#best Edifice watches

[onlinecasioindiashop]

 The best Edifice watches are multitier designs, solar-powered movements, and an advanced feature that adorn both casual and special occasions. Equipped with world time, water resistance, and stopwatch functionalities, these timepieces offer something more than good looks-they are built for action.

[madamemachikonew]

Hello, if you don't mind me asking, how do you think Pantalone would feel about his partner receiving a Vision?

HMMMMM.

Your mouth is agape as you look at the sparkling vision in your palm, its cold virgin glossy surface shining like crystal. Your stomach is in knots, your heart a mess of complicated feelings; what should be the happiest and most exciting day of your life is muffled in a shroud of abject dread. The trinket weighs heavily in your palm, like a tainted heart in the scales of Anubis.  

How will you be able to break the news to him?

The glowing core represented everything that he despised in the world; the recognition that had eluded him for all of his life. In spite of all of his efforts and ambition. And yet, it had tumbled, seemingly effortlessly and unbidden, into your hand of all places.

As you falteringly break the news to him, staring down at your empty hands, wringing them with shame, he forces a diplomatic smile that does not reach his eyes. The two of you are now different. And a fissure has now cracked through your relationship – one which threatens to bring down the whole edifice. Until now, the balance of power had always been in his favour. But now you hold something that his whole lifetime of wealth cannot buy.

His smile unwavering, he shakes his head in the face of your promises that you won’t use it – you won’t even wear it.

“I’m happy for you,” he says mechanically, rubbing your cheek with a gloved thumb, “You deserve it.”

Rising to his feet, he presses a strong, paternal palm to your head in congratulation - or perhaps reassurance – before planting a light kiss and then leaving, retreating to his study.

He replays the conversation in his mind. It seemed that your well-intended words had wounded him deeply. You had left the Vision in your room lest the sight hurt his feelings in some way. And yet, part of him wanted to know how such divine craftsmanship felt to hold and look at. Your pleading protestations with apologetic wide eyes that you had never actively sought such a thing and had no idea why a Vision would suddenly turn up only rubbed salt into his grieved heart; They had chosen you nonetheless, even when you had had no apparent desire to. And now you have more power than you know what to do with. It seemed almost malicious on their part to toss a trinket so close to his feet.

So why not him?

As much as he loves you, your achievements, though respectable, are quite simply not on the same scale as his own. Who could possibly be his equal? It was squandered on you. No! No, he doesn’t mean that and you must never know that such a jealous thought has crossed his mind in anger, even if you would understand and be sympathetic to his rage. Your merits are what he admires and loves. It is the very fact that you are not ordinary that attracts him to you. So why does his heart feel torn with thorns that the contemptible gods he abhors so much have bestowed this gift on you?

And what sort of deep-seated ambition have you harbouring that They had felt worthy of recognition?

That you have been holding in your heart in secret all this time.

He knows, deep down, that it was not a deliberate action on your part and that if anything, you’d give him your gift in a heartbeat. Or give it back if you could. And yet, a bitter taste fills his mouth at the idea that in spite of your best intentions, he will no doubt watch you grow increasingly at ease with wielding it, to the point that it will never leave your side.

He knows that he should be happy for you.

So why does he feel so utterly betrayed and resentful?

As the rational thoughts vie for his attention in the maelstrom of envy swirling inside, he thinks that perhaps your newfound talent could be of use to him somehow; knowing your unselfish nature, he knows you would feel too guilty not to share it. But it is not quite the same as wielding such a tool of his own, as meaningless as he keeps trying to convince himself that it is. All those times you had resolved together to go to war with Celestia now feel desperately hollow. Had you even meant it?

Perhaps the sting will dull with time, as well as the guilt for feeling this way. But for now, he will allow himself to wallow for the evening.

It’s not that he hates you.

It’s not that he isn’t proud of you or feels that you were somehow undeserving of this honour.

Just…why couldn’t it have been him?

[fanworks-library]

eremetic

(takes place after the events of chapter 14 in The Therapist)

Hours later in the privacy of his cell, Bill Cipher was thinking.

When was the last time anyone had touched him deliberately? Even the sanctioned violence of the guards didn't affect that statistic; since he had woken up here... afterwards he had been mostly relegated to being prodded from a distance, corralled like a stray dog at the pound.

But you.

You

You

You

You had touched him, let him touch you; just the innocent contact of clothed skin had been a mercy he had given up on ever experiencing again, a balm like a glass of water in the desert. Even hours later the method you had utilized stuck with him, phantom sensations from half a day ago shivering down his arms.

Trust me, you told him, like you hadn't already pried open his waking mind and slithered in to make yourself at home. Just trust me. To him the moment had become encased in amber, frozen in time— your fingers lacing with his, pulling him along until he was within reach, before carefully (delicately, affectionately) put his hand on your chest, right above the sternum. The first thing he perceived was the heat (98.9°F, exactly) of your flesh, a soothing source of warmth that sent a flush through his extremities. Just feel there. You feel it? It wasn't until you said it that he became aware of the pulse, almost an afterthought. As you sat still watching him watch you, your life-force fluttered under his fingers. Each beat felt like it was a gift, a fond song of hello hello hello sang just for his benefit. The gesture left him transfixed, anchoring his grip for a better hold. It wasn't until you peered down at your chest in curiosity, the rush of your pulse still kissing his fingertips that he noticed the claws snagging you, keeping you in place.

Something akin to embarrassment flared up at that, at the blatant loss of control and he yanked his hand back.

“Claws but no heart,” you mused, blessedly letting the moment pass.

Even with your easy dismissal of the events Bill couldn't stop thinking about it, turning the implications over in his mind until they were as worn as river stones.

You'd offered him your heart.

Bold as anything you'd put his hand, drenched in blood as it was, over the very core of your being—wrapped in blood and darkness and trust— and let him decide if he wanted to tear it out or not, unflinching.

Hearts were a particular favorite for offerings among his followers; his previous favorites heart-rippers had been the Toltecs, legions of priests carving open chests on edifices made in his likeness.

...But that was before and this was now; his current favorite heart was ensconced in the chest of a goody two-shoes, but pledged to him nonetheless. He didn't even mind it was still beating!

If he was honest, he preferred it that way— the best gifts, in his opinion, were wrapped.

[melodrama-ticcc]

— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈

𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐏𝐢𝐞

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩.

𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘛𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵐᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ. ⁱ.ᵉ. ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡˡⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ.

—

The drive from the countryside of Skiatook, Oklahoma to Newt, Texas was a ten hour trip, spanning the pastoral plaines of Oklahoma to the hilled grasslands of midwestern Texas. A sight to behold, surely, but even a blind man would grow bored of staring at the same image if it meant he was looking death in the face.

The summer sun baked the peeling paint off that ol’ 56’ pickup. Heat radiating from the build of its classic body to the cabin, where the broken air conditioning did little to improve their conditions of travel. Even the windows — half rolled down (enough to flick strands of hair astray in varying directions, but keep the sharp feel of the hot wind out of the eyes), did close to nothing to alleviate their discomfort.

All of it had been enough to further sour her perturbed feelings regarding the move. Sat in the passengers seat, she stared at endless grass hills, a blank expression resting on her pretty features. The sun shines in through the window, and she does her best to hide beneath the little shade her hand provides. The sun meets its peak in the sky as it moves westward. To inevitably kiss where those hills met the horizon. In many ways, the beauty of it all was quite remarkable. Peaceful, one might say.

Yet, Rebecca Payne only felt the urgency to conclude she and her father’s travels and settle into that reposeful farmhouse she would come to call home.

Surrounded by fifteen acres of fenced grasslands, the old farmhouse sat just a half mile off the main road of the highway. Shrouded by overgrown foliage, a dirt road leads to a set of warped wooden stairs, then, a porch that wraps around the left side of the place. The eaves provide plenty of shade, and a torn screen door serves as the front entrance of the home. She was sure it must’ve been a grand estate some once upon a time. Now, it was just a rickety old house that needed lots of fixing. She supposed there was something beautiful in it though, for it had the potential to be something great once more.

As dusk approaches, Rebecca slams shut the truck door. Slinging a tote over her shoulder, she hurries up the front steps. Her second footstep is met with the sound of a loud crack, the regrettable indication of the wood snapping. Her weight propels the leg through the broken board, and it nearly sends her face first into the top stair before she catches herself on the railing.

“Shit!” She lifts her foot slightly, as if to assess damages before she realizes the extent in the fragility of the old place.

“Now, you best watch yer’ language young lady, watch it for’ I ain’t wanna tell you ‘gain.” His voice is deep and rumbles, like the thunder rolling in as a summer storm approaches. Her father shuts the truck bed, bags in hand as he makes his way towards the house’s edifice. “Movers’ll be here in the mornin’, we best get some rest. We can unload tomorrow.”

His warning is met with skepticism, as she scoffs and moves toward front door. The screen is kept open, seeing as it swings freely in the gentle breeze. However, the solid wood door behind it is locked, so she raises her hand up in a careless motion.

“Ya’ got keys, daddy?”

“Now hold on.” He steps up after her, rustling in his pocket for the key. She moves to the side as he sticks it in the lock, pausing for a moment as he looks to her. “I know it ain’t much, but it’s home, and you aughtta’ be grateful for what we got, ya’ hear me? A home is a home, you’s and me can fix ‘er up but in the meantime, s’long s’we gots a roof over our heads and supper on the table, we doin’ just fine.”

“Oh daddy,” she smiles, maybe for the first time that day, and it’s charming. A pretty little smile bound to tickle the hearts of any man who saw her. It was no wonder her father loved her so damn much. “You know I can make anythin’ work. Jus’ needs a lil’ woman’s touch. I’ll take care of the inside, you take care of the outside.” She plants a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll have ‘er lookin’ like home in no time.”

The two days that followed had consisted of the typical unpacking and arranging of furniture that followed a new move. Far from complete, boxes of varying sizes, empty and full, scattered about the oak floors of the interior. Contrary to her expectations, the inside of the home had been in much better shape than the exterior. Not perfect by any means, but considerably better. It was nice in some ways, to have such a spacious home with ornate architecture. That which matched the stye of most farmhouses built in the 1800s.

There’s a knock at the door as Rebecca hunches over a hot open stove. Rather half heartedly she calls out for her father, however when met with no response, she proceeds to pull the meatloaf out of the oven and places it onto the stove top. Tossing the oven mitts on the counter, she moves to approach the door. From where she stands, she can see three figures standing behind the screen.

The gentleman on the right is carrying something. He’s older, she thinks. Probably in his fifties. His dark hair is combed over the top of his head, yet it’s clear he’s balding to some extent. His dress slacks are pulled up past his waist, and his dress shirt has some sort of red name tag that she can’t make out. He’s rather short, too. The woman on the left, while fair for her age, seems to be an older, more mature lady. Her dark hair is done up in some neat updo, and she wears a purple dress with some floral accents. There’s eye glasses with dark frames on her face, and she looks less than pleasant. The last figure had been a taller young man situated behind both of them. He seems her age, his hair is slicked back in grease and a stern expression is written on his handsome features. His tight jeans and torn black tank top tell her everything she needs to know, he’s no good.

“Hi.” She peers beyond the screen, as if to examine them and ensure they were somewhat trustworthy. Her eyes scan each of them, a hand kept on the door handle. “Can I help you folks?”

“Forgive us for showin’ up unannounced like this, it ain’t too often we find ourselves gettin’ new neighbors is all.” The older man speaks, a friendly smile on his face. “We’s the Sawyers. Our farmhouse is settled just up the main road here a little ways. I’m Drayton, this is Nancy, and this here is Johnny.” He lifts what he’s holding and shakes it gently. It sounds heavy, its contents something greasy that stains the thin paper bag. “It ain’t much, but we brought some barbecue as a house warmin’ gift. Thought we’d welcome you’s to Newt.”

“Awfully kind of you folks,” Rebecca extends their gratitude, swinging open the screen with her booted foot. That charming smile of hers meets their every gaze. “Comin’ all this way to say hello. My names Rebeccca Payne, y’all can call me Becca.”

Johnny thinks she’s something like the movie stars he sees on the television or on the covers of his pornographic magazines. Big blonde hair falling in effortless curls and waves, swooped bangs framing a finely carved face. High cheekbones, full, pouty lips, a button nose, bright blue eyes. Her skin is kissed by the sun, freckles scatter across the highs of her face and body, beauty marks adorning several sections of her tanned skin. He smiles, and perhaps for a moment he imagines what it would be like to have her tied up in his shed. A part of him wants to keep her as a pet, the other wonders what it would be like to carve into her like a he did those college students. But it’s her smooth southern drawl that removes him from his immoral conceptions.

“You’ve caught me just as I’ve finished supper, care to join us? Daddy’ll be pleased to meet you folks. We ain’t know we had neighbors ‘round here.”

“Well, ain’t you sweet.” The woman, Nancy, speaks, a motherly tone in her voice as she offers a kind smile. Its her first time expressing anything but that mean veil she donned.

“But ‘uh, we ain’t wanna impose or nothin’ . . . .” It’s said more to front niceties as opposed to genuine concern. After all, they had come here with the intent of getting to know who was next door just a little better. Watching from afar could only give them so much.

“Nonsense, y’all come on inside ���n I’ll fix y’all’s a place at the table. ‘S the least I can do, now come on in.”

There were two rules to abide by when invited for dinner by a southern woman. The first, always compliment her cooking. The second was never turn down the invitation.

“S’pose it wouldn’t hurt nothin’.” Drayton easily caves into her offer, sending a look back the other two’s way.

Rebecca had the sort of southern hospitality that was reminiscent of a belle. In a way, it’s old fashioned. But there’s something about her new age appearance and haphazard attitude that makes her seem carefree. Like a bronco in the wild, nobody could tame or give her instruction. She was an unbridled mustang.

She’s stepping aside to let them all in, shutting and locking the door behind them. She makes a point to shield the shotgun leant up against the door frame as they enter. Not before moving ahead of the group and leading them to the dining table.

“Go ‘head and have a seat where you like. Daddy’ll be in shortly.” Without clemency, she begins fixing the table to accommodate the three guests. Placing napkins and proper silverware at each place. Shouting out the open window she calls for her father, “daddy! Suppers’ on, we got company!” There’s a freshly baked cherry pie sitting on the window sill, steam still emitting from its crispy golden edges. The smells of savory meat and sweet cherries intertwine, she’s a woman who knows how to cook. And for that, she’d win the hearts of many.

As Rebecca shifts to place a porcelain plate at each seat of the table, she moves on to set out their meal. First the creamy mashed potatoes, then the salty gravy, bacon infused green beans, and one hell of a meatloaf. All centered down the runner of the table. The table is set, and as she removes the oven mitts and apron from her person there’s a faint slam at the back door. Her father steps in, wearing a days work and covered muck and dirt. The girl smiles, grabbing the iced pitcher of sweet tea and filling up five glasses at the table.

“Daddy, these are the Sawyers. This is Drayton, Nancy and Johnny Sawyer. They’s our neighbors, live just up the road this way.” She places the pitcher back on the counter, “I hope you folks are hungry, all this food don’t do much good with just my daddy and I ‘round. Momma always said a meal tasted better when it was shared with others.” She carefully hands out the homemade sweet tea poured in crystal glasses, condensation dripping down the sides of each glass as the cold beverage faces the Texan heat.

“Names’ Raymond Payne, pleasure to meet you folks.” He takes his seat at the head of the table, and as Rebecca places a glass of sweet tea at his hand she leans down, a loving hand on his shoulder as she kisses his cheek.

“Love you daddy.” She whispers into his cheek, then takes the seat to his right side. Across the table from Nancy and Johnny, besides Drayton. “God is good, God is great, let’s eat.”

“You’ll have to excuse the rest of our family, we’d of loved to bring ‘em along to say hello but they can be rather . . . . preoccupied with work.” Nancy smiles, not before Raymond nods in a feeble attempt to acknowledge her.

“I ain’t know we had neighbors ‘round these parts.” As he begins digging into the food set on the table, Raymond eyes Drayton. He’s a friendly man. His rough hands and calloused skin a showcase of his life’s work. He’s no stranger to a tough job, and it’s evident in his wise tone that he knows a thing or two about life. Though his friendliness need not be mistaken, for he’s skeptical. A life of hardship had led him to become wary of strangers. All the same, he couldn’t help but feel proud at his daughter’s benevolence and cunning hostess skills. “How long y’all been livin’ out here? Recommend it?”

For a few moments there is a profound silence at the table, as their guests begin to make their own plates, Rebecca waits patiently to be the last to serve herself. Yet the lack of answers leads her to smile awkwardly, as if hoping to stir up the conversation. But finally, the old man beside her speaks.

“Well, you ain’t got many more of us. S’far as I’m aware there ain’t many others makin’ a livin’ out here in Muerto County. We’re always happy to meet a new friendly face, it don’t happen too much.” Drayton raises his glass as he sips from it, before continuing to answer Raymond’s inquiry. “It’s a quiet lil’ town, ain’t much goes on ‘round here. You’ll find it can be quite peaceful. If you enjoy the quiet of the countryside I reckon you’ds find yourselves at home here.”

The thought picks at Drayton’s brain like a fly on dung, yet he watches himself so as to not seem too upfront. He eyes Nancy, then Johnny boy, then back to Rebecca and Raymond. They’d only made their way over to determine whether or not these new neighbors were a threat, something to harm the family business. He didn’t need some strangers waltzing in and causing trouble. He was certain they couldn’t kill them, but the girl would make a fine piece of meat. At the same time, he really had no desire to kill them. If they could, he’d much rather have it they lived their own separate lives in peace. Not to mention the suspicion that would arise if they were to eradicate the Payne’s so suddenly. They’d just moved in, and as the only neighbor to the old farmhouse they’d be prime suspects in a missing persons case. Their sudden disappearance would be most unwise.

“So, where you folks from, what brings yuh’ out these parts?” Drayton smiles, beginning to dig into the serving of meatloaf he’d cut for himself.

“Business.” Raymond replies dryly, between a mouth full of food. But he chuckles, nodding his head towards Drayton in an endearing matter. “We’re from Tulsa, Oklahoma. Needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Tulsa was once a farmin’ town, not before they gentrified it all. Had some property out there, some land. We ran the cattle business with our very own slaughterhouse. Bank offered me a deal for the land I just couldn’t pass up and uh, well. We’s just cattle farmers lookin’ for a quiet life on the countryside’s all. A fresh start.” He nods, “say uh, what’s the Sawyer’s do for business, hm? How y’all makin’ yer’ livin’? I’m assumin’ you’ves got some farmland in these parts?”

“I reckon you’s right. Got lots of it. Looks like we in the same line of work, my friend.” Drayton smiles, “we owns a slaughterhouse. It’s a meat packin’ business. Say, you’s ever need any help you just holler my way. I don’t mind it one bit.” He smiles. “Family’s been in the business for years, my old grand father built it from the ground up. Used to take the hammers to the heifer’s heads. We know a thing or two about prime meat.”

Raymond laughs, coughing a bit as he leans back in his seat. “Say, I like you mister Drayton Sawyer.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a napkin, takes a sip from his glass and looks about the table. “You’s a good man. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.” He nods.

The way he stares at her pisses her off. Like he can see through her mask of sanity and pick apart her every secret. He’s staring, that Johnny boy, dark, brooding eyes from across the table. She’s got half a mind not to call him out on it right then and there, but for her father’s sake she keeps her mouth shut. Even then, she’s returning the favor; a cool gaze from her side of the table. Brows cocked downward in a scowl.

“That boy of yours, he don’t talk much do he?” Raymond flags his hand towards Johnny, pulling his gaze from her.

Perhaps what angers her even more is the way he pretends as though he’s doing nothing out of the ordinary.

“Nah but he sure do gotta starin’ problem.”

“Young lady-.”

“Oh don’t let his politeness fool you, he’s a talker alright. Ain’t ya’, Johnny?” Drayton laughs. A charming smile graces Johnny’s features as he looks to Raymond. Now he’s rising from his seat to stand up and offer his hand in a hand shake. Becca makes a note of the scars that riddle his strong arms as she folds her arms over her chest. Her father stands to meet him, his own right arm locking in a firm handshake while his left arm holds Johnny’s wrist.

“Johnny, nice to meet you son.”

“Not used to strangers sir, you’ll have to forgive me. Nice to have some new neighbors ‘round here though, you ever need help ‘round the place gimme a call.” He glances to Rebecca, a distasteful countenance on her mien. She looks like someone shit in her cheerios. “Same goes to you too darlin’, need summin’, don’t hesitate to gimme a call.” She wants to slap the stupid smile of his pretty face, but instead scoffs aloud.

“I can handle myself, thank you.”

The remainder of dinner was much of the same small talk and pleasantries. Nancy tried to make conversation with Rebecca — going on about being a housewife and proper manners, most likely because of her blatant disregard for her son’s generosity. Drayton laughed along with Raymond, as Johnny talked him up with stories of hunting wild animals and growing up in a small town. Humorous tales of reckless behavior as children, setting smoke bombs off in the creek or fetching rattlesnakes with bare hands. All the while she felt disgraced by the young man’s suave behavior. His smooth, deep voice echoing in her ears. It was a euphoric sound, tingling her innermost desires in such a fulfilling way. But she hated it. She never did care much for those frivolous boys who flaunted their good looks and tight jeans to break the hearts of naive women. Women like her, who knew his type all too well. Thems hearts were never loyal to just one.

Throughout the evening’s festivities, he made a point to watch Rebecca as if to study her. Only when she called him out on the matter did he especially brush it off as some insignificant coincidence. He talks her up like she’s some prize to be won. Each of his advances met with a cold shoulder and quick exit. Further reinforcing the initial impression of his character. A good-for-nothing heartthrob with an ego he wants stroked.

Even with her hands buried into the warm dishwater of the sink, scrubbing away the remnants of a tasty home cooked meal from porcelain plates and the sticky sweetness left behind by the sweet tea in fancy glasses, she found herself resentful of a man she had only just met. The thought and buildup of it all weighs heavily on her mind. She faces the window, dusk settling with brilliant hues of yellow, orange and pink. Then the pie, that she’d left to cool off in the window sill. Her eyes flash quickly as she calls out to the others, interrupting their seemingly amusing conversation to offer up desert.

“I almost forgot, I’ve got a fresh cherry pie baked. You folks like sweets?” Rebecca calls out, putting the last dish to dry as she wraps her wet hands in the towel hanging off the side of the sink. “I’ll get us some dishes.” She extends a smile to the group, primarily her father, as she fishes out small plates from the cupboard and silverware from the drawer. Setting them out on the table, she fetches a cutting knife from the counter, placing it beside the plates. Then, she carefully retrieves the pie, placing it on the table for all to see.

“Knew I smelt summin’ sweet walkin’ down the road, here lil’ lady, lemme cut this for ya’-”

“I can cut my own damn pie.” The change in tone is stark. What was once a pleasant, primarily gracious hostess was now filled with unrelenting anger and frustration. Like flipping a light switch, something had ignited the spark within her. Becca’s eyes glare something wicked into him. Her own hands are shaking, and though she hears her father call out for her in a low, monotone warning. It does little to shake the feeling that her control over her perfect fairytale is fleeting. “Give it here.” She gestures towards the knife.

Johnny, partly wanting to instigate a further reaction out of her, and partly due to the stern look Raymond was giving her, withheld the utensil. He feigns innocence, playing the part of the concerned stranger with excellence and finesse. He cautiously looks to her, his brows raised in suspicion. He knew better than anyone, she was in fact losing her grip. He found it amusing too, the way she stared at him with wild eyes. Waiting for him to cave to her will as if she were a threat to him. He wondered how far he could push her over the edge.

“Now now lil’ lady, all’s I’m doing is offerin’ a favor, best calm down now.”

“I can do it myself.” She mumbles beneath her breath, pupils diminishing with the dark light that came with the sunset. As the sun draws downward, dark shadows are cast over her expression. Sweat drips down the crest of her forehead, then the side of her nose and over the cusp of her lip. She’s shaking something scary, not before she moves swiftly to grasp the knife away from Johnny from across the table, fed up with his not listening. Just as she thinks she has it, she begins to grasp her fingers. Not before he draws the blade back, in an attempt to shield it from her.

Crimson taints the silver blade of the knife, painting the stained wood of the table a pretty red and even splattering the once faultless cherry pie. It drips from a laceration on her palm as she grasps it tightly with her right hand. The liquid oozes between her fingers despite efforts to slow it down. It continues to dribble down the length of her arm and drip onto the table below. It’s a sharp pain, stinging like hell. She doesn’t display any signs of pain, though. Instead, she stares curiously at the liquid. In a deep state of shock. Cerulean eyes wide with fear. Her shaking has come to a stop, and instead she stands still in her place. All sounds of those around her are drowned in the loudness of her consciousness. She sees blood, as it stains her hands for eternity. Visions of her deceased mother, in a pool of her own blood flood her mind. Thick and rich scarlet, all over the ivory curtains and painted walls. When she looks upwards to those around the table, only then does she realize what she’s done. It’s as if the switch had turned off and she realized she’s lost control of her temper.

They all stare at her with a dazed expression, confusion laced in their features, that with utter shock. Her father watches her cautiously, the feeling of disappointment clear in the way he calls out to her, reaching for her arm as he rises from his seat. But that which sticks out to her the most, was the look that bastard Johnny boy gave her. As opposed to rising with the others, he puts the knife on the table and finds his seat. Arms folded over his chest in a proud display. Those same dark eyes stare right through her, as if she were transparent. His features contorted in a wise smirk. One that indicates he knows something, or like he’s accomplished some great ordeal. She swears she can hear him chuckle, his husky voice at the forefront of her mind. He’s proud, she thinks. Because he knows something.

“Sorry y’all, now, where was we?”

As though nothing had ever happened at all, she picks the knife off of the table to cut a slice of pie. The sticky red of the cherry syrup pulls as she lifts it from the tin to place on a plate. A macabre display of delicious baked goods, blood falls down the side of the pie from the pool that sits atop it. It’s all over the treat, the slice, the table, the knife, still oozing from her wounded hand. She sits back down, plate in hand, before taking a chunk out of the tip of the slice with a fork to place in her mouth. A smile befalls her lips as she chews, it’s a warm aroma of sugary fruit and metallic. Perhaps the blood adds a little something. But it’s as though she’s trying to feign innocence, like there hadn’t been a some unfortunate incident. Like it was all normal.

She wasn’t crazy by any means, perhaps just a bit of a control freak. Her desire to provide the perfect image at the hand of her sacrifice of sanctity.

“Pie, anyone?”

[smallgodseries]

[image description: The disconsolate Scarecrow sits on a 3-legged stool in front of a glowing orange moon. Straw is visible from his twisted knee joints and waist and 4 mocking crows stand on him. Text reads, “61, Heywood Bale ~ Small God of Straw Men” 2020, after the Great John R. Neill, 1915]

For most of human history, he’s been a god of effigies, of friendly faces stationed in the fields to keep the birds at bay. He’s not always good at his job, but he’s here to help, an assistant in burlap and silent smiles. He stood in wheat fields before he stood in cornfields, he stood among barley and hops and grape vines. He protected the harvest. He did his best, and he only asked that those who chose him as their patron do the same. 

He only did his best. 

And then people began to speak his name with a more sinister purpose, began to twist and pervert the intention behind his stoic silhouette. He had always been a man of straw, an empty set of clothes that could only stand and watch, and struggle to protect, but in these new mouths, in these new voices, he became an edifice to rage against, distracting and deflecting from the true matter at hand. People raised up armies of flame against him, indulging in their senseless wars of fire and straw, and everything burned. Everything was smoke and ashes, and no harvest at all, not for the fickle and not for the faithful. 

When the strawmen burned, the harvest failed, and the world began to starve. 

He still stands, torn now between two tenants. He yearns to protect, to serve, to do his best; he also burns with the embers of arguments unwon and unwinnable, the need to prove himself right above all else, even if it burns the fields to ashes in his wake. He can’t reconcile the two sides of his nature. He can’t deny what faith has made of him. To be remembered is to be remade, and that, alone in all the world, is a fact that he can’t argue with.

[branwyn-the-half-witch]

The Wall and the Waning of Magic: 1/2

(this was originally a Twitter thread; re-posting here for ease of reading)

The Wall is an edifice created, best guesses conclude, some 8000 years prior to the events of A Game of Thrones; it was constructed by some combination of the First Men, led by Bran the Builder, those they called ‘Children of the Forest’, more rightly known as those who sing the song of earth (hereafter ‘singers’) and giants. It is patrolled by the Night’s watch, who protect the realms of men from what lies beyond; notably the Others, although this mission has been forgotten until very recently, with the so-called ‘Wildlings’ (Free Folk) taking the place of the great foe.

It is commonly accepted that the Wall is a net good, both in-universe and without, and that any distaste we may have about the necessity of the Night’s Watch pales in comparison to the horror that will occur when the Wall comes down.

I propose differently; I propose that the Wall is sickening and weakening the world, and it coming down will be one of the greatest moments of the tale – and moreover that the Wall was potentially always intended by its makers to be thrown down.

Magic Lingers

ASOIAF takes place in a world where magic is waning, to the point that learned men will insist magic is gone from the world entirely – and many of them consider this a good thing. The disappearing of magic is largely attributed to the death of the last dragons, and the revival of magic following Daenery’s miraculous rebirth of dragonkind seems to be proof of that.

However, the truth is more complex; we learn from several sources that magic is not entirely gone from the world, even prior to the dragons’ cradle-pyre. It is simply gone from the west of the world following the Doom of Valyria – further east, we are told, magic still exists and its practitioners endure, and even thrive in places such as Asshai.

More intriguingly is this from Maester Luwin, that supposes magic was fading even before the Doom, describing Valyria (a magical empire lasting thousands of years) as merely an ‘ember’. It cannot therefore solely be the death of dragons that caused magic to fade in the West.

The Sad Fate of the Singers

Westeros was once home to a large number of magical beings; unicorns, mammoths, direwolves, ‘great lions’ and, of course, the giants and the singers. All of these are now believed to be extinct, as per Maester Luwin above. Those who venture or live beyond the Wall know that this is not the case; these beings cling on, albeit in scant numbers.

We know that the singers fought and lost a terrible long war with the First Men, and that they retreated to the deepest forests upon the Pact that saw the end of the war. We know also that they were still present in the South in some numbers when the Andals arrived.

However, common wisdom says the singers have been extinct for thousands of years; we know they still linger beyond the Wall...but why? The North remained a bastion of the Old Gods, yet even the northmen believe them gone. Why did they not remain in the deep forests of the North? Why did their numbers continue to decline even after the wars? Why go beyond the Wall, closer to the Others?

The Evil of the Wall Magical and Mundane

The Wall is made of ice. This is an obvious statement to make, but its curious to consider what it means in the context of this world, where cold is the enemy and ice represents death, darkness and crucially – the Others.

If we take as given that Bran the Builder built the Wall, why was it made of ice, when his other claimed works are all of stone? The magic of the singers likewise is in earth and tree and water. So why is the Wall made of ice, the very symbol and strength of the enemy the Wall was built, allegedly, to keep out?

The Wall has its own collection of spooky, disturbing myths that have grown up around it, many of them centring around the Nightfort, formerly the seat of the Night’s Watch. The one that concerns us here is that of the Night’s King, allegedly the 13th commander of the Watch who took to wife a woman commonly been believed to be one of the Others – and from the description of her, that’s highly likely.

However, observe that the Night’s King brings that woman back beyond the Wall to his fortress – it does not keep her out, any more than it keeps out the two wights that awaken in Castle Black in AGOT.

But the Wall was created to keep the Others out, no? Coldhands indeed asserts that he, almost certainly some kind of dead man, cannot pass beyond the Wall due to the spells it is imbued with, presumably those created by the singers; but there is a gate.

The Black Gate, situated beneath the Nightfort, is itself a source of much theorising; it is magical, made of weirwood, and a sad construction that sheds a tear as Bran passes beneath it. The use of weirwood – and the face especially – suggest that this is the work of the singers, who made a door that only the Night’s Watch could open.

It seems unlike that the singers, aiding in the building of an anti-Others defence, would create a door that an Other could pass through; Bloodraven’s cave seems thus warded, so far successfully. But why is the Gate blind? Why is it described as resembling a corpse? This could be a function of the sheer age of the Gate, but I believe it to be more significant than that.

Of Silverwing

Queen Alysanne Targaryen made a visit to the Wall and visited the Nightfort in particular. The castle gave the Queen such bad vibes that she arranged it to be abandoned – immediately – paying for the replacement herself.

That’s quite a reaction, and one that should be contrasted with Stannis, who plans to make the place his seat (and note that Sam considers the possibility that the Black Gate is not permanent – which is very intriguing).

More interesting than Alysanne’s reaction to the Nightfort is her dragon Silverwing’s reaction explicitly to the Wall itself. She is disturbed by the winds from it – and I reject the notion that this was solely the cold, as the cold at Winterfell makes Vermax ‘ill tempered’, not disobedient and disturbed.

It is suggested that the Wall is anathema to creatures of fire – and yet Melisandre is seemingly stronger at the Wall than she is Asshai!

It is also suggested that Silverwing feared not the Wall but what lay beyond – but the Others had not yet begun to stir, so what was she sensing? I posit that the Wall was drinking in the magic that Silverwing generated, effectively draining her.

Also pertinent is the fact that Jon Snow loses all sense of Ghost when the Wall is between them. An unbreakable powerful bond that endures over great distances is rendered inert due to the Wall. This could be a matter of inexperience on Jon’s part, but it is worth bearing in mind.

Waning of Magic

Taking everything together, I propose that the Wall is draining the magic from the world. The magical peoples and creatures of Westeros exist only beyond the Wall, having died out everywhere else, notably the singers who have disappeared even from presumably safe strongholds.

Dragons, whose mere existence makes magic stronger (and possibly what is actually empowering Melisandre), mislike and possibly even fear the Wall, to the degree that Alysanne was deeply disturbed for long after. It needs must be noted also that the dragons of the Targaryens did not reach the size and strength of their forebears in Valyria, dwindling ever more with the years. Perhaps this was due to the Dragonpit, to the betrayal of the house’s women, tied so completely to its dragons. Perhaps it was something more insidious.

Where magic does exist still, it exists in the further East; in Qarth, Asshai and so forth. These places also had a lack of dragons post-Doom, also endured the Long Night, so it cannot be solely these factors. But they are much further away from the Wall; their magic is weakened but endures.

To touch also on the seasons as an aside, WOIAF offers some further credence to the Wall-as-problem. The seasons used to be normal, we are told, only in the most ancient tales. Tales presumably predating the Wall.

If the issue of seasons were solely one of balance between Ice and Fire, when why were there no world-ending catastrophes when Fire was ascendant? The Doom impacted only Valyria, after all.

We must return to the symbolism; where Ice is death, silence, darkness and inhumanity and Fire is life, song, light and passion.

TBC

[driftward]

Folks don't talk much about the war around these parts, but you can see its scars in the people it touched. Not much more to say about that, but you best be aware of that history. For some folk, it stays with them.

A Desertwalkers story.

The Engineer in the Machine

The military was a mighty machine, the treads of which rolled across oceans and valleys, powerful gears upon which to grind policy and the will of the people. And Ada Fairlight was a dutiful cog in that mighty edifice, doing her part as mighty gears moved slowly around her, directing the will of a nation.

Today, that machine would be put to different purpose. Smaller, finer gears would come into play today, for it was a delicate work they would be doing. Information and logs and testimony would be fed in, and from that material and with those fuels, the machine would grind fine, until nothing but truth remained.

And then the machine would deliver justice.

It was with this in her mind that she entered the chambers of the military court, a somber affair in which she would play her part, same as she always had, every day since she had been commissioned to be part of the machine.

Fellow officers and bureaucrats moved around the chamber as she took her seat, enlisted men and women seeing to their various needs. It was an affair of quiet, hushed noise, full of murmurs and humming as people spoke. But at last, the place fell silent, as everyone took their place.

“Captain Fairlight,” the Master at Arms called, and she responded, arriving at the podium in accordance with rule and regulation.

“Do you swear that the witness you bear today shall be whole and truthful under the watchful gaze of the Fury and the Twelve?”

“I do.”

The Master at Arms gave her a salute, which she returned.

The Admiral in charge of the hearing cleared his throat. “Captain Fairlight, if you would please explain the circumstances and situation leading up to the incident aboard the Royal Service Ship Uragnite on the date in question.”

~*~

Captain Ada Fairlight was in the engineering spaces of the R.S.S. Uragnite, inspecting the equipment. As the chief maintenance officer onboard, she had responsibilities, and it was one of these responsibilities she was tending to now.

The ship was, in her opinion, in shambles. Operational, but she was constantly finding maintenance that needed to be done. She felt that it was bad enough to violate operational doctrine, but Major Mirkasch, Head of Engineering disagreed and overrode her every time she submitted her findings. Every sennight was another argument with him. She had plans that would allow them to repair while underway and still keep the ship going, but he was obsessed with the ledger and meeting aggressive deployment schedules.

She could smell the faint acridity from overworked electrical wiring as she made her way through the engineering spaces to inspect one of the gas cutoff valves. The ship had a mess of steam and ceruleum pipes serving as veins to feed it its lifeblood, and the valves were critical for their safe operation.

And also the subject of another ongoing argument between Captain Fairlight and Major Mirkasch.

With a sigh, she turned to the maintenance log locker to review it. Before she could open its latch, however, she was thrown up against it, or rather it rocked forward and slammed into her, as the deck under her feet became unstable and she felt, more than heard, a boom crack throughout the ship.

They were still in port. There was no possibility of that being an enemy attack. Almost on instinct, she reached up into the overhead, pulling herself up to touch a hand to the ceruleum line.

It was warm, it was vibrating, and it was howling.

She ran to the cutoff valve, where its motor was already making a valiant effort, yet failing. The emergency alarm began to sound as she got to it, just in time to hear it make a terrible grinding noise, and stop, all life gone from it. She leapt for its clutch, and wrenched it, throwing her whole body into disengaging it.

“Emergency report, emergency report,” sounded over the loudspeakers, from a voice that had been trained to maintain utter calm in any calamity. “Gas rupture in berthing.”

There was another engineering compartment between here and there. The hatch to one of them was in front of her. Anyone already in there was trapped until the gas flow could be stopped.

She grabbed the oversized valve, nearly two fulms across. Its size meant it was an absolute bear to operate manually. One hand on either side of it, she began to work it, even as she snapped orders out, even as she tried to get the situation under control.

“Contact control! Tell them the bravo gas cutoff valve is stuck.” An enlisted man rushed forward to take her spot, but she was already in motion, her hand a vice on the valve as she wedged her knee underneath a convenient piece of machinery and used her stomach, her legs, gravity, her arms, every onze available to her to pull that side down. “I have this! Retrieve respirators, make sure the O2 lines are running!” As her first hand made its way to the bottom of the valve’s motion, on the other side she secured her grip, and now she pushed up, continuing the rotation of the valve, every muscle from her toes up through her legs, her spine, and her arm serving as a kinetic chain. “Get ready for egress! Chief, charge water to the fire main!”

Gods, she hoped the gas would not ignite. Right now this was just an emergency. A spark would turn it into a catastrophe of conflagration.

The people in the space moved to carry out her orders, and she remained in motion on the valve. Down on one side, up on the other. Pull, push. It did not take long before her muscles were burning, her breathing labored, but she continued on. She could hear sounds on the other side of the compartment door, good men and women waiting to escape before the ceruleum turned their lungs into caustic soup.

Down. Up. Wrench. Turn.

The record for closing the valve manually was thirty six seconds. She was determined to do better.

At last, the valve hit its stop, and would go no further. The little needle indicator showed it was shut. Her entire body slick with sweat, she let go, and wobbled as she tried to steady herself.

Already exhausted, but there was more to do. She pointed to a nearby enlisted person.

“Verify that valve and report!” she commanded as she went to the hatch, placing one hand on its wheel as the enlisted person scampered to take her place on the valve.

“Secure!”

“Report to control! Everyone else, stand back!”

She quickly spun the wheel, and slammed the hatch open into its catch. A wave of the stench of vaporized ceruleum slammed into her senses at the same time several people spilled out. Some were coughing, wheezing into their masks, quickly trying to get clear, trying to escape.

With them was Alastor. Of course he was with them. The infantry were his responsibility, and he was carrying two of them, both unconscious.

“Where is your respirator?” demanded Ada.

His voice had a pitched creak to it as he spoke. “Not enough to go around. Had to give it away. Let me just grab someone else’s, I have to go back in-”

He made to move around her, but she shoved her shoulder into his, bodily dragging him to the side.

“You can’t go back in! Those fumes are already eating your lungs!”

He glared at her, and coughed heavily, as if to prove her point. Thick mucous flecked from his mouth, globs of it landing to wobble on his chin.

“I have more people in there.”

Ada glanced back at the open hatch. It stunk, and the air had that wavey, purple quality to it that told her that there was far too much gas in there.

She pointed, giving an order. “You, fetch me a respirator,” she said. She turned to Alastor. “You will sit this out. This is not up for debate. Grab a respirator, sit down for at least a count of thirty, clear out your lungs. I will get your people.”

Alastor glared at her, unruly. He was older than her, but she outranked him. After a moment, though, he nodded, and sat on the ground.

“Good man,” she said, taking the respirator as it was handed to her. No flash hood. Risk of fire was too great, she would need to find one. She checked its bladders. It would need to be topped off as she went, but at least she would not be breathing in any fumes. “Report to damage control command, let them know that Captain Fairlight is entering the -”

Her ears were ringing, and the world’s sounds were subdued, distant. She was in so much pain, she was not quite sure where she hurt and where she didn’t. She rolled over, and pushed herself off the deck. She could feel a wave of heat flowing by above her, searing the air. Her skull felt like it may near as well have been exploded. As she struggled to stand, she looked around, and saw smoke. There were bodies on the floor, some like her, struggling to stand.

Others were slicked with blood. Some were not moving.

Some were on fire.

She saw a ripple of purple in the air turn blue with flame and burn itself out.

She looked back to the hatch to the other compartment, and she saw flames in the air, dancing, lighting and dying and lighting again in turn as they met purple waves and broiled.

And nearby was her brother.

He was writhing on the deck, seemingly unable to control his limbs. He was kicking his legs out spastically, his arms trying to grab any surface. It was as though he was panicked, trying to escape some terrible thing. He was gasping, and blue fire sputtered from his mouth, and died, and came back to life.

His lungs were on fire.

Ada dived for him, having to fight him to the ground. She got her arms and legs around him, trying to wrap them around his, trying to keep him from getting leverage, trying to keep him on the deck. Long enough for her to wrap a hand around his mouth, and to get her fingers around his nose, and to pinch it shut.

He writhed in her arms, his back arching and his gut spasming, as he continued to try to fight her. But she held on, rocking with him, refusing to let go. Refusing to let him escape. Refusing to let him take another breath.

He grew weak, and then he stilled, ultimately collapsing against him. She waited.

Held on.

Gave him a count of thirty.

Around her, people rushed, trying to salvage the situation. Two fire hoses were spilled out, and one of them was pointed into the next compartment. It could not put out a fire of this nature, but the deluge of water might keep the compartment cool enough to reduce further damage.

The fire would burn itself out soon enough.

Just as she hoped it had done in his lungs.

At last, she let go, and pushed her brother off of her, wedging him into a corner. She did not know if he was alive or dead. Either way, he would need to be out of the way until the medical team could tend to him.

She got up to her feet, and walked over to the door to the next compartment. An oppressive heat rolled out of it, warning her away. If she was to go in there now, without a flash hood, the heat would well be enough to melt her respirator to her face.

But there were still people in there.

She retrieved several ratchet straps, and grabbed the second fire main away from the person holding it. They just watched as she shoved the hose up the front hem of her uniform top, up the front of her chest, sticking its nozzle just under her chin, and then used the ratchet straps to make sure it stayed in place.

Once she was certain it was secure, she headed for the hatch.

One of the enlisted tried to stop her.

“Ser, you can’t go in there,” they said.

She shrugged them off, not breaking stride. “There are people in there. I need to get them out,” she said.

She had told Alastor she would get them.

She would have done it anyroad.

Nobody deserved this hell.

When the heat became too much to bear, she wrenched open the nozzle on the firemain. A deluge of freezing water exploded under her chin, soaking her immediately.

Thus protected, she made her way into the next compartment.

She quickly found two people, one unconscious, the other struggling to get them out. She took over, and pointed back to where she had come from. “Go! I have this one!” she yelled, as she planted her body under the unconscious one and hoisted them into the air. The first one nodded, and together, they made their way back out. She dumped her human cargo on the floor without ceremony, and dove back in.

The next one was harder. She found them unconscious, one arm stuck in between ladder rungs where they had tried to escape. She almost burned her hands getting them free before she retreated to a locker to retrieve a pair of heavy leather gauntlets. She came back, pulled them out, and carried them to the exit before immediately returning.

Overhead, the loudspeaker continued to make announcements. “Fire in forward engineering compartment upper level. Fire in aft infantry berthing upper level. Plant steam out in progress. Prepare to receive emergency recovery teams.”

The next one, she pulled off the deck, having to peel their face off the grating where they had melted and become stuck. She ran back with them, set them down, returned. Her arms burned. Her lungs burned from exertion. Freezing water continued to rush into her face, but the heat of the space leaned against her on all sides. She could feel it on her skin, clawing into her.

She had to duck lower, stay down close to the deck. If she looked up, she could see the air above her rippling and writhing, a living thing, roiling and wavy from the heat. Under her heavy leather clad boots, the metal grating that made up the floor was sagging.

She kept moving.

There was less and less purple in the air as the vaporized ceruleum burnt itself out. With the cutoff valve closed, no more could enter the space. But the damage had been done, and she came across insulation that had been crisped, blackened on its edges. As she carried one person out, she could see metal sagging, melting in terrible heat, on the edge of the compartment. It looked as though it was beginning to sweat little metal droplets.

She saw a body too close to the slag as she moved.

They would have to rest there. She could only spare time for the living.

The fire hose could not make it all the way to the next compartment over, but there was another fire hose on the way. She took several long precious moments to undo her ad-hoc ratchet strap arrangement, swapping out one hose for the other, and abandoning the first one, being careful to make sure that she always had at least one with its nozzle open and spraying water into her head.

Her face was sore from the constant deluge. She had to stop to refill the respirator several times. Everything hurt, and nothing was getting better.

Nevertheless, she persisted, pulling out as many as she could find, until finally she set one body down on the deck out in safety, out where she had started, and two people grabbed her from either side. One of them turned off the hose keeping her cool.

She fought against them. “There is more in there! I have to go back!”

“Your job is done, Captain!” one of them yelled. “The recovery team is here!”

She pulled against them, one last time, almost out of reflex. But they were right. In her haste, in her single minded determination, she had missed that several men and women had finally arrived, dressed in the oversized puffy suits meant for exactly this kind of work. Fully sealed. Fully insulated. Even now, they were pushing past other people, and entering the hell beyond.

She stopped fighting, and nodded. One of the people on her let go, but the other held on. She got her legs firmly under her, and tried to push to stand taller, to get leverage and move, but he kept her.

“Let me go,” she said.

“Respirator off, captain,” he said.

After a moment, she pulled it off, and winced. Her face hurt. She took a deep breath in, and her wince became a grimace. Breathing, cooler air against her face, everything hurt.

She realized she must look a mess. Her uniform was in tatters. She became aware that her legs and arms must have been terribly burnt. She was drenched from head to toe in dirty water from the fire system, and stunk, of that, of ceruleum, of engineering, of sweat. She could feel her hair matted against her skull, gross and slimy.

She finally got a look at the person who had been helping to hold her back, and noted the medical symbol on his uniform as he looked her over.

He finished his examination, reached up, and drew something on her forehead.

“You’ve been triaged,” he said. “Unfit. Get yourself out of the way, captain, before you become another casualty.”

She wanted to fight him on that.

But she looked around. There were already people here, and more coming in. While she had been rushing back and forth, fires had been put out. Equipment had been turned off. Other medics were present, tending to other bodies.

She swallowed, and nodded, and finally at last he let her go. She stumbled away from him, trying to stay out of the way of the others as they did their work, searching until she found the corner she had tucked her brother in.

She sat down heavily on the ground, and pushed herself against him, and felt the fight leave her.

She was tired.

But the plant was in good hands. The plant was safe. She had done what she could, and it would have to be enough.

~*~

Ada walked out of the courtroom, and was surprised to see Alastor sitting on a bench in the hallway.

“Do not stand up,” she said as she began to walk over him. “Do not stand up, do not salute me, stop it, do not-”

But he had come to full attention, and his hand came up in a sharp salute.

“Ser Fairlight.”

She came to a stop, pulling herself up to return the salute. “I hate you so much.”

“You hate me so much… what?”

“I hate you so much, Ser Fairlight. Sit down.”

He grinned, and released his salute, allowing her to drop hers as he lowered himself carefully to the bench. Ada sat primly next to him, and wrinkled her nose angrily at him, which caused him to let out a wheezing laugh.

“What are you even doing here? I was certain your hearing was not until tomorrow?”

“It isn’t. I thought I’d see how my little sister was doing.”

“I am both taller and heavier than you.”

“Fine, my bigger sister.”

“You should be in the infirmary. You are crippled.”

“Not yet, I’m not.”

She frowned at him.

“At least, not until they declare it during my hearing, right?” he said, as he wheeze-laughed again.

“The only thing keeping me from hitting you is sympathy.”

“And your overly keen sense of propriety.”

“There are rules to society, Alastor. You should learn a few sometime.”

He grinned as he sat back, and she sighed at him.

“How’s it going in there?” he asked.

“Going from the top down. We just finished my testimony on the accident. Questioning will continue when I go back in there, as they decide what to do with me.”

Alastor leaned forward slowly, a frown creasing his forehead.

“What do you mean, what to do with you?”

“I suspect I shall be asked for my resignation.”

“What? Why!? That doesn’t make any sense - you’re a bloody hero!”

Ada did not look at her brother.

“No commanding officer will ever trust me again.”

Alastor opened his mouth to respond, but a polite cough stopped him.

“Ser Fairlight?”

“Yes?” they both responded, looking up.

The enlistedperson looked momentarily taken aback, but recovered quickly.

“Captain Ada Fairlight,” he said. “The court is ready.”

“More testimony,” she said. “I will meet you after, Alastor.”

~*~

Captain Ada Fairlight frowned as she looked through the maintenance logs.

Main machinery upper level was still in terrible disarray. Red tags fluttered in fan driven breeze, marking equipment that was out of service or otherwise not to be operated. Workers made their way through the space and around her, working on repairs as they were able, while she and the watch tried to stay out of their way.

Above her head as she read, the bravo ceruleum cutoff valve was one of the items that had a red tag hung from it. The valve stem was suspected to be bent, which was part of what made it so difficult to open or shut. It was a problem Ada had known about for some time, and one of many matters on which she and the Head Engineer had often argued.

Before the accident, she had ordered it and that side of the ceruleum system to be taken out of service pending further inspection and repair.

Someone had marked it as repaired, put it back into service, and signed off on it being in good function. In the maintenance log, she found the name of the enlistedperson who had supposedly done the work.

None of their initials or signatures were anywhere in the log, however. Nor that of their supervisor, or anyone who might have helped them.

Just Captain Mirkasch’s signature, at the very end, verifying the work complete.

She looked at the name of the worker again. One of hers, but they had not been in the engineering spaces as of late, even before the accident. Indeed, they had been a near neighbor of hers these past few days. She tapped her finger on their name.

The safety officer came up to her while she was thinking. “I’ve accounted for most of the emergency kits. It’s possible that some material was destroyed during the accident, but I think we’re still shorter than we should be.”

“Thank you, captain,” she said. “Have you reviewed my work so far?”

“I have, and added my own,” they said. “Soon as you sign, I will countersign.”

She nodded.

It was not until the next day that she made her way down to the Head Engineer’s office, knocking on the door as she arrived.

“Enter,” she heard through the door, and she let herself in.

The office was familiar to her. About the size of two of the junior officer’s wardrooms, it was dominated by a large desk, which in turn was covered with diagrams, charts, and reference books. Each wall of the room had a different diagram on it, one showing the steam and gas plant schematic, another showing electrical wiring throughout the ship, another showing a full layout of where all the equipment was.

Captain Mirkasch was sitting at his desk, reviewing paperwork. He glanced up at Ada as she entered.

“Captain Fairlight,” he said dryly. “The infirmary release you early?”

Ada stopped in front of the desk, and saluted. “Major Mirkasch. I wished to speak with you regarding the gas leak incident.”

“Repairs are still under way, Captain, and engineering has the matter well in hand,” he said dismissively.

“The original gas line rupture was probably just an act of nature,” she began.

“Oh good, finally, a matter on which we can agree.”

“But I believe that the resulting explosion and follow on series of events were completely avoidable.”

He looked up at her, frowning.

“You see, ser,” she continued. “I think the cascade of failures began with the bravo cutout valve. We have known for some time that the stem on the valve was bent. A bent stem meant the valve was very difficult to operate, open or shut. If you perhaps had let me place a Pattern on the valve-”

“Yes, yes, we have had this argument a dozen dozen times, Captain, and let me remind you, once again, that the use of your superstitions is permitted, but not required. This ship has one mission, and one mission only. We deliver troops to the front line. Nothing more, nothing less. Anything that might interfere with that mission is, or might prevent us from deploying, is simply out of the question. Now, if that’s all, I would like to get back to work.”

Ada bristled at the use of the word superstitions, but let it go. She had a more important point to pursue.

“Not all, Major. Leaving aside the matter of my plan to keep the plant operational and safe, I believe that, over time, the operation of that valve became too much for the motor to handle. This placed repeated strain on it, leading to its failure. With that motor, the valve can be closed in four to five seconds. Without it, that valve takes near half a minute to close for even our best operators, during which time forward engineering and berthing were flooded with volatile ceruleum. Resulting in an explosive air mix.”

“Supposedly,” said Mirkasch. “And what do you want me to do about it, captain, go back in time and replace the valve?”

“I will get to that,” said Ada. “Another factor that I think led to the explosion was poor conditions in the electrics. A lot of that gear was rather warmer than it should have been, with insulation missing in places. Heat or a spark, plus the volatile air mixture, led to the explosion, injuring several. More were injured or killed due to a lack of available safety gear.”

“Need I remind you, Captain, we are at war. Supplies can be difficult to obtain, and the mission of this ship is paramount. A few missing respirators or a shortage in flash gear is to be expected.”

“We are failing to accomplish that mission now, ser.”

“Yes, thanks to an accident outside of our control. Is there anything else, Captain? I have better things to do than talk in circles around you today.”

Ada clasped her hands behind her back. “I remember that motor failing, Major. I personally saw it taken out of commission. A look into the maintenance logs showed that someone placed it back in to service. I believe they did so without actually performing the maintenance in question, judging from the condition of the motor.”

Major Mirkasch studied her carefully, steeping his fingers in front of him.

“Whoever they are, they will be in serious trouble if so,” he said, carefully.

“You signed off on their work, ser.”

He nodded. “I sign off on all work in the plant, Captain, but I cannot review every single maintenance task that has to be done. Spot checks are the standard. And if this person elected to not perform the maintenance in question, then there would have been nothing for me to check.”

Not how that works, thought Ada to herself.

“Anyroad. Pass their name to me, I will investigate further.”

“I already have, ser,” she said. “I wondered, at first, how they had done the maintenance at all.”

The Major raised his eyebrows.

“Fireman Rhotflamsyn has been in the infirmary since shortly after coming aboard. Fell down a ladder well, broke his leg. We have not been able to spare the time to return him home to a proper hospital, so the medical staff set his leg and have been keeping him as still as possible.”

She continued as the Major frowned at her. “You would know that, of course, ser, if you bothered to keep track of our people at any other time besides morning muster.”

“…watch your tone, Captain. What are you trying to say?”

“I am trying to say nothing, ser. The logs, however, say much. My predecessor also had much to say about the condition of the electronics, but it seems you repeatedly overrode him on the matter. The safety officer claims that the responsibility for plant safety equipment falls upon you, and yet our inventory of such seems to be short of what it should be. And the logs tell of maintenance done on my motor, but my motor is dead. Three people with it. Plus fifteen injured.”

The Major’s lip curled, and he looked as though he was about to say something terrible, but he stopped himself, leaning back in his chair, and taking the time to compose himself.

“Supposedly, Captain. Supposedly. Let me tell you what I see. I see a Captain, upset over the unfortunate circumstances that led to her brother getting hurt. Unable to find fault, she has exceeded her duties and the bounds of propriety, is finding fault where there is none, and is thinking to turn a tragedy into a drumhead.”

“My brother was far from the only person hurt, ser.”

“Nevertheless. This is all pointless conjecture. We shall wait and see what the official report says, which I am certain will find that this entire incident, while tragic, was simply an accident.”

Ada took a deep breath in.

“We will not need to wait, ser.”

The Major became very, very still.

“What?”

“I am allowed to compile such a report, per regulation. It falls within my duties and responsibilities, and by the letter of law, I am empowered to make such a report if I see fit. I have seen fit. My report has been fact checked and signed off by a fellow officer, and as of this morning, is up before the executive officer for review. The intent of this meeting is to inform you of my findings, as well as to inform you that the report has been submitted.”

The Major stood up slowly, leaning on his knuckles on the desk.

“You went over my head,” he said, measuring his words out.

“Which is also permitted by regulation, ser,” she said.

“You went over. My head,” he said again. “You are out of line, Captain.”

“What I did was fully within the code of,” she began, her voice ice.

“Captain Fairlight. Attention!” he barked.

Ada snapped immediately to stand fully at attention.

“You went over my head,” he snarled. “You have violated the chain of command for your own selfish, stupid, petty purposes. You have -”

He stopped, and turned his head to the side to growl, as he took several deep breaths. When he spoke next, his voice grinded, growled, threatening.

“You are insubordinate, and you have violated a sacred trust, Captain. You will give me your resignation before the end of the day.”

“That is explicitly called out in the regulations as an illegal order, Major, and I shall not follow it.”

“While you are at attention, Captain, you do not speak unless asked a direct question.”

Ada’s jaw tightened.

He stared at her, waiting, daring her to speak again, but she remained silent.

“You are relieved of your duties, Captain. When I dismiss you, you are to return to your quarters, and you will stay there. And if I see you anywhere else before you are sent for, you won’t have to wait for the court martial. Do I make myself clear?”

Ada continued to stare past the wall at nothing. “Aye, ser.”

The Major sat back down at his desk, and he glared at her, challenging, but she did not respond.

“Get out of my sight.”

Ada saluted him, pivoted, and left.

~*~

Final closing statements had been made, and the Admiralty had convened to close out. Ada sat amongst those under judgement, listening carefully, as findings and judgements were passed. Judgement of the ship’s captain was first, as everything that happened under his command was automatically his responsibility, by long tradition. The admiralty declared him innocent of malfeasance, and the events that had happened under his command an act of the gods. He would be removed from duty for reassignment to a shore command.

A relatively light sentence, given what had occurred, but Ada frowned at the declaration of the ‘act of the gods’.

The executive officer was next, and his judgement was much the same, and Ada began to feel unease.

Then Major Mirkasch.

“Major Mirkasch, attention.”

Ada was now paying keen attention.

“In the matter of the incident onboard the R.S.S. Uragnite on the date in question, on the question of whether or not Major Mirkasch is guilty of gross malfeasance, dereliction of duty, falsifying logs, and related charges, the Admiralty has reviewed the evidence and found him not guilty.”

The courtroom remained otherwise silent as the Admiral continued. Ada became aware of a terrible pain in her jaw, radiating up through her skull and threatening to crush her restraint.

“Major Mirkasch, you will remain onboard the R.S.S. Uragnite pending completion of turnover duties. Once those are complete, you will be given new orders to be transferred to another fleet. Do you understand this order?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“No, ser.”

“You may be seated.”

Major Mirkasch saluted, and sat down. Ada could feel her nails biting into her palms.

“Captain Fairlight, attention.”

Ada came to her feet smartly.

“In the matter of Captain Fairlight’s guilt regarding insubordination, conduct unbecoming of an officer, disobeying a direct order, dereliction of duty, and related charges, the Admiralty has reviewed the evidence and found her not guilty.”

Ada stood stock still.

“Captain Fairlight, you are hereby removed from your post. You are detached from the R.S.S. Uragnite effective immediately. Upon the closing of these proceedings, you will proceed to personnel, to retrieve your new orders to another ship in the fleet. Do you understand this order?”

No.

“Yes, ser.”

“Do you have any questions?”

Just one.

“No, ser.”

“You may be seated.”

Ada saluted, and sat, feeling as though she was snapping down into her seat like a spring being violently brought to full compression. The hearing continued, as the admiralty worked their way through the other officers, chiefs, and enlisted, thorough in their judgement of the accident.

She paid little attention, stunned. None of it made any sense. One of them had to be right. Either herself or Major Mirkasch. The court had found both of them not guilty. Exonerated them both. Had even set them on paths to continue to serve.

He had gotten people killed.

She would never be trusted by any command ever again.

This was all wrong.

At last, the hearing came to an end. The entire room came to their feet on command, and then, once dismissed, began to file out of the room. Ada just sat back down in her chair, still unbelieving in the outcome, still uncertain of what to do next.

As he passed by her, Major Mirkasch just nodded in her direction. “Captain,” he said, no malice, no heat, just a flat acknowledgement, simply stated. He did not seem to expect a response, not pausing for one as he continued to make his way out.

Finally, at last, it was just her, the Master at Arms, and one of the admirals in the courtroom.

The admiral continued to scribble something for his notes. The Master at Arms cleared his throat politely. Ada took the hint, and stood up, but at the same time, the admiral glanced up to see her.

“Did you have a question, Captain?” asked the admiral.

She did. But did she wish to pursue it?

“Aye, ser. Permission to approach and speak, ser.”

“Approach and ask your question.”

She walked up to the row of judge’s desks where the admiralty had sat on high and listened to testimony, deliberated their decisions, and passed judgement. Once she was close, she saluted, and waited until the admiral saluted back before she spoke.

“Just… why, ser?”

The admiral looked her over.

“My testimony and Mirkasch’s were in opposition, ser. Either he could be guilty, or I am, or both of us. But to dismiss the charges? And send us back to fleet? I do not understand, ser.”

The admiral sighed, and sat back in his seat, and considered Ada for a moment.

“Plainspeak, then, Captain. Major Mirkasch is well liked by his peers, and is the son of retired Admiral Mirkasch. You will note also that he has made it to Major. He has done his job well enough up until now, without major incident. To dismiss him would require a political will we simply do not have at the moment. No. We will see him assigned somewhere with a stricter XO who will do a somewhat better job keeping an eye on him. In addition, one of the officers who will be reporting to him may be subordinate in the rank structure, but his family has rather more pull than his. We’ll see him do his job.”

“What of the dead and injured?”

“Plainspeak, Captain, plainspeak. What of them? We are at war. Casualties happen. Unfortunate, but the machine must move on.”

More like a beast, if it was eating its people like this, thought Ada.

“And what of me, ser?”

“You have family of your own which we wish to be careful of. And in addition, Captain, frankly, you are too valuable to go away. Now, I will confess, I do not fully understand the full extent of all of this Pattern and new engineering, but we recognize that it, and you, are extremely valuable. You will find the ship you are going to will be rather more, ah, accommodating of your more… radical ideas.”

Ada shook her head. “I turned in my superior officer, ser. I … was right to go past him in the chain of command, but I also recognize that nobody else will see it that way. My career is effectively over.”

“Plainspeak is the word of the day, captain. And the word of this admiralty is thus.”

He put his pen down for a moment, clasped his hands in front of him, and leaned forward to look her in the eye.

“We do not give a damn.”

Ada felt her temper turn to ice.

“I shall turn in my resignation, then.”

“Should have thought to do that earlier. Too late now. I will personally reject any such letter that you submit.”

She glared at him.

“For that matter, why did you wait to do so? Might have avoided charges. It’s not generally in our best interest to go after someone for insubordination if they leave of their volition.”

“I wanted to see how this turned out, ser. And … and I wanted to see the right thing done, ser.”

The admiral drummed his fingers on the desk thoughtfully.

“You were never going to turn in a resignation letter. I’ve met officers like you before, and that’s what I think. No, I know your kind. You signed a contract and took an oath, and you’ll see them both through before the military is done with you. No, I think you’ll be staying, Captain. We’ll be better for it.”

She hated that he was right.

He capped his pen, and began to organize his papers. “If it makes you feel any better, we will be keeping a very close eye on the Major, family connections or no. Was there anything else?”

“No, ser.”

“Very well. Dismissed, Captain Fairlight.”

Ada came to attention, saluted, turned, and left.

~*~

Alastor was no longer in the hallway when she left, which was just as well at the moment. She did not feel like talking to him.

She did not feel like telling him that she had failed.

She did not feel like telling him that they had both been failed.

She walked, steadily, stiffly, keeping herself composed, keeping her head high.

And she thought of the one bit of testimony that she did not tell in the courtroom.

Of how she sat next to his still body. How she had reached over. How weak she had felt, after all had been said and done. How dead she felt.

How dead he felt.

How she had pulled him into her arms, and curled up around him, and began to sob as the ship around her creaked, as its mighty metal groaned, as the great vessel struggled to keep itself alive. Of how it felt that the death was reaching through its bones, threatening to drag the whole crew down.

She did not tell them that she felt she had left her feelings there, in that moment, sobbing against a body she did not know was alive.

She turned and looked up at the large military complex building. A gigantic edifice of stone, gray and imposing. A beast, in truth, whose belly consumed lives and delivered nothing of worth.

The machine had always been an illusion. Slick and clean, efficient and capable to outside eyes.

But she knew better, now.

The machine was bleeding to death, but the beast fed well.

She turned her back to it, and walked away.

[blizzardrush]

Coming of Age

                          Dragunov Week Day 3: Alternate Universe

I've wanted to write this for a long time.

Content warnings: canon-typical violence, depictions of blood and gore, character death.

Read here or on AO3.

Thank you, and enjoy! @dragunovweek1

                                        1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

                                                      -  -  -

    Life could not go on this way, and the insurgent was in the thick of it. He was whatever was needed -- planner, consultant, writer, runner, spy. Whatever it took to stop the common people, his people, from starving in the streets.

    He met with workers in factories and organized strikes. He spoke with disaffected soldiers and secreted weapons into the proper pockets. He stood atop statues and shouted for reform, a banner in one hand, the other in a fist. The air and his heart were charged with electric excitement. His world tilted on the edge of change.

    He was captured. He was stolen away with a bag on his head and delivered to a small, underground room.

    They tried to make him talk, to surrender his comrades, their agendas, threatening devastation. He spat in their faces. The Empire was already decrepit. If he didn't perish now, it would be of exposure in the cold, too poor to afford heat. Wasn't that a familiar story? How many Imperial Guard had lost siblings to famine? Wives? Children?

    They left the room for a while. They came back with knives. Bayonets.

    The insurgent had craved many things in these desperate times. This was the first time he craved death.

    The last thing they took before they dumped his ruined meat in a slush-filled alley was his tongue. No seditious words evermore.

    His comrades found him the next day, and mended what they could, but their attention was required elsewhere. Troops had fired upon the crowds marching on the Winter Palace. Hundreds were dead, many more injured. They bid him farewell, certain it would be the last time they saw him alive.

    But a frigid flame yet burned inside him. He refused to succumb to his wounds. The revolution needed him.

    He was no help to the cause in his broken state. When he gathered enough strength to walk, he crept aboard a train due west. There was a place beyond the Empire that heralded a miracle: a cure for any ailment and injury. One needed only arrive through its gates, and arrive the insurgent did.

    However, with treatment completed, he awoke in a world more warped than the one he knew, its psyche squalid and sloshing with vile mystery. He gripped the edges of the clinic doors and watched the sun dip past jagged spires.

    Yharnam was very dark at night.

                                                      -  -  -

    "I know what you're doing, and I'd advise against it. Beasts are your primary concern. Not hunters."

    Sergei Dragunov, crossing the threshold of Oedon Chapel, sneers at the crow-woman lurking in the shadows. Does she? Has she seen how power turns ordinary men into slaves of the elite?

    "Not undeserving hunters." Eileen peers at him down the curve of her beaked mask. This one carries mild interest. Beyond doubt he's an outsider, for she's never seen him on prior hunts, but he moves with experience of won battles. Observing him dispatch Gascoigne made certain of that. "For your sake, you had best tell the difference."

    That is easy enough. Dragunov turns his gaze toward the Grand Cathedral, its hammer-like edifice looming over the Ward. He needn't be in Yharnam long to see the mark of the Healing Church in near every aspect of life in the city. That's how it begins. Control over all. Property, faith -- daily health. The fangs of a parasite sucking the populace dry.

    Perhaps there is time to save this place from tyranny yet. Never in his past life had he thought to be an assassin, but here he has the blood, the Doll, the dream.

    Torchlight gleams off the weapon at his hip. Though tarnished with age and layers of dungeon dust, Eileen recognizes it well. Sergei turns to leave.

    "Hmm." She rubs her chin, gathers her thoughts. "What path you choose to follow is your own. What prey you choose to hunt. I will not stop you, but take heed. Some burdens weigh heavier than others. Don't let it drain you of your youth."

    He hesitates, frowning back at her before continuing the march toward the Cathedral.

    Eileen chuckles. Must not hear that often.

                                                      -  -  -

    A spider dies, and Yharnam falls to ruin.

    The Grand Cathedral once more. Dragunov kneels on its top step. Its imposing facade pales in comparison to the bruised, putrid sky above. His hat blocks the worst of the sloughing colors. The heavens hold not his attention regardless.

    Eileen, propped against a stone statue, lies in a pool of her own blood. Sergei places a palm over her heart. Its beat is faint yet steady, as is her breath.

    As is her voice, when she speaks. "Well, young hunter? Have you made your choice?" Fluid crackles in her throat.

    He has.

    The towering doors are open. He walks inside.

    A hunter staggers before the altar. Curiously, his hair comes to a thick point. He quakes in pain, bent double and clutching his head. Hearing Sergei's footfalls, he looks over his shoulder, eyes wide and wild.

    "Get back," he croaks, "Get back!"

    He damns himself to slaughter. Dragunov breaks into a run. If he can get there in time -- he wrenches his short sword apart into its constituent blades, siderite shedding sparks--

    Like many before him and many more to come, the hunter explodes in a flash of light and shower of gray fluid. Wicked claws burst from his existing arms and the scaled legs protruding from his belly. His skin erupts in black stripes and boils, and his wings hang heavy with shaggy feathers.

    The beast turns, the scream that rips from its throat careens around the Cathedral walls, splintering the windows.

    Dragunov rushes on, blades reaching for bestial flesh. Slashed blood invigorates his own even as the monster tears at him. Rage smolders coldly within him, drives his dancing, dodging dashes away only to dive in openings between swinging limbs. The wretched, ruinous Church--

    On the beast's forehead, a crimson eye cracks open.

    The light it flares sets Sergei's mind ablaze. He's in over his head. This empire spans further than earthly borders. His is a futile fight against the very heavens themselves, and the tsars who reign there are as gods. He is an ant, an atom, in a sea of incomprehensible puppet masters.

    Blood -- his own blood -- spews from him in spearheads, and yet pressure still builds. Dragunov stumbles, dropping one blade. He is going to burst apart.

    The beast laughs, arms wide for a lethal embrace.

    He has one last chance. His free hand scrabbles at his hip. Where is it, where is -- there!

    The beast's hot, rancid breath fills his nose as his fingers find the trigger of his pistol.

    The shot blasts through the madness. The beast shrieks, reeling back, molten quicksilver from the bullet scalding its exposed chest.

    Sergei sinks his remaining dagger into its writhing heart. Wrenching it free throws the beast to the ground.

    --his hand is empty. Both blades lie on the floor. The talons adorning his fingers shrink into human nails.

    The Grand Cathedral is silent.

    Dragunov watches the beast melt into ruddy sludge. He was too late for this one. Flitting from hunter to hunter, watching for signs of Church influence, is no longer an option. Too inefficient. As the night intensifies, so must he.

    The throne of the Healing Church lies near.

    He injects a blood vial into his thigh, feels its soothing spread around him, and withdraws to see if Eileen still lives.

[dailycharacteroption]

Planar Tour Guide: The First World part 2

(art by davvworlds on DeviantArt)

Geography

Like I said yesterday, The First World is ever-changing, with only the will of especially powerful fey keeping any area stable in a decently permanent fashion. While it is true that a particular biome could last decades on it’s own, every part of the plane is subject to the potential of great waves of change rushing over everything, turning forests to deserts, mountains to oceans, and the familiar into the utterly unfamiliar. Remember that this plane contains every concept dreamed up by the gods before the final creation was made, so impossible physics, magical laws, and the like are all possible. You might see floating islands, or colossal trees with continent-spanning branches, strange places where all that is naturally tiny is massive, and so on. You might even see strange playtime lands where massive cards and dice are overgrown with plant life like the stones of a long-dead city, and the like.

So with all these constant changes, it can be difficult to try and make broad statements about this vast realm. As such, instead we’ll focus on listing the semi-permenant realms ruled over by Eldest and other powerful fey with the wills to keep their personal domains stable.

One of the biggest cities on the plane is Anophaeus, the so-called First City on account of having existed supposedly even before Axis. The city is the divine domain of Imbrex, the fey eldest resembling colossal twin statues, while the city sprouts up around, over, and even up the feet and legs of the immobile divinity. There, First World gnomes and other fey trade in many wondrous things and try to interpret the telepathic dreams of their patron.

As the name suggests, the Crumbling Tower is a partially ruined edifice that serves as the home of the Lost Prince, the Eldest of melancholy and lonliness. It is inhabited by him and his followers, who work constantly to shore up the construction of the tower even as it’s top floors continue to crumble and fall. Though hardly an appealing place for most, the Lost Prince’s library, the Helix, is one of the best in the First World.

Meanwhile, in a misty forest where mirror-like pools abound, the Forest Pools is the realm of Magdh and her norns, all of which quietly watch the future and see all possibilities for both the First World and the entirety of the cosmos.

Cast in perpetual twilight by the canopy of the Silkwood and suspended on cords of spider silk, the Hanging Bower is the home of the Green Mother, the eldest of the predatory allure of nature. It is a place of sensual revelry where companionship and intoxicants are at their most varied. It is also, however, a place of politics and intrigue, with many a deal conducted in a seedy pleasure den. Just be careful if you catch the attention of the Green Mother herself. While she has her own desires and intrigues, not all survive her attention.

Rising high atop a mountain and constantly shifting between different eras of it’s own construction, the House of Eternity is home to Shyka the Many, the eldest of time. Shyka’s library the most comprehensive that most beings could ever hope to find, supposedly having a copy of every book that has or ever will be written. Of course, Shyka is likely to demand a price, usually some unique artifact, in exchange to taking a peek.

Ruined and sunk to the bottom of the deepest trench of the Cerulean Sea, Karaphas the Drowned is home to the father of linnorms, the eldest Ragadahn. Few are allowed to enter, but ramshackle cities spring up along the outskirts populated by those seeking the favor of their ruler.

Count Ranalc is long gone, but his domain Nighthold remains, though not unchanged, with the Bleeding Mount volcano raining ash and fire on the ruins of his acropolis. Shadows and wicked fey rule, held back by a fence of magical lanterns. According to legend, if someone can make it to and sit on the throne of the realm, they will become it’s ruler, though no one has survived the attempt thus far.

An onion-domed compound with inward-curved walls, the Palace of Seasons lies in the middle of a desert, and is watched over by the eldest Ng. Within it’s empty halls one can find many secrets, including specimens of exotic seasons that were tested, but never implemented on any world of the Material Plane. Though regarded by most as his home, Ng claims that he is actually watching over the realm for another eldest.

Finally, the Witchmarket, is an oddity among permanent fey realms in that it is much more mobile than they are, a roving caravan of fey merchants that travel not just around the First World, but also onto the Material Plane, though it is clear to those who enter that they are not quite within the familiar world while among it’s wagons and tents. It is said anything can be found there, but the merchants do not truck in coin, instead accepting payment in often-dangerous services, new magic, and seemingly impossible and ephemeral things.

Additionally, there are a few things one must also note about the First World beyond the tricks of fey and the ever-shifting landscape. The first is that magic is wild and unstable. In many places, it is traditionally wild, but in others, it simply becomes unpredictable, forcing casters to focus their will to make sure the spell happens as intended, though some of these effects are beneficial.

The other thing to remember is that just as parts of the First World are stabilized by the will of the Eldest, so too is the rest of the plane affected by the will of those within. Though difficult, it is possible to create temporary changes to the environment by focusing on it, though exactly the extent of how much can be changed depends on the power of the one doing the altering. These can range from reshaping a wood thicket to allow a path through to cleaving out a temporary demiplane from the First World, which appears to outsiders to be a fenced-off realm within the plane that none without strong magic can penetrate or peer into.

That will do for today, but as we can see, the First World is capable of cities and structure, but the fact it is made up of everything that is or might have been part of the Material Plane makes it a place of abundance and wild chaos, of infinite generation and renewal as all ideas are constantly changed and remixed with each other. Look forward to tomorrow when we talk about the creatures that live there!

[theperfectquestion]

On a long plane journey I watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem, The Mitchells VS The Machines, Across the Spider-Verse and Elemental.

All good movies, would recommend on various strengths.

But I think we need to put all the well-meaning parents in animation on the bench for a year or more. I know you are all good parents despite being workaholics in a cutthroat industry, you can stop telling me that with all your movies. I understand that you're trying your best, and just want your kids to come to terms with your relatively minor flaws.

You've done excellent work, parents who make animated movies about connecting with your loveable teenage children. Can you now move aside and let some childless misanthropes make some movies? I want some disgust at children to cleanse my palette. I grew up on Dahl who, by all accounts, hated children. I want some genuine anger, even some sadism, directed at both children and parents, to be injected back into the culture.

Maybe I'm a fool for wanting anti-family ideas from family movies, but all ecosystems are strengthened by diversity. And diversity isn't just about race, neurology and sexuality - there are kids with genuinely bad parents out there who are only receiving the message that they are one character arc away from being loved and accepted. There are first-generation immigrants who have good reason to hate the culture and religion of their family.

For every Bandit from Bluey you need a Daddy Pig. Right now the scales are tipping towards the saintly Bandits and I can't help but feel like the children of Daddy Pigs are being told that they are wrong.

When those children grow up and start making animated movies about their rage and betrayal, about their plans to deconstruct the edifices that trapped and hurt them, I'll be all over that.

[thefouraboveall]

Ⅷ. 

Ⅶ.

Ⅵ.

" Isn't this fun, Kharneth?"

Nurgle had asked Khorne in a cheer. He then ambled off, limbs slick with opaque slime, bones and bodies gripped in his many tendrils to be liquefied and added into this...edifice they were creating. The Blood God didn't answer. It wasn't the word he would use, but constructing the fortress had taken his mind off other things. He sat, watching the Plague Lord turn crumbled rocks and bones into mucus-held cobbles.

Khorne himself was hunched and heaving ever so slightly with his own efforts. Wounds, wrought by his own claws, to bring forth his fiery blood. Fiery blood that would cool into metal, which could be shaped and utilized for the bastion-manse.

The shadow of it hung over them now, a decently complete hybrid of vines, stones, brass, skulls, carcasses, and iron-machinery. Slaanesh's earmarks were notably missing from the structure. The Dark Prince was loath to contribute to any part of this 'palatial abomination' as he called it.

" Sleep in the wilds then. It would do a softling, pastry-eater like you some good." Khorne had snarled in response to Slaanesh's whining. The Prince had sulked in silenc, but Nurgle caught the malice glittering in his eyes. The Blood God would pay for speaking to him in such a manner at some point.

" I cannot divine in these conditions."

" You barely divine at all." Khorne snapped back at his distraction-prone sibling. Slaanesh crossed his arms, pulling such a face and angling his ears in such a way that Nurgle knew an argument was sure to come. It wouldn't be the first time and the structure had suffered from their godly-squabbles. And so the Poxlord had stepped in, quite literally, planting one squat, cloven foot between them both.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. Look on the bright side. We have nearly completed the Manse."

"The Bastion." Khorne growled.

" -- And, we wouldn't want to undo our hard work on it, would we?" Nurgle continued ignoring Kharneth's interjection. Unspoken as it was, both Gods got the point. " There is still plenty more to build, Slaanesh. And Kharneth and I are not wise to your needs and tastes."

"Evidently." Slaanesh hissed, a pointed look at the metal-flora/fauna nightmare taking shape behind them.

" So it would be best if--"

" If you stopped lying about and contributed." Khorne interrupted again.

Slaanesh looked offended at the very notion, leaning back and away from his bloody-hungry brother, a hand upon his chest. Hard work? Toil? These were the burdens of mortals and lesser creatures, done in service of the gods. Or, the struggles of Lesser gods, like the two gargantuan fools who spoke to him.

" Are you not an artist? Would you not grace us with your work?" Nurgle tried flattery. Khorne had had his fill of his youngest sibling and stalked off growling curses, content to produce blood-ingots elsewhere. The pair watched him go, Slaanesh shaking his head before looking again to Nurgle.

"This is beneath me. I craft. I do not toil and this is toil, Nurgleth." The Dark Prince replied, nose skyward. But, after a moment, his resolution softened into practical consideration. He gave a sniff and flicked the end of his heart-shaped tail. " Servants. Slaves." He began sibilantly, " I shall yoke those lesser creatures into my thrall and they shall make my vision-- our vision-- a reality."

"Wonderful!" Nurgle exclaimed with a clap of his hands. He went to touch Slaanesh, but the Dark Prince quickly angled himself away and out of the Fly Lord's reach. He brushed himself off, even though Nurgle hadn't touched him, then turned on his heel.

" I shall return. Think fondly of me."

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Best Wrist Watches for Men - Timeless Style and Functionality

Wristwatches are more than just tools for telling time; they are a statement of style, craftsmanship, and personality. Whether you’re looking for a versatile everyday piece, a sophisticated dress watch, or a robust sports watch, there’s a perfect wristwatch for every man. In India, a diverse range of brands and styles cater to different preferences and budgets. Here’s a look at some of the best wristwatches for men available in India.

1. Rolex Submariner

A symbol of precision and durability, the Rolex Submariner is the ultimate luxury sports watch. Known for its rugged design and water resistance, it’s the go-to choice for those seeking a combination of style and functionality. Whether you're diving or attending a formal event, the Rolex Submariner never fails to impress with its classic design and iconic bezel.

2. TAG Heuer Monaco

For those who appreciate motorsport-inspired design, the TAG Heuer Monaco is a perfect fit. Known for its square dial and bold design, this timepiece exudes a sense of adventure and sophistication. The automatic chronograph movement ensures top-tier accuracy, making it a perfect choice for both casual outings and business meetings.

3. Seiko 5 Automatic

The Seiko 5 Automatic is a versatile and affordable choice for those who appreciate classic style and automatic movement. With its simple design and reliable functionality, this watch offers great value for money. The stainless steel case and dial options make it suitable for both casual and semi-formal occasions, while the automatic movement ensures precise timekeeping.

4. Casio Edifice

The Casio Edifice series offers sporty and elegant watches with advanced features. Known for its multifunctional designs, the Edifice is perfect for men who value both style and practicality. Whether you're looking for a digital-analog hybrid or a watch with multiple time zones, the Casio Edifice range offers a variety of options to suit any occasion.

5. Omega Seamaster Diver 300M

The Omega Seamaster Diver 300M is the ideal choice for men who need a high-performance watch for underwater adventures. With water resistance of up to 300 meters and a helium-escape valve for professional diving, this watch blends technology, durability, and style. The design is equally at home on land, making it versatile enough for both casual and formal wear.

6. Tissot PRX

For a sophisticated yet affordable Swiss watch, the Tissot PRX stands out. The modern, minimalistic design combined with the Swiss automatic movement makes it an excellent choice for men who prefer understated elegance. Its stainless steel bracelet and sleek dial are perfect for both business and casual settings, offering a timeless look that is sure to turn heads.

7. Hamilton Khaki Field

The Hamilton Khaki Field is the ultimate military-inspired watch. Known for its durable design, the watch features easy-to-read numerals and a rugged leather or canvas strap. It’s a great option for men who want a reliable, practical timepiece that also embodies a vintage charm. Whether you're in the field or at a casual gathering, this watch is a classic choice.

8. Bvlgari Octo Finissimo

For those looking to make a bold statement, the Bvlgari Octo Finissimo offers an ultra-thin, avant-garde design that combines modern aesthetics with Swiss precision. With its 40mm case and skeleton dial, this watch exemplifies luxury, making it a perfect option for men who appreciate cutting-edge design and technical excellence.

9. Citizen Eco-Drive

Citizen’s Eco-Drive collection is known for its sustainable technology, with watches that are powered by light, eliminating the need for battery changes. With a wide variety of designs, from simple analog models to sophisticated chronographs, Eco-Drive watches offer reliability and functionality, perfect for men who want a durable, eco-friendly watch.

10. Frederique Constant Slimline

For a classic, refined look, the Frederique Constant Slimline is a perfect dress watch. Its minimalist design, thin profile, and elegant aesthetics make it suitable for formal occasions. The Swiss-made automatic movement ensures precise timekeeping, while the sleek stainless steel case and leather strap add to its timeless appeal.

Conclusion

Wristwatches for men come in a variety of styles and price ranges, ensuring there’s something for everyone. From luxury timepieces like the Rolex Submariner and Omega Seamaster to more affordable options like the Seiko 5 and Casio Edifice, each watch has its unique blend of design and functionality. Whether you’re looking for an everyday companion, a sports watch, or a sophisticated dress watch, the right wristwatch can elevate your style and complement your personality.

Explore the wide range of wristwatches for men available in India and find the perfect one that fits your lifestyle and taste!

[writer59january13]

Poetic letter Putin the electric kool aid acid test results into action...

when president elect Donald John Trump sworn in vowing to accept the following pledge. "I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States," whose surprise come from behind winning as commander in chief ten days after Tuesday, November 5, 2024

doth stymie and stump the writer of these words, who would much prefer leader of our free webbed wide world a character like Forrest Gump.

I find myself dumbfounded

and not trying to be a smart ass

foo fighting generic humble sitting on his rump, nevertheless, I rather imagine (fire breathing snapping) dragon, whose known fearsomeness clearly recognized versus accompanying, (albeit riding shotgun) in his swiftly tailored harried stylied customized reo speedwagon freshly minted forty seventh president as he cozies up with top three notch totalitarian rulers of the webbed wide world such as Ali Hosseini Khamenei,

Vladimir Putin, and Kim Jong Un for starters.

Soon - once dominion wrought

upon peoples of these United States freedom of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness will find inalienable rights

enshrining Declaration of Independence

and Constitution well taut flag rent internecine conflict pitting free soilers against slave owners

and rendered all for nought countless young lives sacrificed upon hallowed ground, where vicious battles fought, and feverishly achieved courtesy unimagined beastie boys nsync with cutting crew witnessed progressive solutions with grievous social issues,

but now that big bad Don secured a majority of 270 electoral votes required to elect as POTUS, (and did you notice absent accusation of rigged elections?), where gubernatorial celebrants swigged one after another draught of legitimacy to lampoon

anybody and everybody at will invariably kindle sophisticated wordsmiths, who possess an incisive wit and wisdom would showcase their adroit skill in their zeal to fulminate against self appointed dictatorial henchmen as bitter pill wickedly spewing phlegm out nostril demanding theatrical performances

attendance required or else lest one get hashtagged as linkedin

with subversive nasty happy horsesh*t

as stipulated in their handbill addressed to each person electronically and courtesy hard copy individually courtesy autofill utilizing a generic template to pronounce all future edicts.

Away thinly veiled threats to wreak havoc and foment spoiled Christmas

for the next four years, whereby maybe Santa in league with reindeer and elves

can arrange for Cruella to feign being his long lost sis before he gets his bear size paws

on documents painstakingly drafted

against British sovereignty over fate of thirteen colonies to relish contra dancing at all hours of the day and night (watch for ContraCopia Saturday, November 30, 2024 - 2:00 pm until 11:00 pm)

where all proceeds go to raise fiddler on the roof atop complex edifice,

where wild asparagus throve,

and swallowtail butterflies

flitted to and fro, hither and yon totally oblivious, judicious, fractious, capricious, and adventitious dramatic changing of the guard

upholding fledgling recipe for Norwegian bachelor farmers forefathers/mothers to jump/ kick started democracy.

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