda to meditate on his dwindling lineages and learn to accept all that he cannot control. He reminds Quinlan to wear his gloves and asks him to thank Tholme for looking out for him when Qui-Gon wouldn't or didn't; he thanks him for their years together, and asks him to check in on Feemor every now and then. He apologises to Mace for all the shatter-points he likely caused and will continue to cause, and suggests he put a permanent reminder in his comm to remember to refill his migraine prescription that sixteen year-old Obi should not know about. He asks Bant to look out for a young Togruta initiate that will join in seven years, and suggests Bant might like the healer track rather than the knight corps; he thanks her for being his longest and most dearly-held friend. He thanks his crèchemaster for realising his visions were more than dreams (which will inadvertently lend credence to that theory for why Obi-Wan changed so suddenly), for supporting him when Bruck was at his nastiest, and for always being someone he could turn to even after he became a padawan. For Feemor, Obi-Wan apologises that they hadn't had the chance to meet before then, and for the relationship they won't have anymore; Feemor has no idea who this message is from, until he starts hearing the gossip that Obi-Wan Kenobi has left the Order again. He too mourns never getting to know his padawan brother.

and Obi-Wan sends Qui-Gon a message, of course, thanking him for his teachings, apologising for "leading him on" as an apprentice, leaving and coming back so many times only to permanently leave this time. he reminds Qui to reach out to his friends and his support system, asks him to at least consider talking to a mind or soul healer about Xanatos (knowing that once it gets out that Obi-Wan is a planetary leader, it will likely badly trigger Qui-Gon), and asks him to at least try and mend his relationship with Dooku, though understands if that's not something Qui-Gon is willing to do. asks him to keep Satine safe, but to deeply think about why the Republic is so intent on helping her faction, and why Qui-Gon had questioned so little of the New Mandalorian ethos.

so by the time Obi-Wan finds the Old Guard, he's broken from the Order completely, has buried his saber, has broken his training bond, has cut his braid. I think he shaves his head entirely to let it grow out at the same rate, because the padawan cut is *Eliot Spencer voice* Very Distinctive. he paints his armour white for, yes, his men, his vod'e, but also for cin vhetin. he can't be the man he was before, nor the teen he was before, neither are who Mandalore needs, and as long as he can stay true to his morals and upbringing, he will be what Mandalore needs him to be.

okay now onto the Manda vs. the Ka'ra vs. the Force. the Force is a scientific concept of an energy connecting absolutely everything in the universe, and the Jedi have a religious view on the scientific concept. for both purposes, the Force just is. I really like the idea of other non-Jedi ideas just being different aspects of the Force, different religions and cultures based on the same scientific concepts. for Mandalorians, their "aspect" of the Force is the Manda, the collective souls of every Mando'ade that's ever marched on. just what it means to be Mando'ade has varied greatly through history, and is varied between different groups even now, but none of that changes what the Manda is, which is an aspect of the Force only Mando'ade can touch. sort of like their beliefs of it being separate from the Force have made it so?

now I haven't really talked about this before, but from the beginning of me writing Mandalorian related things, i've separated Ka'ra from ka'ra, which was a little bit me misremembering there was another term for "stars", and then it became it's own thing. kar, meaning "star", with it's plural kar'e or kare, to me, means physical stars, the way we'd call our sun a star. ka'ra, uncapitalised, is the more poetic and/or spiritual "stars", the way we might say something is "written in the stars", which actually aligns with how jate'kara is spelled; for my writing, i've used this form for Mandalorian Force-sensitives being Star-touched ka'ra-touched. Ka'ra, capitalised, is that "ruling council of fallen kings", the Mandalorian myth and it, the way I've always interpreted it, is a separate part of the Manda made up of specifically the souls of every Mand'alor already marched on. So, Tor Vizsla could have joined the Manda after death, but not the Ka'ra; make sense? all that ka'ra vs Ka'ra worldbuilding was done very early in my writing for star wars, and has since expanded to include the idea of the Manda as something separate, and I would now actually consider Manda-touched over Star-touched to describe Force sensitive Mando'ade, because that's really what I think Mandalorians would consider causes their supernatural powers: ancestors rather than the stars.

so what does that mean for this fic? the Manda is directly influenced by all those that consider themselves Mandalorian, Force-sensitive or not. it is, however, not affected by New Mandalorians, unless they worship the Manda in some facsimile, and I think many, many, many do not, not the way they were raised to. this worship looks different for every clan and every individual, and I've always interpreted it as more of a broad spiritual practice across the whole culture rather than a religion, per se, the way a real-world broader culture might pray at shrines at New Years even if individuals themselves or their family aren't religious. this is what I'm referencing when I say the Will of the People: the alive Mando'ade and their choices and emotions affecting and influencing the Manda, the collective amalgamation of every passed-on Mando'ade, and it's when these two are in tandem that they "pick" a Mand'alor. HOWEVER, such a pick is also up to the Ka'ra, the Mand'alor'e that have all marched on; to one day enter the Ka'ra themselves, a Mand'alor must be "picked" by both the People/the Manda, and the Ka'ra. Tor would be "picked" by a significant part of the People and the Manda, and so would Jaster have been, but (according to me, myself, and i, obviously), only Jaster had been chosen by the Ka'ra. Pre is "Mand'alor" only in name, only in a tenuous loyalty existing in House Vizsla and Death Watch, not even by the Manda; just simple human (et al) loyalty. Jango had a weaker "pick" from the Manda than Jaster did, but was picked by the Ka'ra, meaning if he did not declare himself dar'manda (even just internally; I don't think he's ever said it out loud), he would have joined the Ka'ra after death; if he ever reconnects with himself as a Mandalorian, I like to think he'd have that chance again. Canon Jango, though, who went on to make the clones? Absolutely not.

what does this all mean for Obi-Wan? he'd spent weeks inadvertently drumming up support in the people and therefore the Manda, and maybe most haven't really looked at him and thought "sure I'd follow him as Mand'alor", but they have looked at him and thought "that one has mandokar, that one wants what's best for Mandalore, that one is touched by destiny". I dunno, man, like. Obi-Wan is their hope before he is their leader. That will make all the difference when he does end up uniting them. His searching out Jango had made Jango finally confront that he feels dar'manda, until then he hadn't really lost the Ka'ra's support, but that severs that connection. and now the Ka'ra are without a Mand'alor, but look at that, there's a mandokar'la little idiot right there, already strong in the Manda, already rallying hope and purpose, already so invested in the nurturing and the future of Mandalore, how could the Ka'ra not choose him?

I posed the question previously whether or not Mando'ade can tell who has been chosen to be Mand'alor, and I think I've ironed out what that'll mean for this fic. non-Force sensitive Mando'ade will have this sense when near their Mand'alor, a subconscious and inherent trust in them, and indeed, some will be disturbed by this and fight it. that's alright, that's their right. Some never clock this extra sense, some are aware of it always, some just chalk it up to "gut feelings" and the like. The more spiritual or religious Mandos maybe put a little more stock in this feelings, I think especially goran'e and other spiritual leaders, but the fact that the Manda can technically pick more than one person at a time (like Tor and Jaster, and then Jango), this extra sense isn't a perfect indicator of a properly chosen Manda'lor.

now. what about Force sensitive Mando'ade? Well, the Manda is an aspect of the Force, and is in fact how said Force sensitive Mando'ade connect to the Force, by going through the Manda, first. their relationship with sensitivity is inherently different from others in the galaxy, at least those that connect to it directly. they are the ones that can sense or see if someone is chosen by the Ka'ra, depending on their sensitivity. Some see the ghostly line of previous Mand'alor'e stretched out behind them (like the Avatar cycle lmao), some see a wavering crown of stars around their head, some just sense there is a duplicity (/neutral) to their Force presence that doesn't exist in anyone else. how common is Force sensitivity in Mandalorian space? not fuckin very. Jaster had three in his entire faction of aprox. 2 million (fanon number), at least that were aware they were sensitive. Jango only had a few more, and only because he had gained a couple hundred thousand more followers before Galidraan. so i'll make the nearly-arbitrary number that Force sensitive Mandos are 1 in 1,000,000, across the entire sector. by some calculations, in the whole galaxy at around the time of the Clone Wars the number of Force sensitives is 1 in 5,000,000 but these calculations do not generally include societies and species with a near or 100% chance of Force sensitivity, because we simply don't have the data for it. does this all make Mandos slightly more likely to be Force sensitive than others, by my own numbers? sorta. which i'm making an issue of underreporting, based on Mandalore not being a part of the Republic, and also contention with the Jedi and Sith; they don't consider those Manda-touched to be Force sensitive, and with the way I've built this, they aren't exactly wrong.

for the purposes of this story, there are maybe eight Manda-touched Mando'ade in the Mandalore system at this time, and all but one are goran'e. that single non-armorer is part of the Old Guard. I have the roster for the Old Guard decided, so I'm debating whether the Manda-touched one is Cort Davin (a journeyman protector), or one of the women. Instinct wants Vhonte Tervho, but I have plans for her to be related to the goran Obi-Wan got his armour done by, who I wanted to be one of the seven Force sensitive armorers, soooo. lmao how fucked would it be if Isabet Reau is the Force sensitive one? I like the angst of that, since I definitely do not plan on redeeming her, but I kind of want the only Old Guard that can sense Obi-Wan is Chosen by the Ka'ra to be really quiet and accepting of it, while everyone else is arguing. hmmm I have an unnamed Wren as part of the Guard, that I haven't fleshed anything out for yet; perhaps them?

okay I think I've solidified what it makes a Mandalorian, at least for the function of this fic. it is tied to the Resol'nare, and following it, which does allow those who had Chosen Tor Vizsla as their Mand'alor to technically still be following the Resol'nare, and are therefore not dar'manda. at least not for that. but part of the reason the Resol'nare is even able to determine who has a Mandalorian soul, is because they believe it does. Those alive and those dead influence the functionality and reality of the Manda, which also allows for those pre-Resol'nare to still exist in the Manda. What causes someone to become dar'manda, if they are technically following the Resol'nare?

maybe it's reductive, or over-simplified, or maybe even too broad, but it makes sense to me and allows for many many different types of people to still fail, and this is obviously not the only way to become dar'manda, but one thing that will always strip someone of their Mando soul? treatment of children. caring for children. not harming children. this allows many of Death Watch to still maintain their Mando souls, but still be fucked up awful people in other ways. It allows even True Mandalorians to have lost their souls and not realised it because they otherwise adhered to the Resol'nare, because they'd chosen to interpret "defending oneself and family" and "raising your children as Mandalorians" to not include other peoeple's children. Or maybe they were abusive in the belief they were caring for their children. This would also make every single one of the Cuy'val Dar dar'manda, which I think is a fascinating concept.

to answer your question directly, no, one cannot look at someone and know they're dar'manda, even the Force/Manda sensitive ones. one will only know in death, whether or not they have a place in the Manda.

NOW what does this mean for New Mandalorians?? well, by technicality and the way I've set the Manda up, one can interpret the Resol'nare in ways that could align with New Mandos. Perhaps they interpret "armour" as more than specifically "beskar'gam", maybe they wear armourweave or other protective fabrics. Maybe they interpret "defending one's family" as putting down arms instead of raising them, in order to create a peaceful future for their children. I think there are plenty of New Mandos that technically tick off all the boxes, and believe in themselves and their fellows so much that the Manda is like "yeah sure why not, we'll make that count". I think some tenants are more easily... bent, like swearing to the duchy in place of the Mand'alor, but I think an easy one New Mandos miss, is "speak Mando'a." I think many New Mandos were all too quick to switch to Basic for everything except religious and spiritual ceremonies, and I think those already in the Manda would find that very hard to forgive. I actually get into this a little in Dha Kar'ta very soon, but for this fic, i'll have Satine not outright outlawing Mando'a, but it is socially heavily discouraged. you're not allowed to speak it in the palace unless in aforementioned ceremonies, you cannot fill out paperwork in anything but Basic, you're not allowed to use Mando'a titles (including Mand'alor), you're not allowed to teach it to your children. no outright like. punishments for speaking it in public, but if your kids are caught, there are repercussions, including investigation into how else you're raising your kids, and if you're found to be doing anything else, they can take your kids from you. not every New Mando agrees with this, of course, and go about adhering to the Resol'nare as best they can in secret, but so many do give up the language by convincing themselves it's not as important as the other tenants and, well, the duchy hasn't steered them all wrong yet, has it?

okay so on the subject of what the outside galaxy is seeing. I like the headcanon/trope/idea of like. the one thing all factions of Mandalorians agreeing on is fuck everyone else. oh, the New Mandos will emulate the Core and the Republic, but they aren't the Republic nor want to be, and this animosity extends to keeping as many internal Mandlorian issues just that: internal. no faction can keep news from leaving the system or the sector, obviously, but there also isn't a lot of interest in Mandalorian news? "oh look all the Mandos are fighting again", except that's been the standard for like. actual thousands of years. I like when fic have people outside the sector not evening knowing there are different factions, so I'll be doing that here, too, and I like the idea of non-Republic sectors having their own holonets, separate from the Republic one. so like, if Obi-Wan happens to go a little viral during his mad dash to Keldabe, that would be on the Mandalorian holonet, not the Republic one, so even if Obi-Wan was visibly still a Jedi (and he wasn't), actual news of him wouldn't reach the Mid and Inner Rims until like. possible years after it happens.

could this maybe be expedited by Sith machinations? absolutely, though I'm not sure I want to go that route, since I don't think the Sith are overmuch interested in Mandalore at this point, at least not in any hands-on capacity. I'm unclear on whether them funding Death Watch is fanon or not, but it is a headcanon I subscribe to, and I think they'd have stopped funding DW after Galidraan, to cause worse infighting and prevent DW from gaining enough power to actually restart their imperial conquering days. Palpatine has been senator for about ten years by this point, but has very little political power overall, and Demask would be looking basically anywhere but Mandalore at this point in time, both of them having written it off until they actively need something from the sector. if anyone had clocked Obi-Wan as a Jedi, this all would have gone very differently, news would have spread much further and quicker and I think undoubtedly would have reached Palpatine, but since I have Obi-Wan just... cutting ties to anything Jedi, news of him remains in-sector. is this perhaps unrealistic? maybe, but I kind of want to focus on Mandalore and not worry about galactic-wide politics for once, lmao, actually very much like Obi-Wan is doing. however, he will clock a lack of Sith interference and thinks That's Very Weird.

haven't decided how he finds Palpatine out yet, but I think it'll have to do with his Manda senses being different than his Force ones, maybe the Ka'ra even gives him a few tips or gifts to sense Sith since they've allied and fought with them so much in the past. regardless, that'll be after he's become Mand'alor and united the clans.

now to actual plot progression! Obi-Wan meets up with the Old Guard, they don't know what to make of him other than "he's kriffing weird. and young. and creepy. and probably Manda-touched." whatever other verd is Manda-touched will see him blessed by the Ka'ra, which causes them to look inwards more closely and realise they trust Obi-Wan inexplicably, which means they're blessed by the Manda and the Will of the People, too. they wonder if Obi-Wan has noticed, if any of the other Old Guard have noticed. they are one of a few that notice Obi-Wan sneaking back out while everyone is arguing.

Vhonte Tervho is another. She's at this lil summit to represent clan Tervho, tho isn't the clan head, because her ba'vodu, a Manda-touched goran, had sensed she needed to be at the summit. said ba'vodu is of course the armorer who reforged Obi-Wan's armour (need to find a name for them hmm), who had told their clan they were to cease fighting until their new Mand'alor called on them. Vhonte sees Obi-Wan, realises at the same time as everyone that he's the Kih'Manda, the Mand'ika that the entire system had been gossiping about for weeks, and she thinks of what her ba'vodu said. she looks inwards, like they had taught her to, and finds, yes, she trusts Obi-Wan, just like she used to trust Jango. And, well, her Mand'alor is obviously leaving to go do something, and she isn't going to let him go it alone.

the Manda-touched verd doesn't go with them, wanting to see what comes of this, but they already know Obi-wan is Ka'ra Chosen. they will come when he calls.

[orihara-infobroker]

Bushido, Honour and Ghost of Tsushima

Now that I’m done crying over a horse (I WILL NEVER BE OVER THIS), let’s talk about Shimura and Sakai and the definition of honour to a samurai.

Because the story tells us that Jin has no honour and is a bad samurai but that is from the perspective of Shimura and the samurai like him. There is no good ending for Jin, not because he doesn’t have honour, but because he defied the authority structure. Basically, it’s politics.

I believe Jin is actually the one with more honour and that Shimura forsakes his own honour on the beach when he pursues a course of action that leaves Tsushima (and the mainland) open to invasion. Because without Jin’s willingness to adapt, Tsushima would have been lost, no question. 

The principles of the samurai “code” - bushido - weren’t truly codified until Miyamoto Musashi wrote about the samurai class in his later years. This was in the 1600s. Ghost of Tsushima takes place in the 1200s, well before Musashi’s writings. Which is not to say that the samurai didn’t follow a code of honour but that code could vary from clan to clan, region to region. What was functionally the singular unifying factor was that the samurai were warriors and they were nobility. 

Now, as we all know, the role of nobility has historically been a very divided one. There are the ruling class who believe that their job is to take care of the people and there are the selfish pricks who are rich and entitled and abuse their privilege. Now, I’m not saying that Shimura is abusing the peasants but it is made very clear that they are not his priority. His personal honour (or perception of what honour is) is more important to him than the lives of the peasants. Even the lives of his own soldiers are less important than their perceived “honour”. And Shimura makes it clear that the will of the Shogun (yaaay politics) is more important than the lives of the people. Even his own “son”.

Jin exemplifies the noble who understands that his role is to protect all of his people. He is the people’s hero because he cares about them. He earns their respect and loyalty in a way Shimura cannot because Shimura sees them only as subjects to rule over, not people to care about. 

Further, in the game, Jin does some very “ninja” things. Using poison, assassinating, attacking from behind etcetera. Well. The shinobi as a class didn’t really come into being until the Sengoku era (around the late 1400s, early 1500s). So the criticism levied on Jin for his dishonourable behaviour is somewhat amusing because while samurai did have a general belief that assassination was dishonourable and that you should meet your foes on the field of battle face-to-face, they weren’t opposed to using non-conventional tactics to win battles. They just didn’t get their own hands dirty with it.

Now, if we were to talk about the principles of bushido as they have been interpreted through Musashi, there are nine principles by which a samurai should live his life:

1. Do not think dishonestly. 2. The Way is in training. 3. Become acquainted with every art. 4. Know the Ways of all professions 5. Distinguish between gain and loss in worldly matters. 6. Develop an intuitive judgement and understanding for everything. 7. Perceive those things which cannot be seen. 8. Pay attention even to trifles. 9. Do nothing which is of no use.

These are the principles that were later further reimagined as the eight virtues of bushido by Nitobe Inazo in the 1800s and are what most people see in reference to bushido today:

Righteousness (義, gi) Be acutely honest throughout your dealings with all people. Believe in justice, not from other people, but from yourself. To the true warrior, all points of view are deeply considered regarding honesty, justice and integrity. Warriors make a full commitment to their decisions.

Heroic Courage (勇, yū) Hiding like a turtle in a shell is not living at all. A true warrior must have heroic courage. It is absolutely risky. It is living life completely, fully and wonderfully. Heroic courage is not blind. It is intelligent and strong.

Benevolence, Compassion (仁, jin) Through intense training and hard work the true warrior becomes quick and strong. They are not as most people. They develop a power that must be used for good. They have compassion. They help their fellow men at every opportunity. If an opportunity does not arise, they go out of their way to find one.

Respect (礼, rei) True warriors have no reason to be cruel. They do not need to prove their strength. Warriors are not only respected for their strength in battle, but also by their dealings with others. The true strength of a warrior becomes apparent during difficult times.

Honesty (誠, makoto) When warriors say that they will perform an action, it is as good as done. Nothing will stop them from completing what they say they will do. They do not have to 'give their word'. They do not have to 'promise'. Speaking and doing are the same action.

Honour (名誉, meiyo) Warriors have only one judge of honor and character, and this is themselves. Decisions they make and how these decisions are carried out are a reflection of who they truly are. You cannot hide from yourself.

Duty and Loyalty (忠義, chūgi) Warriors are responsible for everything that they have done and everything that they have said and all of the consequences that follow. They are immensely loyal to all of those in their care. To everyone that they are responsible for, they remain fiercely true.

Self-Control (自制, jisei)

Now if we look at either of these lists, we can see that Jin does not lack in honour. He does not stray from the path of the samurai. Quite the opposite, Jin exhibits exemplary personal responsibility. Shimura, on the other hand, while not without honour and generally consistent with Musashi’s guidelines, does stray far afield of the virtues. In fact, I would argue that his strict adherence to the “rules” as he perceived them is actually what makes him less honourable than Jin. He cannot perceive things in any way other than the one he was raised with and that is his downfall - and nearly the downfall of Tsushima. 

Which, historically is not inaccurate. (Not that you should be looking to Ghost of Tsushima for historical accuracy. In fact, please don’t... XD) During the actual mongol invasion of Japan, the mongols sailed from Korea and took Tsushima as well as Iki Island then proceeded to land at Hakata Bay. These islands simply did not have the number of troops sufficient to defend them against an entire fleet.

What actually defeated the mongols was not samurai honour (or Jin’s sneaky shinobi tactics). It was weather. During the battle at Hakata Bay, the mongols decided to retreat to their ships at night to avoid being ambushed by the Japanese. And because the troops were on their ships and out to sea when the tsunami hit, the mongols lost nearly half their fighting force. They retreated and, much later, planned a second invasion, following a similar path as the first. They attacked Tsushima and Iki again, routing the samurai and murdering many of the islanders. They moved against Nagato and Hakata Bay but this time the Japanese were better prepared for them and they were forced to return to Iki and other small islands. The Japanese counter attacked by launching raids on the mongol ships. As the Japanese continued to push them back, keeping them off the mainland, the mongol fleet was once again defeated, not by samurai, but by weather. A great typhoon struck the fleet and devastated it. The mongol commander fled, leaving many of his troops stranded on Taka Island where they were rounded up and killed by the Japanese. (Note this is a condensed summary of the invasions. There is obviously more detail to the actual events.)

Amusingly, what did come out of this war was a growing respect and fear for the Japanese from the Korean, Chinese and Mongol nations. The mongols, in particular were quite concerned by the Japanese swords. The Japanese, however, found that these earlier katana that they were using were inconvenient to use when fighting in close quarters against large numbers and responded by refining them.

Anyway, the history lesson aside, Jin’s story is a tragedy but it’s also an absolutely wonderful samurai story because it shows the lengths a truly honourable samurai will go to, to fulfill his duty to his principles and to his people.