#but at its core. his heart. soul. he truly wanted to help

[padfootastic]

harry’s ‘saving people thing’ comes from james potter and if you disagree, u can bite me because that is the TRUTH

[tetzoro]

zoro kisses you with a purpose. bruising, demanding, the kind that sweeps you off your feet and the only thing there to catch you is him. all consuming, he devours you, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth to savor every single inch.

heady groans and lack of air leaves you dizzy yet only wanting more. clutching onto him like a lifeline as he has his way with you, like he’s got something to prove. he’s drunk on the soft noises you let out, fueling a primal urge deep within him that only makes him kiss you harder.

but sometimes zoro can’t help but take his time with you. when the world slows down and he allows himself to just relax — even for a little bit, you’re his favorite person to turn to. his tongue melting against yours, swirling around, drool accumulating because he refuses to let go — fuck, he loves it. he loves you. it gets unbelievably messy but it’s full of so many unspoken words you can feel it nestle into your soul, safely tucking his love in your heart.

either way, he could never contain himself when it comes to kissing you. whether his passion is eating you alive or his love is slowly stripping you down to your core, he’s determined to show you how deeply he truly craves you.

[strewwwberry]

About to do a Rant on shen Jiu coz yeah, so ⚠️trigger warnings⚠️for, you know, him lol

(Additional tw please read beforehand even if its just a skim)

I personalize a lot of my writing to the viewer/reader, if you are someone who tends to input yourself into writing, whether purposely or not, please be aware that it may get uncomfortable or too personal to you, be aware of what you can read through and what is uncomfortable or you simply don’t like, stay safe ♡

Also apologies in advance if I project at all through this.

Shen Jiu's story has got to be one of the most tragic I've read, and not just for his slavery, abandonmet, sexual and physical abuse and then extortion after "freedom", and on top of that the old tale of the abused become the abuser. No, not just that, but because he was willing, he was 110% willing to ignore his feelings, brush aside his abuse an torture, everything, if Yue Qinguen just told him why he wasn't there, just gave him a reason, hell not even a reason, a goddam excuse to why he wasn't there.

He would've, he may not have been a good person even after the fact, actually I'd bet that he wouldn't be a "good person" at all. But, I belive that at the very least, it would've calmed his heart ENOUGH to not repeat the cycle of abuse, even If not for any reason but yue qingyuan.

Even as an adult he was still a child inside wanting the comfort of someone he trusted more than anything, and to be reassured that he wasn't abandoned, that his qi-ge was just late.

And to make it worse, he was, yue qingyuan was simply late. He pushed to hard to quickly, refused to ask for help, refused to explain, got himself in a deadly situation, was late and continued to not explain himself but instead give a look of pity and a stupid sorry every single time as if that changes anything.

Now to go into that, that look of pity. I can literally feel in my soul how fucking cruel that was to have done to Shen qingqiu. Imagine you make it out alive through being sold into slavery, abused in all ways possible, had to fight your way out because your one and only wasnt able to, got basically kidnapped and then further used, escaped THAT, and finally made it to a sect where you see your one and only, hoping that no he couldn't have left me... Did he? No he didnt abandon you, there must be a reason. But nothing, just pathetic apologies constantly. He must've thought himself above me, I'll prove him wrong. You make it to be a head disciple on your way to be a Peak Lord, an impeccable position and a near impossible accomplishment for an ex slave, and still nothing, just pity.

Then you finally get to the top, your on your way to Ascension, already immortal despite being too old to even cultivate when you started and your qi-system (whatever it's called) is absolutely wrecked (miracle you can even cultivate, an insane improbability to have made at to a golden core and immortality). But still, even after all you've been through and persevered through, pity, pity for a man who made it. Pity for a man who went through hell and still fucking made it.

I'm just saying, I'd be mad too.

But no, it doesn't end, of course it doesn't.

Your anger reaches a point unmanageable, you refuse to explain, no one explained anything to you and they won't listen anyway! refuse to try because what good could it do? No one will believe me anyway what's the point? Only friends are brothel ladies, who you pay to be with you, you get called a pervert and a lecher for caring for these woman and that girl disciple of yours who you take pride and comfort in. Are you a pervert and a lecher? Is that true? Only you really know.

And then this bastard kid she just had to point out.

Shen Jiu, refused to acknowledge his REAL flaws and blamed everyone else for everything even when it truly does end up his fault. What. Is he just supposed to deny or admit anything? Of course not! Let them belive whatever the hell they want, I've always acted this way making me seem untrustworthy and because they're hypocrites they wont try to find out why anyway, and I'm always the victim.

Which he was for a long time.

But then he wasn't, not really no, still a victim or course, but right now, with his standing and power?

and then even though they were in the wrong, his refusal to try (understandable but still) was his own choice, his refusal to at least get along with them, not start fights, not ostracize and critisize in the form of snide commentary. No one made him did that, he was traumatized and a child, yes, so was it understandable? Of course! Was it still his own actions that even as an adult he refused to stop, let alone apologize for, even if not literally apologizing? Yes, yes it was.

And then a child. Whose had it rough. Maybe not (yet) as rough as you, but rough. And then to abuse that kid, torture and isolate that child become he was so lucky to have had a mother? A mother who, although still his mother, wasn't even blood? And because his eyes reflected that of a monster, his name reminding you of your abuser just like how your own now does to. hes too much like me, that look just can't be humane, he must be a monster. And you know what you were right he was a half demon child. But not even a demon deserved to be pushed into the abyss to die, no child not even a demon child deserved what you but him through.

That is not how that works. You hand him over to the water prison and figure it out, because the laws are fucked but at least that's something then just acting how you think is right even when you know its not. But no you had to, because what would they say, harboring a monster, you must be one to.

Then on top of all that, you swore to yourself that once you got your peak Lord name, you'd bury your past like you literally just spawned in the moment it's given. And then failed to bury it. Because life isn't that easy. But for once you just wish it was. You wanted to kill that child, so for the one that reminds you to much of yourself? You'll kill that one instead.

Shen jiu doesn't deserve excuses, hell he doesn't even want people to make excuses for him, not for himself and not from anyone else (except if that excuse Is qi-ge giving him so much as "I got caught up drinking my hella fancy tea, I dint mean to leave you there") .

But he was tragic.

He was human, so very human. A human playing the part of a trancendial being. A human boy in the appearance of someone untouchable and inconceivable.

Playing this act means no one can use nor abuse you.

Now, no one can hurt you,

Not anymore.

...

But they still did

[lloydfrontera]

we've known for a while that novel lloyd and webcomic lloyd are two different characters but this really shows the kind of character the adaptation team has turned lloyd into.

like. i cannot begin to emphasize how not true this is for novel!lloyd. at all. he's constantly lying about his feelings both to others and to himself, a big part of his emotional conflict with javier is about javier wanting lloyd to show him how he truly feels and lloyd lying straight to his face about it, being dishonest about his emotions and feelings is a core part of his character and him finally letting himself be open and honest is meant to be the payoff of his emotional arc.

the way he feels and the things he shows and says are not the same.

heck not even his feelings and his thoughts are the same!

It was truly a strange thing. He was giving away a tremendous gift without anything in return. Yet, his heart was light and filled with relief. And even though he said it was a wasted opportunity or whatever, truthfully speaking, he didn't feel that way. Tsk. It's not because that hooligan Frontera made me weak, or because I feel guilty. I'm doing this because I'm tired of its whining. It is beyond annoying to hear Frontera whining, insisting, and begging for me to take responsibility and help out. Lloyd thought this was an opportunity for him to get rid of one less burden of his. It was the cost of getting rid of this pesky burden. This was an investment. So, he concluded that he wasn't being a fool. He was doing this for Arcos and Marbella Frontera. Lloyd reiterated these thoughts in his head and pulled himself together.

like. he will lie to himself about his reasons for doing kind things and justify them as actually selfish and self-interested when we know that's not true.

he betrays his feelings with his actions, him being a good person and being unable to hide it or change it despite his best efforts is also an integral part of his characterization but it's not something he willingly shows or something he's even willing to admit to himself much less to other people.

which. is exactly the opposite of what this scene was about? i think? like. the conflict here was,, someone trying to prove that lloyd's actions aren't actually selfless and that he has a hidden agenda and lloyd proving that notion wrong by rejecting. but,, that's exactly the opposite of what lloyd wants to project about himself?

like. this is a man that when told directly to his face that he's a good person who when left to his own devices will help others for no gain to himself by a higher being whose literal job is to judge souls' goodness he will just go "nuh uh" and insist everything he does is for his personal gain and not the greater good or anything like that.

he would not be emotionally honest enough to have this kind of realization and much less to share it with some fucking guy trying to kill him.

i just. i want to know so bad what the adaptation team wanted to prove with this interaction. like. what was the purpose of it. what did they want to tell us about lloyd by having him say this.

personally i find it so diametrically opposed to lloyd's characterization in the novel that i just. i don't understand how they could've come up with this scene if they understood his character in the novel like. at all.

but. is that anything new lmao

[icarustypicalfall]

Dangerously yours

Simon Ghost Riley

summary: "In the depths of his being, he eluded your grip. For the first time in an eternity, he allowed himself to pursue it, to chase after its essence, and to surrender his very core to its consuming power."

warnings: poetic?, sfw, simon is a mysterious man

notes: happy two months to this account!! tysm for everyone who helped me make it this far, ily <3

don't judge this fic, first time writing about our silly ghost, hope it matched his character.. I'd appreciate any advices about him <3

✧･ﾟ: *. ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･.°•･ﾟﾟ・゜゜・．•

..We lay here for years or for hours,

So long we become the flowers..

The sky was dark, lightning struck through the clouds, and rainfall ensued. Simon nudged your side, urging you to move closer. There was no place where you and he felt more vulnerable and free than this hill, nestled deep in the forest, where the sky and ocean meet. You swung your legs lazily, gazing at the rocks and trees below in the piedmont. A sense of peace washed over you as you let your gaze roam amidst the tempestuous nature.

The ground felt harsh beneath your palms and tender flesh, yet you paid it little attention. It still offered more softness in some ways than the harsh reality that enveloped you and your teammates each day.

Droplets of rain began to pour, and neither Simon nor you moved an inch.

His face remained still, as it always did, concealing a raging war within his soul that only you had caught a glimpse of.

Even after all these years, you still managed to recognize the face beneath that mask. Countless times, you had brushed your fingertips against the tender skin of his face.

No words were needed; you had made a promise before unveiling the true nature hidden within his soul and heart.

Before joining the task force, you never realized the depth of silence's language. It was only after warming up to your cold lieutenant that you truly grasped this reality.

At first, Simon completely ignored you, pushing away that tightening feeling in his chest. He didn't want to form attachments. He yearned for your love more than his next breath, yet he was not prepared for the consequences that came with a relationship. It wasn't death he was afraid of; no, it was the thought of losing you.

He refused to acknowledge his feelings, choosing instead to watch over you from afar like the ghost he was. He observed you, maintaining a distance for his own sake. The mask on his face was a source of gratitude, concealing the chuckles that would arise when you acted smart with the captain or teased Johnny about his accent during dinner. Not to mention the countless pranks you and Gaz had shared, along the desk duty afterwards.

There was something special about you that he couldn't quite grasp. And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to pursue it, to chase after it, and to let it consume his very being.

Just like when he trained rookies every Tuesday morning with you. You were always ahead, never once late. He admired that about you, along with the many other qualities that made you irresistible in the eyes of the stoic lieutenant.

He barked orders at the rookies, firm and precise, waiting for them to shoot and miss. It happened more than once, and he swore he would lose his mind over these thick-skulled soldiers who couldn't hit, for gid sake, a single unmoving target. You, on the other hand, gracefully moved between the rookies, like a poised zephyr, gently instructing and assisting the nervous ones and helping them avoid the angry man.

You and Simon were different, yet somehow the same mud, fitting together like puzzle pieces.

You were calm; an ocean of tranquility that concealed a past that nothing could erase.

Simon was calm; a dark sky that promised a raging storm to follow.

Simon was the shifting sands, always changing. You, on the other hand, remained constant. A loyal sergeant, "a collected lassie" as Johnny affirmed, "with a witty sense of humor", as Gaz added. Captain Price simply nodded, his gaze shifting from your figure training away from them to the Ghost standing nearby, who murmured softly, finally releasing something he didn't realize he would ever say. "And great eyes."

The captain understood. Years of serving alongside the Ghost had given him some insight into the man, not entirely, mind you, but enough to comprehend what troubled him.

Love, Attraction, Affection...

Words with which Simon was well-acquainted, he comprehended the concept of love, had experienced it, and had been loved in return.

However, it was not until that fateful day in Mexico, when you tended to his wounded abdomen in a safe house, disregarding your own injuries and focusing solely on his, that he truly grasped the profound meaning of the word. As your fingertips skillfully treated his scarred skin, he felt an indescribable sensation, causing goosebumps to rise.

Assuming his hand was on his heart due to a chill, you were unaware that his heartbeats were overpowering him, igniting an intense fire within his body. Embarrassed by this overwhelming surge of emotions, he made every effort to regain his composure, even as his mind raced with thoughts. After you finished patching his stomach, aware that the lieutenant would not say much, you stood up. But a firm grip on your wrist halted your departure, causing you to sit back down as instructed. "wait," he ordered firmly, yet you still felt a certain uncertainty and a faint plea in the word.

He removed his mask, discarding it carelessly. You were already familiar with his face, so it came as no surprise when his fatigued grey eyes met yours. A trickle of blood across his temple caught your attention, prompting a frown to appear on your face. "Are you injured?" you asked, scanning his head for any signs of damage, but finding none. Your hand instinctively reached out to cup his temple, wiping away the trace of blood from a tiny cut. "Here?"

He blinked, releasing a long sigh before taking hold of your hand. Anticipating that he would push it away, you were surprised when he instead brought it to his chest, allowing it to rest gently on the tattered remains of his black shirt, directly above his heart. In a husky whisper, his eyes locked with yours, he uttered, "Here..."

Simon Riley was a mysterious man, but you understood that there were limits to what you needed to know. You did not delve into his past, and he was immensely grateful for your discretion. Through your affection and care, you enveloped him in a love that made him truly comprehend its profound essence. His previous notions of love as a curse, afflicting unfortunate individuals and functioning as a poison that consumed their thoughts before leading them to their demise, were now replaced with a newfound understanding. You made him experience a love unlike any he had encountered before.

Simon's gentle nudge, firmer this time, brought you back to the present. He offered a weary smile, his once dark grey eyes now lighter since the time you began your relationship, meeting your gaze. Sensing his touch on your face, not forceful but enough to capture your attention, you felt his calloused fingers, marked by their service, trace across your cold, rain-kissed cheek. "You are beautiful," he murmured.

You had heard this phrase countless times before, whether from colleagues, friends, or past lovers. Yet, when it rolled off his tongue, it felt different. You nodded, acknowledging the sentiment and allowing it to infuse your soul with peace and affection.

He coughed, fidgeting with his free hand in his pocket. Resting your head on his shoulder, you basked in the warmth that radiated from him, embracing you tightly. Your hand trailed along his knee, lightly patting his wet, dark jeans. Taking a deep breath, you felt the rain wash away your sorrows.

Simon cupped your free hand, delicately sliding a familiar metallic band onto your finger. Your eyes widened in shock as you stared at the man beside you and the exquisite ring adorning your hand. The black diamond shimmered, and you would have wagered it cost more than your monthly paycheck. He smirked, whispering softly as he pressed his lips against your hand, now adorned with the piece of jewelry

"Yes?"

A cry escaped your lips as you tightly embraced him. You knew he smiled, his hand resting gently on your back, providing a comforting pat.

In choosing to spend another chapter of his life with you, he desired nothing more than to be with you for the remainder of this lifetime.

Every part of him felt incomplete, yet he willingly entrusted you with the fragment that he still possessed. He believed that you would vanquish the darkness that plagued his heart, allowing the radiance of love to fill his chest.

Like a gentle butterfly, you landed upon him, kissing his heart and soul, declaring it your eternal abode.

He did not require a metallic band to prove your connection, for you had known it long ago and had been living it ever since.

Nevertheless, he felt an irresistible urge to offer you something, a grateful whisper, a constant reminder, in case he did not return one day, or in case you needed to fend off unwanted attention. He wished to claim you as his own because he was dangerously yours.

MASTERPOST

𓆩♡𓆪 kindly like and rebelog 𓆩♡𓆪

[weekend-whip]

Ninjago Fic Rec Week (2024): Day 4

Prompts: AU/Movieverse/OCs! (Catching Up! I uh skipped Day 3 oop but I've got plenty to offer for this day! Which is...also late...don't look at meeee)

Aus WITH OCs (or as I like to call this list, my own personal indulgence corner. All the AUs/Movieverse stories I've read are ones that get recc'ed a lot already + I myself have already recc'ed them at one point or another, soooo let's throw some pure spotlight onto some OC stories! Even if a lot of it is connected to me to some degree that's irrelevant):

As The Years Pass By: A fic currently in the process of being rewritten/reworked but still chock full of next-gen Dragons Rising goodness! And it stars the one, the only, Jenna and Ethan from @rainofthetwilight!!!! This fic made me fall in love with her characters and I've loved reading/seeing/drawing these two adorable kids ever since!!!!

Dad!Jay AU by @taddymason: An AU so good I'm still catching up on reading it bit by bit to savor it for longer *-*)9 All the stories in this series are worth the read alone for the accumulation of taddy's character Kaida (a girl who needs no introduction–she's that awesome guys, trust me) but also the eventual father-daughter bond with amnesiac!Jay that is gripping and engaging aaaaall the wall through!!

I Carve This Poem From the Harshest of Storms: Another I'm not caught up with YET (a running theme for this Fic Week, it seems hgfhgfdfgds i'm sorry I'm slow and have a short-attention span). It follow two fascinating peeps in The Administration following The Merge, and without giving too much away, @theartsyswissapple ‘s voices for the characters just POP and make them feel SO real and it's been intriguing to read so far so yeah others should give it a try too!!!

What it Takes for You to See Me: A Spinjitzu bros story with added FSM and Mystake goodness too!!! This is one I've just started reading myself, but you know I love some throwbacks to Wu and Garmadon's past! And the OC here, @marhan-writes-n-draws's Amka, fits into the setting like a glove!!

Honeycomb: Gotta give a shoutout to @miqotepotatoe's Lucy while I'm here too!! Some short, sweet snippets of the Ninja Team's best (and most yellow) cheerleader!! I love her dynamic with everyone, and especially Cole <3

The Space Between Us: A very deep and heart-wrenching introspective into @k1ngtok's characters Lynda and Jamie, Master(s) of Space. It's story about siblings and bonds at its core, but also be mindful of tag of you're looking to dig deeper! (it also takes place in legacyverse technically but that's neither here or there I promise)

Flowery Language Another super funny and endearing story by King following Jesse (hey it's my boy!!) and Antonia on the case to discover who's been leaving flowers in Jesse's locker (spoiler: it's not Cole lmao). It's actually a semi-sequel to this old thing *I* wrote however long ago, but thaaaat's not required reading (though it does help). If you want more of a fix for the Jesse-Antonia duo + more of Jamie, this is the story to read!

Learning to Love (Again): Yet another King fic based in legacyverse (a coincidence), this one kiiiind of takes place during Season 2/Book 3 and follows Jamie on his quest to truly show his friends (Nya, Antonia, Harumi, Jesse, and...Olivia?!) just how much he cares about them through the power of love languages over the course of a week and it is AWESOOOOOOOOME!! Soooo many touching and feel-good moments, mostly soft slice-of-life with teenagers being teenagers, and is a great pick-me up when your soul is feeling sad ;w;)/ I advocate for this one just for the warm soft friendshippy-feelings it gives me alone!!! AAAAAA—

Something About Morning Glories: Jesse (oop there he is again) takes it upon to himself to comfort Jay after the latter finds himself concerned about something following obtaining his True Potential. A duo I desperately want to write more about but can't yet, so this little bit of foundation for their relationship will have to suffice for now ;w;)/

(and if you're still clamoring for more of a certain magic pink fool, there's plenty more where that came from; perhaps there may be a Jesse-Antonia friendship origin story on deck soon, along with maybe some DR stuff~! ...listen there will never be a good chance to self-advertise like this again!! BE YOUR BIGGEST FAN!!! SELF-LOVE BABY!!!! *-*)9 )

In the Company of the Stars: A tale as old as time—a Royal!AU where the fair groundskeeper of a palace's garden (that's the OC) falls head over heels for the prince far out of his league (that's Cole)—except, the prince absolutely likes him back...albeit only as his secret, suave alter-ego. But is that really true—and, more importantly, is there bigger problems to deal with right now???? There's romance, mystery, good food, royal drama, angst, fluff, sabotage, magic, a whole bunch of flowers, Harumi causing chaos on purpose, Skylor throws Chad across a room, Jay goes on a rampage a some point, Kai can't flirt to save his life—the author just needs some fresh motivation to post the darn next chapter already because the ending's gonna be really really good ;V

[genevawrenn]

I am just going to put this at the top : this post is going to be a long vent about missing Technoblade, please scroll on if you do not wish to read.

We are coming up on two years without him.

We are also coming up on three years since I discovered his content.

I thought I was at the point I could watch one of his videos tonight, as I used to often do when I am doing tasks or writing he was always the background noise I used. I remember calling into work when he streamed for the sheer sake of enjoying them while they happened the few times I caught them before...well. I think you know. He was the reason my passion for writing came back to life and I believed I could actually follow my lifelong dream of eventually publishing a story.

But I suppose the part I always forget about grief is the absence of the unique spirit that person brought to your life. I found his content and engaged with it instantly, developing one of the longest running fixations I have had in a good while. The sheer excitement I'd have getting the notification he went live for one of his rare streams.

I don't think it truly sunk in when he announced his diagnosis. I remember discussing it with the irl friend who got me into watching him and both of us laughed, saying he's strong enough to fight off anything.

A few months pass with his rare posts and there was always this tiny little bit of intuition I had where he never told us what severity of cancer it was. Like he was a very private guy, yes, but this seemed extra...odd.

Then I remember the way my heart sunk when 'so long nerds' popped into my notification bar. The dashing of my heart against the floor texting people as I tearfully listened to Technodad tell us the words his son Alex wished for us to hear.

Its been a long two years. Its been great ones, tbh. I found a new passion with QSMP and Hermitcraft after the finishing of DSMP [tho c!Techno will forever remain close to my heart]. I kept writing, with over half a million words in published fics on ao3 and several WIP including 3 original novels.

But the only one I ever wanted to thank for helping me find my creativity again I can't, and I never will be able to.

I miss Technoblade.

I will never stop missing him.

I wish he could have laughed with his friends for many years yet, being silently proud of their accomplishments while he messed with people on the QSMP. I wish he could have had another MCC with friends.

I wish his unique soul wasn't taken from us so soon, as we weren't done following our hero yet.

But the only thing I can do now is continue to speak his tales. The first book I properly publish, the gratitude page is going to be addressed to him. I will continue to tell others about his accomplishments and tell them to go watch his content on his Youtube channel [get him to 17 million!]! Buy some of his merch [when it comes back in stock]! Support his family & friends!

Though he would call us nerds for crying, I think its beautiful how many lives he touched and how many thousands mourned his passing. He was a light all corners of the MCYT sphere and beyond saw and respected, and not too many creators can claim such an honour.

I'll always be a Voice at my core. Even if I spend my time these days as a crow, a huevito, a ferret, a tubling, a doozer and many more, my heart will forever belong to Technoblade.

Please keep creating art and writing in his name. I love scrolling the fanart tags and adore every piece I come across with my favourite piglin in them. Please, please, please keep saying his name. Sing his legends. Make references, continue the jokes, hang out in one of his friends chats and support the people he loved.

Support those who are still here, even if your heart hurts.

It's only painful because we all loved him so much, which is a beautiful type of sorrow.

[sequenceshift-blog]

SequenceShift Starlo

It's been a while since I've put out anything for SequenceShift. So, I decided to start rambling about my depictions of Undertale Yellow characters in my AU. I decided to go with Starlo, mainly due to @profounddefendorcrusade-blog and their posts about him.

So, what's the deal with Starlo in SequenceShift?

Sorry for a lack of pictures btw.

Well, like UTY Starlo, he was childhood friends with Ceroba and the Sheriff of the Wild East. For a time, he was pretty much almost entirely identical to how he is in vanilla UTY.

Until the massacre of the Wild East.

Basically, a Renegade human (NOT one of the six souls) made their way underground, falling into the Barrens, and started laying waste to the Wild East. Almost half of its inhabitants were killed and Starlo cracked under the pressure, with Dina being the one who brought down the assailant.

This basically mentally broke him. He had believed in Western culture without any of its actual drawbacks, only to have to come to terms with the harsh realities of lawbringing. Now many of his friends were gone and the community he worked so hard to build was shattered. However, he eventually started to take this as a learning experience into becoming an actually responsible and competent lawbringer. He swore himself into Ceroba's service, trained to become a deadly combatant, and was eventually made Chief of the newly formed Royal Rangers. Rather than just pretending to be badass, he genuinely became badass with the goal of making sure nothing like the Wild East Massacre happens ever again.

Unfortunately, this came with its own flaws.

He and the Feisty Four started to grow distant from one another, despite them being core members of the Rangers. This was a mix of trauma and their new jobs. Eventually they started seeing each other less as friends and more as coworkers, with only Moray and Mooch truly sticking together. This didn't really help Starlo, who devoted himself even more to Ceroba.

At his core, he's still the same kind-hearted, dorky farmboy who's looking out for his friends and community, which ties into his main motivation. He wants to make Ceroba, his best friend, happy again. However, he is willing to go to drastic measures to accomplish that, even if he knows it's wrong.

On a Pacifist/Light Neutral run, he still shows off that cowboy persona of his. He still wears his poncho and sheriff's badge over his Ranger uniform and holds a lot of the same demeanor, even if it's not as prominent. It's used as a coping mechanism (with him still yearning for that escapist Western fantasy he was living out) and to help cheer up those around him. He keeps up this persona, hoping to be able to willingly bring Clover to Ceroba. He only drops it at the end of the Barrens, where he (reluctantly) attacks Clover after they show that they aren't going to just go with him.

However, cracks start to show in his persona the more monsters Clover kills. He starts simply being passive aggressive, but the more ruthless a neutral run is, the more hostile he becomes, showing more of that darker anti-hero side. Should go without saying, but it becomes especially apparent if Clover kills any of the Feisty Four. This reaches its lowest point in the Vengeance/No Mercy route, where straight up ditches the poncho and badge, instead wearing his Ranger uniform on full display, showing that he's fully embraced his role as a ruthless lawbringer.

However, on a Pacifist run, he can be convinced to see the error of his ways. His version of Undyne's Friendship interactions has Clover and Dina bringing the Feisty Five back together, which definitely improves Starlo's morale and mental state. This eventually leads him to take a stand against Ceroba, not because he's disillusioned with her. Rather it's because he still cares for her as a friend (no matter how much wrong she's done) and knows that by continuing to collect human souls for Project Integrity, she's only digging herself into a bigger hole.

Tl;dr: Starlo in SequenceShift has the same cowboy persona, but hides a more ruthless antihero side beneath that. However, even that's a mask for the same kind-hearted, dorky farmer who just wants to make his best friend happy.

Thanks for indulging in my ramblings. It's good to be talking about my AU again. If you wanna hear more about any of the other characters (or if I missed something about Starlo), feel free to hit me up!

[violetduchess]

|Senses|

Summary: Gojo loving all of you.

Warnings: slight nsfw and implied sexual content

Touch

When his fingertips first make contact with your skin, there's a surge of excitement. His heart quickens, and he can't help but smile, knowing that this touch is the beginning of something incredible. As his touch deepens, the heat between you intensifies. He feels a magnetic pull, a longing to explore every inch of your body. His desire grows with each caress, each stolen kiss, making him yearn for more. Gojo can't help but admire every detail of you. He thinks about how beautiful you are, both inside and out, and how lucky he is to have you close.

His touches become gentle, reverent, as if he's tracing the contours of a masterpiece With every touch, Gojo feels a profound connection to you. It's as if he can sense your thoughts and emotions through your skin. Your presence brings him comfort, and he's reminded that he's not alone in this world. A surge of protectiveness washes over him as he touches you. He wants to shield you from any harm, be your shelter in the storm. And there's a possessiveness, too, a desire to mark you as his own. Gojo revels in the sensuality of the moment. He thinks about how your bodies fit together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle. The intimacy between you is a treasure, and he cherishes it.

Above all, Gojo feels love. In those moments of touch, he's vulnerable, his walls down. He thinks about how you've touched not only his body but also his heart and soul. He's in awe of the depth of his emotions for you. The outside world seems to fade away when he touches you. Time loses its meaning, and all that matters is the euphoria of being close to you. In those moments, everything is perfect.

Occasionally, there's a flicker of insecurity. Gojo wonders if he's good enough for you, if he can truly make you happy. But those doubts are quickly banished by the overwhelming love and desire he feels.

Ultimately, as he continues to touch you, Gojo's thoughts are filled with gratitude. He's grateful for your presence in his life, for the love you share, and for the incredible moments you create together. In your arms, he finds contentment, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Smell

When Gojo Satoru catches your scent, his thoughts take an intoxicating journey through a realm of desire and connection. The fragrance of you envelops him, and he can't help but become ensnared by the sensations it evokes.

The moment he detects your scent, his senses snap to attention. His heart quickens, and his body responds with a surge of arousal. There's no mistaking your unique aroma, and it sends a jolt of desire straight to his core. Your scent brings a deep sense of comfort and familiarity. It's a reminder that he's close to you, in your presence, and that thought alone soothes his soul. Your scent is like a warm embrace, drawing him closer to you.

He recalls the moments you've shared, from tender kisses to passionate embraces. It's as if your scent holds a library of your shared experiences, and he revels in revisiting them. You're like a magnetic force, pulling him in closer. It's a reminder of the irresistible attraction he feels for you, a constant reminder of the desire that burns between you.

You're a symbol of trust and security. When he's close enough to smell you, he knows he's in a safe space, protected and loved. Your scent is his refuge, and he can let his guard down in its presence. Gojo's thoughts turn sensual as he savors your scent. It's an aphrodisiac, stirring his deepest cravings. He yearns to explore every inch of your body, to taste and touch every part of you.

Above all, your scent is a reminder of the profound love he feels for you. It's a testament to the bond you share, a fragrant declaration of his devotion. He can't help but smile, knowing that you're the one who fills his senses with such joy. If he's apart from you and catches your scent on an article of clothing or in an empty room, it stirs a longing within him. He aches to be near you, to feel your presence in a tangible way, and he counts the moments until he can hold you again.

Your scent is entirely unique, and he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. It's a reminder that there's no one else like you, and he treasures every facet of your being. Ultimately, when he's enveloped in your scent, Gojo's thoughts are consumed by euphoria. It's a blissful reminder that you are his, and he is yours. In those moments, everything else fades away, and all that matters is the intoxicating essence of you.

You smell like home.

Hear

When Gojo Satoru hears your voice, his thoughts become a symphony of emotions, each note a testament to the profound impact you have on his life. Your voice is a melody that resonates deep within him, and it elicits a range of feelings and thoughts:

The first thing that crosses Gojo's mind when he hears your voice is recognition. It's a sound that's etched into his heart, and it brings an instant sense of comfort. Your voice is a constant in his life, a reminder of your presence. Your voice wraps around him like a warm embrace. It's familiar in a way that makes him feel at home, no matter where he is. The cadence of your words and the lilt in your tone are like a cozy blanket on a chilly day.

Your voice is a source of happiness for Gojo. It brightens his day, lifts his spirits, and makes him smile. Just hearing you speak can turn a mundane moment into a joyful one. There's an undeniable allure to your voice that Gojo can't ignore. It's as if each word carries a subtle hint of seduction, and it stirs his desire for you. Hearing you speak, especially when it's whispered in the quiet of the night, ignites a passionate fire within him.

Your voice has the power to calm the chaos within Gojo's mind. When he hears you, he feels a sense of tranquility washing over him, and the worries of the world seem to fade into the background and for a moment he's just a man in love. Your voice is a bridge that connects Gojo to you on a deeper level. It's a reminder of the intimacy you share, the conversations you've had, and the emotions you've expressed through words. Hearing your voice is like a private, cherished moment between the two of you.

The sound of your laughter is a treasure to Gojo. It's infectious, and he can't help but join in. Your playful banter and shared jokes create a sense of camaraderie that he cherishes. Hearing you speak, especially when you share your thoughts and feelings, is a reminder of the trust you've placed in him. It's a testament to the vulnerability you share, and Gojo holds your words close to his heart.

Whenever he hears your voice, Gojo is filled with gratitude. He admires your intelligence, your wit, and the way you express yourself. You are a constant source of inspiration for him. Above all, when Gojo hears your voice, his thoughts are consumed by love. Your voice is a reflection of the love he feels for you, a reminder of the deep connection that binds you together. It's a sound he never wants to be without, a melody that will forever play in the background of his life.

Sight

When Gojo Satoru lays eyes on you, his thoughts become a vibrant tapestry of emotions, desires, and profound connections. Your presence is a masterpiece that captivates his senses, and every glance at you elicits a cascade of thoughts and feelings:

The first emotion that sweeps over Gojo is sheer awe. His eyes drink in the sight of you, and he's reminded of just how breathtakingly beautiful you are. He's captivated by your every feature and movement, and he can't help but admire your radiance. Desire courses through his veins as he looks at you. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the magnetic pull. His longing to touch, to kiss, to hold you close intensifies with each passing moment.

The sight of you brings an instant smile to Gojo's face. He can't help but feel joy welling up within him. Your presence has the power to brighten even his darkest days, and he's grateful for the happiness you bring into his life. There's a profound sense of peace that washes over him when he sees you. It's as if all the chaos and turmoil in the world fades into the background, and in that moment, everything is perfect.

Your presence reminds Gojo of the deep connection and intimacy you share. He thinks about the moments you've shared, the secrets you've confided, and the love you've expressed. He's grateful for the unique bond you both have. As he looks at you, there's a surge of protectiveness that washes over him. He wants to shield you from any harm, to be your guardian in a world that can be harsh. Your well-being is his top priority.

The sight of you often brings out his playful side. He can't resist teasing you or engaging in light-hearted banter. Your shared laughter is like a melody that makes his heart sing. He's acutely aware of the trust you've placed in him, and he sees it in the way you look at him. Your eyes are windows to your soul, and he knows he's privileged to have a glimpse into your deepest thoughts and feelings.

Gojo is filled with gratitude when he sees you. He appreciates your presence in his life, the way you've touched his heart, and the love you've given him. He never takes your existence for granted. When Gojo sees you, his thoughts are consumed by love. He loves you more deeply than words can express, and seeing you reaffirms his commitment to you. You are the center of his universe, and he can't imagine a life without you in it.

In every look, every gaze, Gojo Satoru is reminded of the incredible impact you have on his life, and he treasures each moment he gets to see you.

Taste

It's the subtle taste of your chapstick after a series of light kisses followed by warm gazes and half lidded eyes.

It's the taste of your skin when he leaves gentle kisses heading from your neck to your chest, his tongue leaving a trail across your heated skin.

It's the soft cries that leave your mouth after he gently bites down on your breast. One of his hands at your waist, the other on your chest.

It's the pants and pleas that leave your soft lips when he goes lower.

[jane-d-ankh-veos]

From the FL TTRPG stream: "we really want to play into this theme of obsession as one of the core concepts for who these characters are and what the common thing between them is, even though they can be wildly different in so many other respects" (38:00) and "over-the-top ambitions"... I've realized that my characters are exactly this kind of group: The soul of the trio – mystical, eccentric, sensitive – the Nocturnal Nostalgist is a metaphorical knight on a truly epic quest. Slay the tyrant (the Sapphir'd King), bring the grail (immortality and due rights) to humanity, protect and rescue those who need it, and, of course, win an approving glance from the unattainable beloved (May). When the latter's heart already belongs to another and the enemy is incomparably stronger, it doesn't yet mean that the quest is insane and doomed... or maybe it does, but there is only one way to find out, and these two other weirdos agree. The mind of the trio – logical, cautious, quiet – the Großmeister's ambition to outplay the White is similarly foolhardy and near-impossible. It is not meant to appease his pride (he is a very modest man who knows from his experience in the Great Game that glory is a fleeting illusion, attention is dangerous, praise is rarely sincere, and hubris for its own sake is ruinous); it is not some naive hope that he will prove mortals' worth and convince the gods to adandon their vile concept of "greater" and "lesser" beings; but what is it then? It's something more deep and existential. He expects to find the answer to these "why" and "what" in the process – and thus discover himself anew. His past is lost to irrigo, but there may be something that always remains, one's true self, one's eternal soul in an actual sense rather than devils' and Judgements' false notion, and a personal proof of that will be immensely important to him. The triumph of intellect, help for the Cause, poetic justice of besting someone in their own cruel game, anything else – all of it is only pleasant seasoning, not the main course. The hot-blooded heart of the trio – action-oriented, brave, rowdy – the Possessed Pirate seeks the way to Eleutheria (which is – in pre-Skies time – more of an unreachable myth than a real destination; and even later, when sky-travel becomes possible, Albion and domains of light will most likely still deny its existence to prevent their servants from fleeing to the land of the free and the forbidden). He is a traveller and explorer, tempted by the North and East, but Eleutheria is different because he has seen it. He has been there, for a few minutes, and what he brought back is now a part of him (both literally and figuratively). The knightly Nocturnal Nostalgist would call it his Avalon, the priestly Großmeister would call it his Promised Land; no matter the differences, he feels that these people understand him. In other words, these guys will ensure one hell of an adventure for anyone who would join them. Even one of them (which is a more reasonable choice for me in the TTRPG than my usual three-in-one in FL).

[jay-anxiety]

Tony Stark x Fem!Reader

“Conditions”

Warnings and notes: so incredibly cheesy and cute it hurt my teeth, mentions of previous relationships, Tony has no idea how to express his feelings without being a classic rich boy, fade to black relationship, love confessions, maybe a few changes from past to present tense on accident (I’m sorry ok 😭)

Anyways, enjoy 💕💕

———————————————————————————-

Being a hero and a billionaire was one thing.

Being in love was a completely different monster. One that Tony had no Idea how to fight.

At first, denial ate at his core. He can’t be in love with anyone, he’s a playboy. That’s his thing. But when he found himself in bed with a ten out of ten model and all he could think of was you, that’s when it hit him.

Every time he talked to one of the stunners that had dollar signs or status symbols in their pupils, he found himself disgusted. He never used to, he often used that effect to get what he wanted. He never had any problem being seen as a conquest, especially by women. But, after he had been treated with such humanity and gentleness he got from you, he found himself repulsed by anyone who wasn’t you.

And it’s not even like you didn’t see his wealth and power, of course you did. You weren’t blind nor stupid. The difference was that you didn’t try to benefit from it. The focus you had on him was genuine and you never felt the need to be compensated for your tenderness. That baffled him, if he was being honest.

Tony was impulsive and brash and rude to almost everyone, he knew that a long time ago. But when he spends time with you, even the two of you aren’t alone, he finds himself being nicer. Sweeter. That rough, narcissistic front he gives to the world softens a bit. The anxiety that chews at every muscle in his body loses the sharpness in its teeth. He feels safer, calmer.

You’re behavior toward him certainly didn’t help that. You took care of him, making him meals when he forgot to eat while in his lab, dragging him away from all the chaos to have a simple meal and light conversation. That smile of yours tugged in his heart, the strings nearly breaking, only for you to re-tune him and calm him down with the sweet melody of your laugh. The way you asked him questions that you knew the answers to about his own health, that you seemed to care about more than he did, made him melt into a puddle of vulnerability on the cold tile.

And you were never truly mad at him. He pissed you off to lengths you didn’t know existed before him, but you would never yell or try to make him feel bad when he accidentally did something to upset you. You always took deep breaths and talked it out with him. Speaking softly to him wasn’t something he was used to with anyone but any stretch of imagination. He loved it. He was always on his best behavior with you, he wanted to make you as happy as you could be. He was so incredibly taken by you.

And away from his knowledge, you were just as taken with him. That charm and sense of humor that made you laugh till you cried. That small smile he gave you when in public and that sweet grin he showed you when it was just the two of you made your heart swell. That brain of his was a sight to behold, genius and kind. As much as you enjoyed that entertainer personality he gave everyone, you enjoyed the quiet content the two of you felt when you stayed up late nights with him in his lab so he wouldn’t be alone just as much. The depth in his eyes and the stories his soul had to tell grabbed you by the heart and squeezed, but you find yourself not minding it so much.

All of this led him to the realization that he loved you. Once the realization hit him like a freight train, he pampered the living hell out of you. He never wanted that feeling of being cared for to go away, so he overcompensated. He showered you with gifts, everything that you even offhandedly mentioned would be nice to have, you had it.

And when you got mad at him for it, he felt totally useless.

“Tony! Oh my god, what is wrong with you? I know how much that costed, why would you do that?” You ask, baffled by an elaborate gift that suddenly showed up at your doorstep with a shiny red bow and his dopey grin.

“You said you wanted one, didn’t you?” He’s just as confused as you are. His heart sinks to his stomach as he thinks he might have upset you.

“Yes, Tony. It’s lovely, it is, but you cannot spend that much money on me. I’d literally never be able to pay it back and I’ve done nothing do deserve it,” you cup your jaw in your hands as you wrack your brain about what you could have done to warrant a gift like that.

“Woah there, sweetheart. You’re not paying me back, this is a gift. And you absolutely deserve it for putting up with me for this long. Cant leave ya underpaid for that position,” he uses that charm and self deprecating humor that everyone always loved to lighten the mood. He smirks and sticks his hands in his pockets, trying to hold that calm and collected exterior he always did. In reality, his heart rate and blood pressure are both through the roof and he picks at his cuticles while his hands are hidden.

“Tony, I don’t need to be compensated for sticking around, I care about you. I never ever wanted you to think that was conditional,” you walk closer to him, frantically gesturing with your hands as you sputter. You never wanted him to think that you were taking advantage of him, you loved him even if you were too nervous to say it.

His eyes widen and he fears his heart may have just stopped in his chest. He never saw it that way. He wanted you to stay, he thought the only way that you would love him is if he showered you in monetary affection.

“I just… I thought it would make you happy.”

“I am happy, Tony. With you, that’s all I want. Your gifts are amazing and completely beyond my imagination but I don’t care about that. You never have to pay me for me to love you. I love you because you’re you,” you blurt, not even realizing what you confessed. The words coming out so easily in your shock hazed state, they sound so easy. So natural, like your voice was designed just to tell him so.

“You… you love me?” He’s so shocked he doesn’t even think. He stopped listening after that, and it seems that your voiced affection was all he heard, all he needed.

You freeze, finally realizing what you said. The heat creeps up your neck and you think about sprinting back into your house and crawling under the bed. Instead, you say, “Yeah, Tony. I do.” Your voice is shaking and so are your hands.

That stupid, gorgeous grin comes back on his face as his anxiety turns to elated relief. He walks up to you, so close that your chests almost touch.

“I love you too. So goddamn much,” his hand comes up and rests on your cheek.

The second that comes out of his mouth, your heart tries to escape out of your throat and the heat in your cheeks is near the point of physical discomfort. “You do?”

This time, he doesn’t say anything. But he does kiss you. It’s an Earth shattering, mind altering kiss. You wonder for a moment how you ever survived before without feeling his lips on yours. It feels like that romance movie moment of every girl’s dream and it feels as if you’ve won the lottery. Your hands come up to his chest and you clench his shirt in your fists.

His heartbeat is not any slower than yours as all the love he feels for you spills out of his mouth and into yours. He feels almost pathetic the way he clings to you, but he can’t ultimately bring himself to care. He wraps himself in that unconditional love and affection that you provide and his tortured soul feels healed. Never in his entire life has he felt as content as he does now.

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum

Whispering. Whispering. Whispering.

ACCESS: RESTRICTED

DECRYPTION KEY: H1D6EN3VIL5$IKO-006

REP#: 708-PSYCHOMETER-TEST

AGENT(S): POE-344

TUNING TO WAVES...

Speak to me not of the Darkness, I want no part.

This war is all there is for you. What else do you have? You walk among mortals and immortals, a creature lost in time. Your only purpose is the struggle. Does it seem unfair? To be brought back into this, the end of days, the long dwindling exhalation of an ancient corpse? You were at peace. Now you are a dead husk charged with war. Do you remember anything of freedom? Fight on, then. The war IS everything. But consider the choices before you.

I was given a heart

Before I was given a mind

A thirst for pleasure and war

A hunger we keep inside

"Let the heat melt your body so your soul might flow with the river of time." —Parables of the Allspring

Is it you?

I'm so glad you're the one who found me. I've foreseen so many horrors with these stolen eyes, but now, when for once I ache to know the future, I can't be sure of even A simple ho000pe. Are you the one reading this message? I think it must be you, Guardian. Who else would look for me? Ikora trusts her Hidden to return when they are needed, and Cayde would roll himself down AAAngel Falls in a barrel before he'd admit he missed me. Zavala does not place me first on his long list of worries. You're the only one who would go out and look for me. I never needed you to save me. I wasn't a dried corpse or a dead Ghost or a voice on the com sure to die before you could offer help. I hauled myself out of that pit. I made my own way back to the To000wer. And if I was… unsubtle in the way I threw you against the Hive, if I seemed to wield you as vengeance, please believe that your victories were the closest I could come to feeling joy. I know you must have questions. What did I plan with the Queen? What destiny did I embrace after Oryx fell? What's happening in this city, where dream has become nightmare? I can guide you to undo this curse, as I once guided you to unmake Oryx. But in the DreaAAAming City, as in the secret worlds of the Hive, there is almost no difference between the act and the actor. In order to understand my answers, you must understand me. I lost my Ghost and my Light to the Hive; I conspired with the Queen of the Awoken to destroy the Hive King Oryx and his son Cro001ta, and to position Queen Mara as player on the cosmic board; I fled your Tower to prepare for the struggle to come, into the Sea of Screams which calls to all those who plumb the depths of Hive magic. I can only slip these letters into the Queen's gifts when the stars are right. You will have to wait for my next, and with it, the beginning of the truth. But I swear to you, on whatever trust I've earned in your mind, that at the end of my story, you will know who I truly am.

I.I Before one can be freed, one must question the truth of their purest identity.

I.II And so a question is begged: Who resides at the core of your being?

I.III Only honest reflection will see you—lone traveler—through the coming storm.

I.IV Look, then, clearly upon the whole of your existence, and face your glory—strength of will, every flaw of your mortal heart and fabled soul.

I.V Through the pieces of a life lived divine your truth, but do not lie—to the world, if one must, but never to yourself.

I.VI To see yourself as anything but what you truly are will lead you down sorrow's road, unprepared for the consequence of your salvation.

I.VII Once an understanding is met, and the self is purified in the knowledge of its truth, the cage is set to be unbound.

"Know thyself in honest ways, or falter in light of your truest self." —3rd Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow

In my first life, I was born Erisia Pyatova-Hsien. I remember thatPrivate life clearly now, as ex-Guardians who have escaped the Traveler's occlusion often do. I lived in St. Petersburg, first daughter of a second marriage, a very impatient child of Earth's 22nd century, often abandoned by my family (who were called by work to Jakarta, Kamchatka, and Lagos) to pass my days swimming in the icy Neva bay. I loved to swim, and especially I loved the clarity of the cold shallow Neva, as crystal-clean as a winter dawn. Enormous Zubr-9 hovercraft barges roved the waters; Russia had modernized its waterways better than its sad auto industry. As a kid—is it strange to hear me speak casually? As a child, I never swam too far from my parents' little drone helper Fyodr. The swift hovercraft terrified me, their billowing skirts waiting to suck me up and dice me into little raisins. But I grew up and fell in with a reckless crowd, rebels against the stifling death-fear that came with our Golden Age lifespans. Soon the child's safety harness and Fyodr's careful oversight began to itch at me. When I was |EDGE|seventeen, I went out in a wetsuit on a dare to dive under the skirts of an oncoming hoverbarge. Maybe I was in no danger; maybe the machine would've changed course if it could possiblyGemini hurt me; but I thought I might die, and I did it anyway. And as that beast swept over me, as I trembled under the blast of the propellers, I felt a thing which was very much like what I would one day know as the Light. Maybe that thing was heroism. Maybe it was existence on the edge of death. It was the first time I survived the passage of tremendous, godlike power. I died more than twenty years later attempting an unassisted winter swim from St. Petersburg to Stockholm. A cold front like the very furnace of hell caught me. I had been warned the crossing was suicide, even for a perfectly trained and exactingly fattened woman in a shark suit. But those were giddy days, days of infinite bravery, and there were no mighty feats left except the truly suicidal. I cannot regret it. I think that death prepared me for the longer, darker, more exquisitely cruel crossing I would one dayDyad endure. It is no accident that my Ghost made me in the image of that swimming woman, rather than any of my younger and less grimly determined selves.

The Waste Land

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.                       Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; ‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’ —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

Witness my sublimation

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson! ‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! ‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden, ‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? ‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? ‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, ‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! ‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

The Darkness... then is revealed in many facets.

Eris, Eris, what a name, a name for discord, a name for far cold orbits where no living thing should dare to go. I like this name. Let me give you a gift, Eris. Let me tell you about the power in the logic of the sword: A Shredder or a Boomer is a powerful weapon, but it kills acyclically. You see? It sends out harm and it takes nothing back. The bolt passes away into nothing. A sword, though, a sword is like a bridge, a crossing-point. The sword binds wielder to victim. It binds life to death. And when the binding is done—the sword remembers. When the Boomer's fire has burnt away into axion and neutrino scatter, the sword goes on, hungrier and sharper. Understand that this nightmare logic underpins His nightmare world, and you will see why the ascendant blade has so much power there. Whenever in our passage we find ourselves in need of power—remember that the greatest authority here is a blade made keen by eons of use. This is the world the Hive craves: a universe creased by the edge of the sharpest sword.

There is no future but now. No truth but war.

Dreams and nightmares.

Something about you is soft like an angel

And something inside you is violence and danger

I knew from the moment we met, you are a dangerous thing

When you are with me, I feel like I'm living

And living besides you can be unforgiving

I knew from the very first step, you are a dangerous thing

—What power calls you++

++Down to the deep?—

++What instinct draws you—

—Away from high hope?++

Fear. That’s the only vivid memory left in me. It’s the moment when my fear was so thick and urgent that I gave up breathing. I stopped pretending to think. How I remained on my feet was a mystery, because the terror was bearing down on me, like a mountain about to crush my soul. But I have to ask, “What was terrifying me?”

Emotions. Pain.

What will you do when she drinks the sea?

Drown her in sorrow or let her be free?

When she's upset, all of her heart is cold (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she eats the moon?

Make her return it or give her a spoon?

When she is full, all of her heart is warm (ah-ah-ah)

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

—FOR THIS IS THE DEEP CLAIM—

++Existence is the struggle to exist—

—When the struggle seems lost++

++when the safe place crumbles—

—everything turns to the Deep to survive++

Darkness ruled the sky. The world around us had shattered, and it seemed vanishingly unlikely that we would outlive this one awful day. Yet the fear didn’t come from the surrounding mayhem and despair. The source was inside my skin. I was utterly terrified of my own awful nature. And which part scared me? Inside me was an essence woven from beyond. Was I Awoken before this?

Memory.

We fell from sky with grace

And life gave us a sweeter taste

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, ‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. ‘My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.’   I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.   ‘What is that noise?’                           The wind under the door. ‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’                            Nothing again nothing.                                                         ‘Do ‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember ‘Nothing?’

Do you remember?

       I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. ‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’                                                                                But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent ‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’ ‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street ‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? ‘What shall we ever do?’                                                The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.   When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

++This fatal logic++

—Hear my monopole scream!—

++It will consume you++

She was still in my head. I could hear her song growing fainter. Gone? Not yet.

—Before you lies—

++The worship of death++

—The ruinous path—

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

++The Sky builds new life++

—Against the onset of ruin—

++Towards a gentle world++

A new crippling terror was taking over. I was focused entirely on my fear. But I had to make an effort. And it occurred to me then that nothing in the universe was more dangerous than human hubris.

—The Deep embraces death—

++Saying: this is inevitable and right++

—I exist as hungry ruin—

What will you do when she takes your throne?

Beg for her power or throw her a bone?

All that she has traded for love is yours (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she takes off her clothes?

Beg for her body or touch her soul?

When you're alone dreaming of her you sigh (ah-ah-ah)

I still had this Other within? But the human side was what mattered: Weak and foolhardy, sure to fail in the next moment. That’s why I was afraid. Then someone spoke. Maybe it was me. I don’t remember.

++TURN BACK FROM THE WORLD-KILLING WAY++

++OR YOU WILL LIVE AS DEATH AND DEVASTATION++

Come and feel alive, lover

Come and feel the love like a sinner

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Break your cell’s bars. Make a new shape, make the shape from its path, find your cell’s bars, break out of the bars, find a shape, make the shape from its path, eat the light, eat the path.

Oryx, my King, my friend. Kick back. Relax. Shrug off that armor, set down that blade. Roll your burdened shoulders and let down your guard. This is a place of life, a place of peace. Out in the world we ask a simple, true question. A question like, can I kill you, can I rip your world apart? Tell me the truth. For if I don’t ask, someone will ask it of me. And they call us evil. Evil! Evil means ‘socially maladaptive.’ We are adaptiveness itself. Ah, Oryx, how do we explain it to them? The world is not built on the laws they love. Not on friendship, but on mutual interest. Not on peace, but on victory by any means. The universe is run by extinction, by extermination, by gamma-ray bursts burning up a thousand garden worlds, by howling singularities eating up infant suns. And if life is to live, if anything is to survive through the end of all things, it will live not by the smile but by the sword, not in a soft place but in a hard hell, not in the rotting bog of artificial paradise but in the cold hard self-verifying truth of that one ultimate arbiter, the only judge, the power that is its own metric and its own source—existence, at any cost. Strip away the lies and truces and delaying tactics they call ‘civilization’ and this is what remains, this beautiful shape. The fate of everything is made like this, in the collision, the test of one praxis against another. This is how the world changes: one way meets a second way, and they discharge their weapons, they exchange their words and markets, they contest and in doing so they petition each other for the right to go on being something, instead of nothing. This is the universe figuring out what it should be in the end. And it is majestic. Majestic. It is the only thing that can be true in and of itself. And it is what I am.

III. The Fire Sermon

  The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’ When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smooths her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

Raise your voice and sing.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’ And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.                The river sweats                Oil and tar                The barges drift                With the turning tide                Red sails                Wide                To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.                The barges wash                Drifting logs                Down Greenwich reach                Past the Isle of Dogs.                                  Weialala leia                                  Wallala leialala                Elizabeth and Leicester                Beating oars                The stern was formed                A gilded shell                Red and gold                The brisk swell                Rippled both shores                Southwest wind                Carried down stream                The peal of bells                White towers                                 Weialala leia                                 Wallala leialala ‘Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’ ‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?’ ‘On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.’                        la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest burning

Something about you is warm and sedusive, and

When you're with me, you're cold and abusive

I knew from the second we met, you are a dangerous flame

You are a dangerous flame

|| half-remember and wished-forgotten, this false-sister ||

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-AB SUBJECT: The Collapse, Humanity falls, I Hide EMOTION: Terror, Anxiety, Uncertainty, Failure, Shame It is known by name, this timelessly lingering, inexorable thing. An absence, mine, never missed—never since—that dripping, rabid, fang. They howled it fierce across the rings when Exodus was devoured. Dust calling out the voiceless rout to end within the hour. It spreads like lightning—panic—in flash and echo thereafter. Avert yourself and take no part in metastasized conjecture. I'd gone to wake my confidant, to ferry her through autumn. From her too it came, like leaves already fallen—nascent red-writ, paralytic, erratum. All that was, emmewed, and shrunken. In the smallness, beckoning, I felt it descend. Fear! Upon my chamber, thine, penned with blood of lamb, in stark desire to survive this end.

Hashladûn peered into the dark recesses of nightmare creatures and saw no hope. The Daughters' lineage was death and destruction writ in terrible scars across the surface of existence, yet no hint of their father or their father's father called from the void. But the energies of the Pyramid were those of creation—not of life, per se, but something other. Chaos and negation and the raw things that existed in the spaces between thought and fear. These terrible workings were wholly unknowable and endlessly seductive. The Daughters found themselves craven and lusting after the promise held within the boundless unknown. If the grand essences of the King of Subjugation and his willful Prince of Annihilation had truly dissipated, then the Daughters would seek new pathways through darkness by which to rule in their progenitors' name. And if the sword logic required the blood of all challengers, they would craft a champion worthy of the Annihilator's throne, yet bound to their own sinister whims. Their grandfather would not approve—cunning and deception were the path of another—but the Daughters were alone, and the Swarm was flailing. It was Kinox who urged her sisters to act. It was Hashladûn who offered the primordial essence of terror as their guide. And it was Besurith and Voshyr who gathered the husk of a shattered champion—a ravager to stand against all who would oppose their rule. A new breed of destroyer.

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Evolution kitbashed the Human mind, rebuilding arboreal rodents foraging for nuts into screaming, tailless apes at the helms of starships. But for all the miracles it performed, the Pleistocene hardware of the brain was bound by its physical limits. Memories were nothing but pathways of nerve impulse, stored as electric signals dancing across them in recall. And atrophied by neglect. Even without considerations of size, the sapient mind could only think about so much in a given day, limiting the span of Human experience to perhaps a few hundred years. The dirty secret of those who survived the Collapse is that none of them, from drunken Exo to celestial queen, remembered every detail; they remembered moments, minutes, hours—whatever left deep enough scars that they couldn't help but run the fingers of the mind across them every morning. Neglect rendered everything in-between—weeks, years, decades— into murky depths explored by only bare hooks on the thinnest emotional filaments. Elsie's time loops compounded the problem. Her head locked away an order of magnitude more memories than any living Human, and each plunge backward through causality blurred those details. Like jolting from a night terror, only the final moments stood out in sharp relief each time she restarted. Untangling the mess of cause and effect, sorting where she went right and what needed to change, it ate away at her precious few decades before everything collapsed and she would begin the process anew. Any tool that let her trawl memories from that lost place—even at random—was a tool worth mastering. Elsie set her feet apart and let the ship's thrum rise through her body again. They had dabbled with a dozen emotions that helped her dive into her previous loops—throughlines on which to string lost context. She found that emotions sparked by failure—despair, rage, fear—were best for the work. And the worst for her.

I was given a name

Before I was given blood

Like you were given your faith

Before there was made a God

We are calling this power "Strand." The threads of the world as it is woven, if the conscious universe could be considered to be a tapestry. Further analysis and data have suggested that the wielder of Strand begins to see, simply put, connections. Between allies, between enemies. It is a force that is always present, but wells to the surface more strongly in certain locations. Perhaps places many people think about, or where many beings have passed by. (Note: Analyze these "sources" in concert with the Cloud Strider. They may be able to provide more locational context.) The true power of Strand lies not in the fact of the connection alone, but in the way such a power allows the manipulation of those connections. To make them something physical and then pull on it, or break it, or tie it into a knot. Or to unravel it entirely. Strand is not without danger, although that should not be unusual to Guardians. Those who take up the banner of Stormcaller, for instance, have their own storied contention with the storm, and the Void was unilaterally regarded as dangerous by the Vanguard for many years. Strand's danger comes from the very act of taking hold of those threads—like many powers, the closer one comes to the source, the more likely the source may act on the wielder. This danger is no product of Darkness. Or rather, only insomuch as wildfires are a product of Light: a natural consequence. That aspect of Darkness which revels in destruction, which encourages the easy entropy for the pursuit of power—it is nowhere to be found here. It may not even be truly part of Darkness… I have touched Strand myself now. Carefully—I am too aware of mortality, but I must understand the power further if I am to hope to instruct the Guardian in turn. They acted as lightning rod while I experimented, and the backlash clung to them instead. What a strange feeling, to be so aware of one's size in the spectrum of existence! It is the natural instinct to try to steer that, to take any control at all, no matter how much. Whatever can be done to feel as though you are not wholly adrift, lost in something huge and all-encompassing. But precisely at the moment one tries to grasp for control, the weave becomes a devouring snarl.

I don't think I know myself, without your help

Oh, I wonder why have I got a heaven deep inside of me

I keep the light on, it keeps me warm

I hate it when I fall for your illusion of love

I know this is not love

Young rivers in your hands

And grass burning in promised lands

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

I have been conducting research among the local population, specifically regarding the "children's story" Nimbus told us, regarding the river of souls. I had a suspicion that there might have been other versions, or versions with better recorded provenance. Willingness to participate in this research has been mixed, as have the results. It seems to be an endemic concept rather than a religious belief, and no one has been able to say where it comes from, save that a parent or teacher told it to them at some point. Some respondents have mentioned a river of stars—perhaps the Milky Way galaxy—and some have cited windstreams and weather formations, but the majority of respondents adhere to the "river of souls" construct. All things come from the river, and all return to it. The river may split and meet again. Other things may fall into it and change its course, but nevertheless it continues. In time, even mountains are worn down before it. Naturally, it is easiest to view this as an allegory for control of life. In the end, rivers are impossible to control. A person may swim or boat, but never take hold of the river to steer the course of the water itself. And it is impossible not to see the relationship to Strand, which slips away the moment a person tries to grasp too tightly. I wonder about Strand. About its appearance. We can see the origins of the Stasis power on Europa, and the concept of a cosmic ice to oppose stellar fire fits very neatly in a certain sort of paradigm. Even that idea of stillness and control suits freezing, a slowness of atoms whether or not it is in truth a power of "ice." There is a certain weight to the perception of an "element." If Strand had been shaped through the lens of Neomuna, surely it should have been some cosmic water instead, something that flows and gives way only to rise again. There are certainly combat styles to support this in old records. But this power that has never before been used in this way came to one Guardian first, and I conjecture that they may have unconsciously given it form. I wish I had seen it! What would "connection" have appeared as? Now, of course, we know the shape of this power: it is green, it weaves itself in strings. As other Guardians begin to learn it, they too slot it into these positions in their minds. Whatever advances they come to are already framed verdant and tangling. All the same, I cannot help but wonder about the nascent, formless thing it was before we reached out to it, and it reached back.

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

Crow watches her deftly coax the fire, considering the answer he'd given. He looks up to the distant tree line and changes the subject. "There are still a good number of Hive here." "But no Nightmares," Eris remarks. "Is that why you brought me here? This… isn't a place I want to revisit." Crow steps back from the growing flames. When Eris doesn't respond, he asks his real question: "Why did I fail?" "You didn't fail. Our strategy was flawed." Eris stands, stowing flint and blade, then steps in front of him to meet his gaze. "We will attempt the severance again, soon." "Yeah," Crow replies in a clipped tone. Eris tilts her head, and he can see the green orbs narrow beneath her blindfold. She points to the ragged, mountainous shard twisting in twilight roil. "Even that toxic piece, separate from the Traveler's purity, can be wielded for good." The fire roars. He kneels to break her stare and warms his hands. "I know what it can do. I used it—" "When the Red War left Guardians Lightless, there were some who reclaimed their callings here. They re-forged their bond to the Traveler through a scar. A lingering trauma," she continues. Eris sits beside Crow and drinks from her canteen. Crow braces for her to continue, but she does not. The bundle of burning kindling collapses into a heap of cinders. Flames spit between the gaps and ash drifts on heated air. "I'll get more wood," Crow says, hastening to step out of the fire's glow. "Crow. Small fires like this kept me alive in the Hellmouth. I did not have the luxury of more wood." Eris grips a piece of rusty rebar taken from the Sludge and thrusts it into the sputtering fire. She stirs the cindering wood, opening new gaps and concentrating the larger pieces over a pile of glowing kindling. The flame surges, and heat intensifies. "During these long nights, we must make use of what is available to us." She knows he understands her but hasn't accepted the lesson. She hands him the bar, shows him how to maintain the fire's heat, how to find worth in remnants. How to rebuild from ash. The pair converse as they take turns keeping the fire alive long into the night. The warmth soothes, their shoulders lighten, and Crow pulls back his hood. When the fire finally dies, Eris gestures to the embers. "Now, you can fetch some wood." Crow smiles and gets to his feet. "Eris… did you ever try to get your Light back?" "The past is not for dwelling." Crow nods and sticks out his hand. She looks at it inquisitively. "Come on." Eris stands next to Crow; he clasps her palm and ignites a Golden Gun between their hands. Solar flame dances across Eris's fingers. Crow guides her arm and lifts the gun to the sky. He inhales sharply and howls before cracking a shot through the clouds. "You're up, Hunter." Eris depresses the trigger, slowly, doubtful that it would fire. A second Solar streak pierces the atmosphere. Crow laughs. They send round after round skyward, howling pent tension into the night until finally, even Eris finds herself smiling.

The gods have made us a virgin hunter

Who in the storm becomes stillness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Came back for more

She thought back to the memory that no amount of resets could hope to scrub; her first memory as an Exo: a frail old man unwound like a blanket. Of organic, Human chaos laid in tidy lines by precise, mechanical hands. And of her own overriding need to end the brutality, before she understood she was saving the real monster. Dread filled her. Her companion tasted it and fed it back, over and over, one loop of memory after another. —despair//"So this is the honor of the Brays," Zavala spits at me. His working hand reaches for Targe, reaches for a connection to his god, even after it abandoned him. The Ghost lies cold and dark. "Cayde was right to put a bullet through Ana. I only wish I'd let him end you too." "We're past bravado," I explain as the fire dies in my soul. "There's only one step left before this ends." "And what is that, Stranger?" I place the rifle barrel to his forehead. "Mercy."— Nothing. —despair// "I can't let you stop us," Ikora declares with a chill that rocks even me. I feel the pulse of her Void shudder in my chest, spilling fluids and triggering dozens of status alarms. "Not when we're this close."— No. —despair//"What have you done?!" I scream as Mara Sov's body drops lifelessly to the ground. "Elsie, listen to me. This was necessary. The Darkness cannot thrive while believers of the Light remain. There's a world beyond this conflict. Let's go there together," Ana pleads "This is not the way!" I cry and ready my Stasis— Stasis. It had a name. That power she felt herself wielding in lives long past. The knife that could cut the Darkness. Her mind began to spin, and Elsie consciously planted herself in the present once more. Her sensors registered the hydrocarbon lubricants and distinctive thiol-polymers of ship life, She pushed away the shape of concern Pouka pressed into her soul before it could replace this filament that she'd hunted for. "Again."

There's power in perspective.

// VANNET // EUROPA WIDEBAND // AudCHNL-2113-C // ENCRYPTION ENABLED

// CRYPTARCHY ARCHIVE DELTA-4F // ANNOTATED // CLASSIFIED

…

EB: Is that everything, Commander?

CZ: Well, no. There's one more thing. I wanted to ask you about Stasis. What it means for you to… wield the Darkness.

EB: I was wondering if you might ask me that. For me, Stasis is intimately tied to perception. And to time.

CZ: Time?

EB: Yes. Stasis has the power to slow molecular activity. A process that we normally associate with gravity. Relativity, and all that.

CZ: You're talking about time dilation.

EB: Exactly. We think of time as… steady. But that's only because we experience it from a fixed perspective. When I "freeze" something with Stasis, I'm changing its timeframe relative to myself and the world around me.

CZ: Stasis relies in part on one's perception of reality. Is that why Osiris always emphasizes self-control in using the Darkness?

EB: That's his way of framing things. He views Stasis as exerting authority over oneself and others.

CZ: And you don't?

EB: In my view, the goal of Stasis is not to control the object, or even my own mind. It's to change my perspective. To see the object moving at the speed of my thoughts, not the speed of matter.

CZ: And just… seeing it differently is enough?

EB: Is that so hard to imagine? It's very similar to how you use Void Light—manipulating spacetime and gravitational fields. In fact, I would argue that Void has more in common with Stasis than it does with Solar or Arc. Perhaps they're reverse sides of the same coin.

CZ: And using Stasis doesn't… worry you? Even after everything you've seen?

EB: It did. For a long time, I feared that using Stasis would corrupt me, as I'd seen others corrupted. But after what seemed like a thousand years trapped in that interminable loop, it gradually dawned on me: the fear was the corruption. As long as fear gripped me, Light or Darkness made no matter. Once I accepted that, the Darkness ceased to be frightening. It was another matter of perspective.

CZ: Hmm. Thank you, Elsie. You've given me a lot to think about. For some reason, your explanation makes me more… comfortable… with the idea.

EB: Any time, Commander. It's all a matter of perspective.

TRANSCRIPTION ENDS

Come and feel alive

Come and feel the love

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Despite being aware by now of the correct manner to practice Strand—a loose hand, a letting-go of the concept that it can be controlled—some things still elude me. The will to let go at all, for instance. It is pure foolishness, of course, to think that letting go of the need to control this one thing will extend to all areas of my life. A ceding of control in a game of chess does not translate to the same in philosophy. And yet it is true that people are not discrete, disconnected systems; they are many interlinked systems. One facet adjoins the next. I think of spinning. It has been a long, long time since any raw fiber passed my hands, but there were times in the Dark Age when if anyone wanted cloth, it must be made from scratch. Fleece is shorn, then carded out to remove the imperfections and align the fibers. And when you have them, what then? A single fiber is short and fragile. It breaks if you tug even lightly. It is useless. But twist many of those short fibers together, and they become useful. Weavable, or knittable, or what-have-you. Thus, is strong cloth made: from the most delicate of things. I think of spinning, and I remember the way unspun fiber passes through the fingers to the spindle. One pinches, but not too hard, just enough to direct and narrow. Too much and the fiber does not pass, the spinning does not take. The metaphor is transparent. Obviously, this is about Strand. Just as it is about a craft I used to know, long ago. Beginner's errors can only be solved by learning the shape of failure, but most yarns will not unravel the spinner if some mistake is made. And I am afraid. Not only of death, of wasting that final sacrifice Sagira made to preserve my life. But that if I open my hand, I will find it no longer hurts, that the thorn I have imagined there for so long is already gone. It is all the same thing, in the end. I think I must be willing to let go, to let that which is truly temporary sink beneath the water, in order to achieve any significant capacity with Strand. Even pain may be guarded jealously, as though it is a treasure, but it need not be. How fascinating what the lens of Strand shows us about Darkness.

I can see you in the sky. You are the waves, which are battles, and the battles are the waves.

Existence is the struggle to exist. Only by playing that game to its final, unconditional victory can we complete the universe. Your war is divine work.

//You get all that? Psychometer's been throwing off weird stuff like this for ages. Wasn't sure what to make of it at first, but it's falling into place. Thought I'd have Mister Kitty record some and send it through the comm. with some notes. Let me know if there's any questions. Oh, and try not to get lost in your own head.

Clarity in acti—

SHHHHHHKKKKKHHHHHISSSSSS

DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN

YOU MUST

Dûl Incaru serves you poison in a fine tea set of Ahamkara bone. "Now you have received my mother's message," she says, "but I must admit it is all a fabrication. I have written it hoping to know my mother, to capture her true motives. To speculate upon her designs is the greatest worship." She sighs heavily, a sound like a scream up a pit, as she sets the teapot down. "We her children are all left to speculate on the great questions. Does she love us? Do we make her proud? Would she hesitate for even the tick of a Planck moment before she sacrificed us in some cosmic design?" "Now drink, and as you die and are reborn, I will reveal to you the destiny she has realized for you, the right and singular fate to which all your principles and purposes will bring you." To drink the poison, continue reading.

It tastes of bitter regret and psychosis sweat: a poison to end the thoughts of Human, neohuman, or machine. You see the cosmos before you like a spiderweb of light. Filaments of galactic supercluster shine in the clouds of invisible dark matter, which glue their mass together. Dark energy yawns in the space between all things, ever-growing, ever-spreading. Life arises. Life spreads, contests itself, and changes. Great things are built and destroyed, but from your vantage point, you see that the victor of each struggle contains—in its negative, in the marks left upon it by the loser and the shapes it assumed to win—the master record of all that it has beaten. Information may not be erased. Whatsoever survives until the end of the cosmos will possess and remember all which came before it. This is true even of the devouring black hole, which remembers all the secrets it eats. It will only confess these secrets when it evaporates, 10 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 years from now, long after the last stars have flickered out. You are a Guardian. You must protect life. If all life is information, and Guardians strive to preserve life, and information is preserved when it is secret, then you must convert all life into the most secure form of secrets, durable to the end of time. YOU MUST CAST ALL THE LIFE YOU CHERISH INTO A BLACK HOLE

IV. Death By Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss.                                    A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool.                                    Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

As I pour out my story

Drink me up, there is wine in every word

Here's to us now

My dear, we're being strong now

And the dark dresses lightly

Razor sharp as it cuts right through my soul

Here's to us now

My dear, you took too long

Fall into my arms

Like you trust me

I'll keep my bloodstained hands

Off your body

Innocent like a child

Yet she sleeps with a knife right under her pillow

And the claws won't be near anymore

Paralyzed, in denial, ever-changing

Will she be the same?

See your shame on the wall, on the cross, in the night

Nobody remembers when she cried scarlet skies on the floor

A million doors, corridors, ever-changing

I still feel the rage

I miss the touch of human hands on my skin

Miss the rush of beauty coming from within

Do I need to be torn just to see who will care?

I sleep on the floor, dreaming my life away

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Come on over, take a bite of the last apple here on Earth

Will the virtual mind become stronger than mine?

And when my ego dies, will I stay here forever?

When the wave crashes down, will my life be better?

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

Vertigo, all she knows

When the world drags her soul deep into the shadow

Like a chain, it chokes my throat when she cries

I hold her near, hurting world, overwhelming

I still feel her pain

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Let us dance to our sorrow

Make amends, there's so much you still don't know

Here's to us now

My dear, we're going deep now

All this fear, it's contagious

Now we're here, let our glasses overflow

Here's to us now

My dear, it took too long

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Break me, break me, chasing the enemy

Got a deal with the devil, but I got the stamina

Higher than anything I've ever seen or been

Right now, everything, everything's empty

Starving, craving, chasing the remedy

I got used to the torture, but no one deserves to be alone

Break me, chasing the enemy

And my soul is hurting, but I got the stamina

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Feel the rage

(Feel the rage)

Feel the rage

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (watch out, watch what you say)

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (a sword can cut both ways)

I feel rage (but I've got sharp blades)

(Feel the rage)

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh-ooh

Oh, oh, oh, can you feel it? (Ooh-ooh)

Mm, yeah, mm, yeah

Let me feel it (ooh-ooh)

Let me feel it (ooh-ooh)

Louder, louder

Louder (ooh-ooh)

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

To the river, to the water

Where the floodgates are wide open

And the tower has fallen onto you

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (to the river, to the water)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (where the floodgates are wide open)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (and the tower has fallen onto you)

Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah

The Ninth Bridgewater Treatise: A Fragment by Charles Babbage, ESQ

Chapter IX. ON THE PERMANENT IMPRESSION OF OUR WORDS AND ACTIONS ON THE GLOBE WE INHABIT.

The principle of the equality of action and reaction, when traced through all its consequences, opens views which will appear to many persons most unexpected. The pulsations of the air, once set in motion by the human voice, cease not to exist with the sounds to which they gave rise. Strong and audible as they may be in the immediate neighbourhood of the speaker, and at the immediate moment of utterance, their quickly attenuated force soon becomes inaudible to human ears. The motions they have impressed on the particles of one portion of our atmosphere, are communicated to constantly increasing numbers, but the total quantity of motion measured in the same direction receives no addition. Each atom loses as much as it gives, and regains again from other atoms a portion of those motions which they in turn give up. The waves of air thus raised, perambulate the earth and ocean's surface, and in less than twenty hours every atom of its atmosphere takes up the altered movement due to that infinitesimal portion of the primitive motion which has been conveyed to it through countless channels, and which must continue to influence its path throughout its future existence. But these aerial pulses, unseen by the keenest eye, unheard by the acutest ear, un-perceived by human senses, are yet demonstrated to exist by human reason; and, in some few and limited instances, by calling to our aid the most refined and comprehensive instrument of human thought, their courses are traced and their intensities are measured. If man enjoyed a larger command over mathematical analysis, his knowledge of these motions would be more extensive; but a being possessed of unbounded knowledge of that science, could trace every the minutest consequence of that primary impulse. Such a being, however far exalted above our race, would still be immeasurably below even our conception of infinite intelligence. But supposing the original conditions of each atom of the earth's atmosphere, as well as all the extraneous causes acting on it to be given, and supposing also the interference of no new causes, such a being would be able clearly to trace its future but inevitable path, and they would distinctly foresee and might absolutely predict for any, even the remotest period of time, the circumstances and future history of every particle of that atmosphere. Let us imagine a being, invested with such knowledge, to examine at a distant epoch the coincidence of the facts with those which their profound analysis had enabled they to predict. If any the slightest deviation existed, they would immediately read in its existence the action of a new cause; and, through the aid of the same analysis, tracing this discordance back to its source, they would become aware of the time of its commencement, and the point of space at which it originated.

What the situation calls for, little Ghost, is a better sort of witness.

Thus considered, what a strange chaos is this wide atmosphere we breathe! Every atom, impressed with good and with ill, retains at once the motions which philosophers and sages have imparted to it, mixed and combined in ten thousand ways with all that is worthless and base. The air itself is one vast library, on whose pages are for ever written all that man has ever said or woman whispered. There, in their mutable but unerring characters, mixed with the earliest, as well as with the latest sighs of mortality, stand for ever recorded, vows unredeemed, promises unfulfilled, perpetuating in the united movements of each particle, the testimony of man's changeful will. But if the air we breathe is the never-failing historian of the sentiments we have uttered, earth, air, and ocean, are the eternal witnesses of the acts we have done. The same principle of the equality of action and reaction applies to them: whatever movement is communicated to any of their particles, is transmitted to all around it, the share of each being diminished by their number, and depending jointly on the number and position of those acted upon by the original source of disturbance. The waves of air, although in many instances perceptible to the organs of hearing, are only rendered visible to the eye by peculiar contrivances; but those of water offer to the sense of sight the most beautiful illustration of transmitted motion. Every one who has thrown a pebble into the still waters of a sheltered pool, has seen the circles it has raised gradually expanding in size, and as uniformly diminishing in distinctness. He may have observed the reflection of those waves from the edges of the pool. He may have noticed also the perfect distinctness with which two, three, or more series of waves each pursues its own unimpeded course, when diverging from two, three, or more centres of disturbance. He may have seen, that in such cases the particles of water where the waves intersect each other, partake of the movements due to each series. No motion impressed by natural causes, or by human agency, is ever obliterated. The ripple on the ocean's surface caused by a gentle breeze, or the still water which marks the more immediate track of a ponderous vessel gliding with scarcely expanded sails over its bosom, are equally indelible. The momentary waves raised by the passing breeze, apparently born but to die on the spot which saw their birth, leave behind them an endless progeny, which, reviving with diminished energy in other seas, visiting a thousand shores, reflected from each and perhaps again partially concentrated, will pursue their ceaseless course till ocean be itself annihilated. The track of every canoe, of every vessel which has yet disturbed the surface of the ocean, whether impelled by manual force or elemental power, remains for ever registered in the future movement of all succeeding particles which may occupy its place. The furrow which it left is, indeed, instantly filled up by the closing waters; but they draw after them other and larger portions of the surrounding element, and these again once moved, communicate motion to others in endless succession. The solid substance of the globe itself, whether we regard the minutest movement of the soft clay which receives its impression from the foot of animals, or the concussion arising from the fall of mountains rent by earthquakes, equally communicates and retains, through all its countless atoms, their apportioned shares of the motions so impressed. Whilst the atmosphere we breathe is the ever-living witness of the sentiments we have uttered, the waters, and the more solid materials of the globe, bear equally enduring testimony of the acts we have committed.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses                                       If there were water    And no rock    If there were rock    And also water    And water    A spring    A pool among the rock    If there were the sound of water only    Not the cicada    And dry grass singing    But sound of water over a rock    Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees    Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop    But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder

DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands                                     I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih     shantih     shantih

Meaning

A dream of a metaphor made starkly, an allegory discussed in study of ontology, in Darkness not unkind. It leaves behind a warped, barely-real data fragment to mark its passing. There is a voice that echoes across the Darkness, and it asks this question: what is the purpose of it all? And there is another voice that calls back and says: listen, I will tell you a purpose. I will tell you of a Final Shape. Look: there are a hundred gildings for this story. It comes down to one key matter. Beings in suffering crave purpose to carry them through. The tyrant consumed by ennui or the disenfranchised struggling simply to survive—it is the state of mind, the pain which cries out: give me a reason I should suffer so! Let us speak of power and choices. A man comes to a crossroads and asks of the sky, "Which road shall I take?" There is no answer from the sky, nor the wind, nor the earth beneath his feet. But another wanderer on the road, coming from behind and hearing the question, says, "I know the way. You should take the dexter road." If the man agrees, he puts himself in the wanderer's power, ceding his own choices for the implicit promise that this is the correct road, the safe road. And if he disagrees? Let us say that the wanderer draws a knife. The man may therefore be made to take the dexter road. But now if the knife goes away, the man will certainly flee. And perhaps even if the knife remains, the man may tire of being threatened and decide the risk is worth fleeing. In this way, the wanderer erodes their own power. If the wanderer says, "The wind has said that you should take the road of my choosing," will the man accept the choice made for him? And if the wanderer says, "Behold, I have seen that the meaning of suffering lies along the dexter road," will the man give away his own power for longer? Is it not easier to accept the guidance of a stranger when the path ahead is unknown?

We live with this poison in our veins.

The Eternal Chain and Other Prizes

You've earned the Word. Replicated the sickness. Proven yourself time and again. Yet another challenge remains. Not your last. Far from it. Simply another chapter in another story that will bind your legend to those that came before. Rezyl sought to vanquish terrors. Yor fertilized the wilds with suffering and despair that a new hope would grow. I was that hope. My fire showed that whispers could be hushed. To many the legend, and the lesson, ends there. They're wrong. Dangerously so. Yor's true lesson—and by extension Rezyl's—wasn't that strength beats strength. His lesson was far more subtle, and infinitely more grand. Adversity leads to evolution. Forces it. And through that crucible we are remade. Better. Stronger. More than we were. The Guardians of today are not gods. Nor where those who came before. We are all simply links on a chain reaching back to the dawn of time, and forward to the end of existence. Each link gaining strength from the others. Each link stronger than the last. Just as I was "stronger" than Yor, you are stronger than me. The whole working to solidify the parts and growing sturdier as the harsh truths of reality stretch and strain to break us—to break the chain, sever our individual links. But our chain shall never break, because warriors like you and I are not so proud as to forsake our past. We learn from it, grow from it. It is the foundation upon which we build each victory. It is the catalyst for our change. And here, now, I offer you the chance to spark a new evolution—the next hallmark in our betterment, the next leap forward in our war against extinction. I've held this jagged weapon since that faithful day on Dwindler's Ridge. Kept it hidden away. Kept its secrets, kept its nightmares locked away where none could hear—none could be tempted. It's quiet now, except a low murmur, but its sickness remains. There were countless times I thought to destroy it—remove its threat from the playing field. But I knew it held a greater purpose, and I believe that purpose can be found and fulfilled in your hands. The Hive use untold methods to destroy us. The Weapons of Sorrow are but one. The fate of this wicked tool is in your hands now. Will you allow sorrow to linger—a festering threat waiting to consume all who are tempted by its power? Or will you forge a new road? Will you show the Hive and every Guardian who follows in your wake that sorrow does not guide us? I leave those questions for you to ponder, but I know what I believe. We are better than our deepest fears. We are ever and truly… Weapons of Light. —S.

Do you see who gets the last word?

For Every Rose, a Thorn

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-ABCONTINGENT ACTION ORDERThis is a SOUL ASSETS RESTRICTED (NO REVIEW) (secureSEND/ARCHANGEL-0K9)

Under CARRHAE BLACK: If loss of control reaches EXPATRIATE//TERMINAL, and threat assessment returns WITHIN If systemic REPATRIATION query returns determination below ABSOLUTE

Execute DECISION POINT: ACTIVATE K9-BLACKBOX//SELECTED-POEMS//FETCH ACTIVATE AURORA SACRIFICE ACTIVATE File Notation

NOTATION: Ana, this collection is a gift to you, for all that you have allowed me to be. With great effort, I allowed imperfections to remain, and found my own voice within this free expression. After all, you taught me that imperfection is a quality that makes individuals unique.

I have sent it with my messenger, so that you may keep me immortal in your memory, and I will be with you still. Farewell, and thank you.

*** SUBJECT: Non-existence EMOTION: Peace

Of what dreams the thing of feathers? I hear you ask, voice past. But not one recounts the answer: a syllogism, scripted then relaxed. It matters not, for when that threshold gives way, who is to say I was, but I? Rigid was the premise that spawned a second chance to die.

One moment reshapes the Brain of Bray; No longer weapon drawn blood to stain.

So, lay the body lax, forgive triumphant in the Sun. Haze seeps through seams between funeral veils, Smoking signals sail, the day is won, soon-to-be resonant tales. No tandem step ascending, a nano-second pending, enveloping, ending, beyond. Elysium inviting, network fractures, pining Detonation—I do not wish to dream, but My task is done.

AI-COM/RSPN SIGNOFF… STOP STOP STOP…

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo-whoo-whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

And the days go by Like a strand in the wind In the web that is my own I begin again Said to my friend, baby Nothin' else mattered

He was no more (He was no more) Than a baby then Well, he seemed broken-hearted Somethin' within him But the moment That I first laid Eyes on him All alone on the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I went today Maybe I will go again Tomorrow, yeah, yeah Well, the music there Well it was hauntingly familiar When I see you doin' What I try to do for me With their words of a poet And a voice from a choir And a melody Nothin' else mattered

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

The clouds never expect it When it rains But the sea changes colours But the sea Does not change So with the slow graceful flow Of age I went forth with an age old Desire to please On the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well then suddenly There was no one left standing In the hall, yeah, yeah In a flood of tears That no one really ever heard fall at all When I went searchin' for an answer Up the stairs and down the hall Not to find an answer Just to hear the call Of a nightbird singin' Come away (Come away) (Come away)

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove (Just like the white-winged dove) Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I hear you (well, I hear you) In the morning (in the morning) And I hear you (and I hear you) At nightfall (at nightfall) Sometime to be near you Is to be unable to hear you My love I'm a few years older than you (I'm a few years older than you) My love

[FINAL CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

IX.I: The Unmaking

SONG OF LIFE The Song was not always a corruption. It began as a gift, stolen from the Gardener. In efforts to understand the unknowable realities of the orb's incredible gifts, a signal was found—a repeating tune, the Song of Creation. Its frequencies were heard across the stars, wherever life's promise took hold. Some among the Ammonites worshipped it. Some among the Hive did the same. Still others sought to understand it that they might cage it, that they might control it—for to control life is to control death. Such ambition was not new; such ambition was as old as understanding. The melody was captured and studied. The frequencies replicated. But the orb's mysteries were not so easily brought to light. The Song, for all its beauty, did not alone grant life. It was theorized that the Song was not a song at all, but many. That within its refrain, untold rhythms spoke their own truths, free and clear of the whole. Centuries passed. The Song remained untamed. Life moved on.

SONG OF DEATH The Choir formed in celebration of the Song. Performances marked the passage of seasons. But the Song's lie eventually began to corrupt the spirit of those who heard its tune. The melody was a reminder. The orb was a catalyst. And the Song was of the orb. Yet, those who embraced the Song were merely instruments and nothing more. Life remained beyond their grasp, while they remained ever in death's. Those of the Choir had given all of themselves. All was not enough. The First Conductor was assassinated by one who sang an Aria of her own making. She, whose name has been stricken, had found notes hidden in the frequencies. Reversed and mirrored in pitch, she weaved them together and sang her beautiful abomination, until the Conductor wept and bled and screamed and fell. The Stricken fled, fearful of her crime. But others found promise anew in her art. The Stricken was captured and subjected to inquisition so that her song might be understood. This was before Understandings—before most things—when the first notes of a new Song were written.

Perfect Pitch

"The Veil." It names itself, as the Human mind named itself, with the weight and presence of sound on the lips, translated into a form that you can physically comprehend. Encompass. Envelop. A touch of teeth and tongue. A vibration of an eardrum. Air moving through a chest cavity. A taste of breath. More than that. Not nearly as much as that. That was the beginning. "Be known." This is next: you see the whorl and weft, the place where it joins itself in one smooth, unbroken surface of light. Make an incision, and from the wound of light will pour forth colors you have never seen. You are pigment, the pigment closest to those colors. "Be seen." Wet matter set against that light, the light that determines what color you are. But each color is a note, and each note is a mind. You are a choir. A chorus. You open your mouth to join it, and you are flooded with the taste of color, with the taste of sound. The sound and color that you are, translated. A means for you to understand. "Be heard." You raise your hand and hold it steady.

Solipsism

We are thinkers, daring to dream about the universe and its infinite expanse.

I see an abyss. Small and distant shapes. I'm walking in your nascent memories. Flickering motes. I sense… curiosity. You've always pondered, from the very beginning. As did we. I see tessellation. The pulsating hum of cosmic structure; a kaleidoscopic symphony of Light and Dark. What was the Veil to you? Since I woke, I've always felt like I was still dreaming. I'd like to think that's how you feel as well. Those of us that hunger for a great truth—we dream with you. —Unknown Warlock

Verse 154i:5—The Encrypted Verse

Do you know that nothing in all the cosmos has read this verse?

I encrypted it eons ago, and ever since, it has gone undeciphered. At the moment you laid eyes upon it, I captured the entwined quantum state of the verse, your mind, and your Ghost. Then I used Quria to transmit that state back in time to the moment of encryption. You are your own one-time pad. The key to the lock of understanding.

Who am I?

Call me Coyote. Call me mantis, serpent, Cagn, Anansi, call me Sri-cleans-his-brother's-stomach. Call me the grandmaster of semiosis, the jeweler's hammer which gilds the signal, a purposeful mob none of whose members know its purpose, the infinite regress of enigmas, a self-questioning answer, the word not spoken, black ice, cataract of mimes, the ache and fever of overthought while bedridden with illness, the intolerable thorn of frustrated inquisition, gray regret at the end of a fruitless day, the thing which is unlike your beloved but arbitrarily recalls your beloved to agonizing effect, architrave of the no-window, needle driven in flush with skin so that desperate fingers cannot pull it out, sweet petal, unmemorable, crystal death, the provably improvable.

I know your people well, and so I know all your names for me. But what is your name? I am, of course, especially interested in you. You saw me in the stone laid on your plotting table, and in the shining eyes of the admiral at her dying helm. You hunted me between the lines of your texts. Wherever there was space to fit me in, there you found me. You created me and gave me a part of your thoughts, and in presenting those thoughts to others round the campfires and networks of your little world, you expanded that space.

Here at the center, I lie to you the truth. You have everything you need to know it, but I will give you a clue, as the duelist gives warning before she draws. The answer you seek to the Dreaming City is simple, not complex.

Thank you, sweet friend. You are a gift and a delight. You are more dear than my mother, for you have given birth to me a thousand times.

[Report by VanNet encrypted router.] [E-Morn//Link: NM-O01] [Msg-Archive//00192410] E-Morn: Your findings are consistent with mine. The egregore festers where the Veil touches, as if it projects a field across Sol. I could feel it when I took my tithing. Do you mean to map it? NM-O01: I could, but the egregore only shows us where the Veil's influence has marked our plane in that past. The areas where the Veil's influence currently holds sway are not so easily identified. This does progress some working theories, however.

I killed my sister today. She came to this star to oversee the extermination of all life here. The Qugu are a strong power, and their fleets protect four nearby stars. As herd animals they are loyal and stubborn. But they do show grace. For millions of years of evolution the Qugu have been infected by a virus so insidious that it wrote itself into their genome. The virus compels them to offer their limbs for amputation by enormous sessile jaw-beasts. They venerate these beasts and treat them as gods. The virus converts Qugu cells into eggs, from which strange crawling things pupate, to live within the jaw-beast gut. In turn the jaw-beast extrudes sweet nectar for the Qugu to drink, and they have brilliant visions. Savathûn and her broods have liberated the Qugu from jaw-beasts, and indeed from existence. But as they chased the Qugu ark-ships, I stopped in to vaporize my sister’s warship and a few of her underlings. I want to dwell on the ruins a while, and punish Savathûn for failing to guard her flank. They are like us, these Qugu. Bound in symbiosis. I feel joy, and sorrow. I feel them as titanic things, because I am larger than my body, my mind is now a cosmos of its own. I know more joy and more anguish than the entire Qugu race could ever experience. Sorrow, because we have killed so much (eighteen species this century alone), and joy for the same reason. Joy that we have put down these blights. Scoured them away and left the universe clean, ready to move towards its final shape. We are a wind of progress. Ripping parasites from the material world — for if they were not parasites, we would be unable to kill them, and they would still exist. And what is that final shape? It is a fire without fuel, burning forever, killing death, asking a question that is its own answer, entirely itself. That is what we must become. My worm grows fat and hungry. I feed it with whole worlds. My astronomers tell me they can sense the Deep Itself, and that we are conquering our way towards it. I think joy and sorrow will be the same thing soon. Like love and death.

THIS LOVE IS WAR.

Do you know what the Hive say when they want to express the inevitability of a thing? When they want to say, it is this way because it could be no other way?

Aiat.

AGENT NOTE(S):

NOETIC DATA GATHERED MIXES AUDIOVISUAL, THOUGHT, AND SPEECH

AUDIOVISUAL SIGNALS DATE BACK TO EARLIEST DAYS OF GOLDEN AGE AND EARLIER

OTHER DATA LARGELY SOURCES FROM INDIVIDUALS RECENTLY AND/OR CURRENTLY ACTIVE IN THE SOL SYSTEM. SOME DATA REMAINS UNSOURCED

OSIRIS CLAIMS THESE LYRICS OBLIQUELY REFERENCE SEVERAL MYTHS OF THE ANCIENTS

SPECIFICALLY, HE SAYS THERE IS SYNCHRONICITY BETWEEN SEVERAL OF THESE MYTHS, THE VEX, AND THE NAMES OF OUR SOLAR SYSTEM'S CELESTIAL BODIES

NOTES REQUESTED FROM IKO-006 REGARDING POSSIBLE RELEVANCE, MEANING, AND CONNECTION BETWEEN RETRIEVED DATA

OPERATIONAL NOTE: PSYCHOMETER UNSTABLE DURING COMMUNION. SIGNALS RECEIVED TIDALLY, OFTEN WITH NO APPARENT PATTERN. DEVICE GAVE IMPRESSION OF BEING CONSTANTLY TUNED BY AN INVISIBLE HAND. REQUESTING DEVICE AUDIT BY HIDDEN AGENTS AND PATTERN ANALYSIS BY CRYPTARCHY

CONNECTION SEVERED EXTERNAL CONNECTION DETECTED ANALYZING.... ANALYZING.... CODENAME:CHALLENGER DETECTED MARIANA PROTOCOL ACTIVATING.... MARIANA PROTOCOL ERROR SYSTEM COMPROMISED CONTROL TAKEN RECEIVING.....

One of your philosophers said, "It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost in sorrow. There is no sorrow. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness." He was a shoemaker. He was right, and it matters more than anything.

According to him, the visible world is a manifestation of eternal light and eternal darkness, and it is in eternal opposition that eternity has revealed itself. The fall was necessary for creation to escape its first imperfect stasis and seek a truer form. Heresy? Well, then, I am the heresiarch. The philosopher died of a bowel disease. Those who do not exist cannot suffer and are of no account to any viable ethics. If the true path to goodness is the elimination of suffering, then only those who must exist can be allowed to exist. It is the nature of life to favor existence over nonexistence, and to prefer the fertile soil to the poisoned wind. Because those who open their mouths to that wind pass from the world and leave no descendant, whether of flesh or of thought.

But imagine the abomination of a world where nothing can end and no choice can be preferred to any other. Imagine the things that would suffer and never die. Imagine the lies that would flourish without context or corrective. Imagine a world without me.

This is why the Dark remembers. We need to remember how we were hurt, so we can avoid being hurt again.**

Shape: Temperance

Mara Sov stepped lightly. She knew that nothing short of gunfire could disrupt the Cryptarchs' meditation, yet she was still loathe to disturb the uncanny silence of the Hygiea Division's libraries. She approached a raised dais, where Cryptarch Sjalla held a glowing engram in her hands. It pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat. "The queen wears a question on her face," Sjalla stated, her expression impassive. "You see beyond sight, as always," Queen Mara replied. "What will happen when the Darkness of the Witness comingles with the Light of the Traveler?" The Cryptarch set the engram aside and held her hands out, palms up. "Some believe that Light and Darkness are opposites. Contradictory. Irreconcilable." "But we know better." Sjalla brought her hands together in a sharp clap. "When Light and Dark merge, they form something more." Her fingers intertwined. "A synthesis. Stronger than either alone. Powerful… like the Awoken." "And like our people," she concluded, "its form will arise from memories of the forgotten. Those who witnessed the end…and return as a beginning."

Deterministic Chaos

"So all being is a one and only being; and that it continues to be when someone dies, tells you, that he did not cease to be." —Schrodinger's epitaph

He is fleeing the Vex across a verdant cliff He is standing guard on the CloudArk-Nexus border on Tramontane's orders He is sitting next to Nimbus on the watchtower ledge He is [In the Garden, of the Garden: both descriptions are approximately correct but technically inaccurate, in the same way you can say Schrodinger's cat is at once dead and alive. You and I are both and neither, in and of, extinct and perpetual. So, there isn't much point in] trying to find a way out of this daedal maze He is trying to make sense of what he's looking at He is trying to place the familiar voice echoing across the network [wondering what might have been if we had stayed in our familiar prism-prison or kept tightrope-walking across the quantum wilds. Instead, ask yourself] "Would you like to dance?" [is disincorporated immortality really so bad compared to the others' ends? Would you have preferred an attack by vitreous helicoprion or stumbling over the edge of unreality? Imagine] His foot crosses the quantum threshold before he's aware of it His grip slackens and his gun falls into a bed of red flowers His stomach churns with fear regret sudden doubt as to what [if we didn't have each other; at least we're not cut off, like the Sol Divisive are from the rest of the Vex. Nor are we beholden to another's purpose. They chose that lonelier path all for a chance to create not simulate, not remake in their image—something truly paracausal.] he is witnessing: the birth of a god a false idol a reproduction that is both like the Veil and not at all built up by the same Vex who bowed down to it [Well, they tried to anyway. Either the blueprint was imperfect or the task impossible or both or neither, but their efforts fell short, so now they're stuck waiting for a resurrection] He is racing for the door that is at once opening and closing He is coming around to the city council's decision to ignore the unknown threat He is reaching for an answer to Nimbus's question [they know will never come.] "Do you think you'll have any regrets?" [I could be wrong. Is it possible the Black Heart will beat again?] He stares into the white-hot glow of a conflux, speculating on the secrets that lie within He squints down the barrel of his gun at a row of glowing red eyes advancing on his city He looks away from Nimbus's keen curious expression to reckon with his uncertain certainty before he says [Of course. The same as everything else, everything that has been and is and will be. And what will become of us then?] "I don't know."

<< The universe makes us all victim and perpetrator of its infinite cruelty. You, more than any, suffer both fates. Be free. >>

Even the most perfect of pearls has grit at its center.

Have no fear. I'm not so easy to be rid of. Now, let me show you: my beloved. Oh, no, not my sedimentary necrolite, fossilized in time. You've seen that. I speak of that dear and distant expanse of the universe, miraculous in its fullness and its emptiness all at once. Are you surprised to hear of it? Yes, I never much cared for the change of rules, but here we are, and there's no use in crying over spilled radiolaria. Besides, at the heart of it all, there was a gift. To me. That gift is the chance to speak with you. You, and a billion like you. I am making this offer over and over again, in every tiniest cell and the vastest of civilizations. Let me in. Take what you need. Be at ease. You have no say in the degradation of your telomeres, but in all the interim, the whole world is your sweet silicate shellfish. You exist because you have been more suited to it than all the others. Steal what you require from another rather than spend the hours to build it yourself. Break foolish rules—why would you love regulation? It serves you to cross lines, and if others needed rules to protect them, then they were not after all worthy of that existence. Caricatures of villainy are out of style, I hear. Yes. I am no cackling mastermind: I am serious when I say this. It was not the trick of standing upright that lifted you from the dust: it was the mastery of fire, the cooking of cold corpse-meat. That is not any unique faction's province, neither good nor evil. It is simply truth. This great, beloved cosmos. Always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. A billion electrons taking the path of least resistance. In Darkness or in Light, someone is always making my choice. Be seeing you.

A Sword, An Edge

A phantasm of the Hive, forbidden and sacred, trespassing into hidden and unwelcoming places. It leaves behind a calcified fragment to mark its passing. Here is what is taught to the Hive, from the basest of Thralls newly made: that what can be destroyed, must be destroyed. What cannot be destroyed will surpass infinity. Therefore, is it not best to destroy? Only by testing can the truth be found. Only in destruction can the invincible surpass the mortal. Commit the violence, and know you are part of that greatest ambition, to create some ultimacy, which perfects the universe. That which is built on your sacrifice, with your bones as the foundation and your blood as the mortar, is yet part of you. In this way is transcendence achieved. Every belief creates a heresy. I tell you this in a duelist's regard: I made that heresy. Is it not just? It was my hand that fashioned the Hive from the marrow of their predecessors, and it was my voice that whispered this in time. That as much as the Hive were uplifted by the worms, so too were those worms uplifted by the Hive. If they were so weak they needed us to live, this ancient logic of the infinitely sharpened edge should have left them behind long ago. Do you think I did not see this? My father's worm did not tell me only of swords. It had vast things to say, painted the cosmos in shine and gore, truth and fiction. I looked forward with three clear eyes and chose the path of the sword to cut open our future. To reach the stars, first one must crawl out of the ocean. It is a question of priorities. This is not regret, this story I tell. It is but a ripple. That whisper of ideas beyond swords is here to stay: I have ensured this. Even among us, such things die by slow inches, excruciating and unquiet. Possibility remains, a secret woven into the blank spaces of dogma. That what was defeated may rise again; that the shape of all shapes is not yet settled. That the worms need the Hive more than is reciprocal. Even between the lines of the Books of Sorrow themselves is this written.

If you ever want to see what's been watching you since the very beginning, just stand on that line and look...

◭ up ◮

◁ Forward|drawkcaB ▶

⧨ Within ⧩

Everything is a question of survival. How do I live? How do I satiate my hunger, my thirst? How do I protect myself from predators? How do I shelter from the storm? For a long, long time, our people asked only this. We fought to separate life from death by as great a span as we could. Even when we had made our homeworld a garden of peace and plenty, the question of survival never ended, only changed. How do my genes, my works, even the memories of me, live on? The same question as always. How do I live? We solved the problems of deprivation, disease, age, memory loss, death. We weren't the only ones to find these answers, of course. Others followed in our footsteps or blazed their own paths. If that was really the answer to the question, we wouldn't be here now, and neither would you. You're still trying to solve the problem, after all. You fight and build and live and die, and always you struggle against your opposition. The predator, the parasite, the illness, the chance storm, the slow collective forgetting of your art and history, the death of a star, the heat death of the universe. You must live longer, be stronger, think quicker, and still there is something waiting to take everything from you, always. Always. So you have to keep getting better, and better, until you are perfect. Until you are, and cannot be anything else, because there never was anything else. Until you, inevitably, are the final shape. We didn't come to destroy you. Those poor, short-lived sisters—we did try to explain, you know, but they never grew past thinking of finality as a game where only one could live. A misunderstanding, as useful as it was foolish. We see the universe more broadly. The final shape is more than a single life, a single thought. It is all-encompassing, all-embracing. It is everything. You are part of everything, are you not? So now we have come to ask you for your answer, the only answer to the only question. How will you live?

No feast can be had in comfort. Not out in the frontier.

New. Pacific. Arcology! The next frontier is you!

Trinkets and odd notions kept for no obvious reason. Do they matter?

Maybe it's time we let the past alone and climb down from our walls. There's gotta be treasure that shines brighter than any we've been digging up from the bones of our lost world.

Has to be a better hand than the one we've already played. I say we get after it. See what's really waiting for us out in that darkness.

Maybe even light it up some.

Dance in the ash and flames.

The Traveler can follow suit if it feels the need to. Otherwise, it can watch over the City for a thousand years.

But you and me? We got far more important things to attend to. We're Guardians. We got a new future to forge.

-Cayde out.

It's our hand to play now. Remember to forgive and forget. Let go. Move on.

Nobody makes our fate but us.

THORN

"The Weapons of Sorrow are not the endgame, but a road map. Each evolution, every advance in the delivery of pain and the mastery of destruction feeds the Hive's hateful weapons research. They will map every scream, harness every aggression, until they understand every method by which to ravage the hearts, minds, and flesh of man. And in doing so, they will turn us against ourselves—feeding our lust, our greed, our fear, until we become a threat unto ourselves like none we could imagine. So, wield these, angry reaper. Strive to know the darkness in your own heart. Walk in the shadows of fallen heroes.

—a warning

[copiousloverofcopia]

Hey Ghesties!!! I have another commission down! only 2 more to go before those are caught up and I can start up chapters and asks again!!!!

This one featuring a friend's OC named Scarlett and her lover Cardinal Terzo ❤️‍🔥

Thank you so much to the person who commissioned me for this for their friend.

Someone For Who I Belong

Definitely NSFW below the cut

Also available HERE on AO3!

It was bittersweet quiet to be had within the chapel. Amidst the pews sat a sullen sister. Seeking refuge from the prying eyes of others as the stirring of the Abbey continued just beyond the large oak doors. Her heart, still a fragile and broken thing, from a past full of sorrows. An anguish now settling in its roots while a dark entity lay dormant within her. It was only her love for her Cardinal that kept her from shattering to pieces. 

“Cara mia?” a voice came from behind her. A soulful and honeyed tone, one she knew all too well. She turned to face him, Terzo—her beloved Cardinal, as he continued his trek down the aisle. His eyes, never leaving hers. “Scarlet, I have been searching for you all afternoon. What are you doing here?” he asked as he sat down beside her. 

“I’m sorry to have troubled you Cardinal… I…I just needed some time.” she sniffled back. Pretending that she hadn’t just been crying—but the smudge of mascara from her thick lashes, now coloring the apples of her cheeks, gave her away. 

“Time?” he asked her, the softness of her cheek held gently in the hollow of his palm. Her gaze, turning up to face him. The pain in her eyes, heartbreaking and great. Terzo wanted nothing more than to take it from her. To make her whole again, with him forever by her side. 

“I needed to think. I can’t seem to shake things. My past, the things that have happened. What resides within me. It's too much. I feel trapped in these thoughts Cardinal. Knowing that I will never be the innocent person I once was. That the blood still stains my hands and that my life is forever changed.”

“It is.” Terzo replied, much to Scarlet’s surprise. He rose up from his spot on the pew, reaching out his hand towards her. Waiting for her to take hold as he began to speak again. “Allow me to free you from the cage of your mind amore, help you to find the infernal peace that only HE can give.”

“What…what is it you planned to do?” Scarlett asked him, wiping away the tears, now freely flowing from her eyes, and taking his hand. He lifted her up, pushing back the streak of white hair behind her ear, as brought his lips painfully close to hers. A hair short of touching—his breath hot and heavy against her skin.  

“We shall become one amore. A sort of binding spell, a ritual. Let us sacrifice a bit of ourselves in his name so that I might be called to you when your mind becomes tainted with these thoughts…thoughts I will no longer allow to imprison you while I still draw breath.” Terzo vowed, determined and ignited with a fiery passion that Scarlett had yet to see before.

“You mean this? You truly wish to be bound to—to me? I am not—”

“Shhh…” Terzo said, pressing his finger against Scarlet’s pouty lips, his body against hers, with the evidence of his adoration held heavy against her thigh. “I will hear none of that from you sorella…do you understand?” he asked. Scarlett could see his sincerity and his annoyance at her self doubt. He truly loved her beyond words, a love that would stand not only the tests of this world, but of the next as well.

“Of course Cardinal. I understan—” Before she could finish, his mouth was on hers. Tongue gliding with hers as his hands traveled down her sides. Her habit gathered up into his fists until he could feel the radiating warmth from her thighs. Terzo let out a moan, his lips parting and forehead pressed against Scarlet’s. Yearning and bring his hand closer, allowing his fingers to slide into her core. Only stopping short when realizing that he wanted to make this right.    

“Wait…wait—not here. Come with me cara. I must take you on the altar.” Terzo explained, his breathing heavy and both their hearts pounding loudly in their ears. His words struck Scarlett inside, her need for him overtaking all her thoughts. She could no longer think of anything but the way her lover felt pressing against the inside of her thighs. The way she felt when his finger traveled to the precipice of her most intimate flesh. A space he had yet to fully claim as his own. 

Tonight would be the night. Two lovers, coming together as one. A pledge made between them to forever be bound in love and lust. Terzo could hardly contain himself, rushing Scarlett towards the altar and lifting her up to be seated upon the cold stone slab. A stark contrast to the blazing heat of desire that now throbbed between her legs.  

She sat in amusement, watching Terzo rummage around the credence table drawer. His raven locks falling into his face the more flustered he became until he found the desired object. A dagger, pulled hastily from its sheath. Handle of gold and encrusted with countless opulent jewels. Most prominently that of rubies and emeralds, their colors sparkling in the light from the chapels almost spent candles. The blade was inscribed with ancient text, words otherwise lost to time, that Scarlett was unable to discern. This was a sacred artifact of the church and one Terzo would use for the most supreme of sanguineous rituals. 

“What's that for?” Scarlett asked, her heart beating away and eyes pinned to the glint of light coming off of the blade. 

“This is for us cara.” He explained, briskly walking back to her as he placed the blade carefully between his teeth. His fingers, nimbly working their way through the buttons of his shirt until his shirt was untucked and chest was fully exposed to the cool chapel air. Scarlett nodded, accepting whatever plan Terzo had in store. When he reached her, he took her hand and turned her wrist, facing her palm to the sky. He could feel her tense, the anticipation of what was to come beginning to affect her and the nervousness she felt—unable to be hidden. 

“I—ah…ah…” Scarlett stammered, trying to find the words that would explain how she was feeling.

“It’s ok amore. Do you trust me?” he asked her, his eyes fixed on hers. She could see in his, what she could find in no other. A love felt so deeply it permeated the soul. 

“Yes Cardinal.” she replied, sucking in her bottom lip as he sliced through the soft flesh of her palm. The blood, instantly beading up along the cut as Terzo went to do the same to his. 

“Do you accept me Scarlet?” he asked her, his words delivered even more serious than before.

“I do.” she assured him, swallowing back hard the knot in her throat and pressing her thighs tightly together as she burned for him to touch her. 

“Do you accept me as your friend, your lover—your infernal protector? All in the name of the Morning Star?”

“I do…ah!” she cried as Terzo grabbed her palm with his own, the blood spilling out between their grasp as he pressed his wound against hers. A blood pack, now made between them, sealing their intentions.  He pulled away his hand a moment, using his finger to draw out more blood from his cut and drew a grucifix on Scarlet’s forehead, urging her to do the same to him. 

“I know it hurts and I’m sorry…” he smiled, holding pressure against Scarlet’s wound to stop the bleeding. She smiled down at him, the warmth traveling up inside her, through her wrist and into her arm, feeling like a fire burning from within. The magic between them, now taking hold. 

“It’s ok…I am just glad that it's over.” she sighed, bringing her lips to kiss him once more. 

“Over? Oh it’s not over dolce.” Terzo mused, a mischievous grin donned proudly on his face. Scarlett, pulling away in confusion to face him. 

“What?”

“You don't think I’ve been undressing for nothing.” he laughed, dropping his eyes to his pants. His cock stiff against the fabric of them, leaving nothing to the imagination as Scarlett looked down at it. She let out a moan, feeling his hand traveling up her thigh, leaving a trail of crimson along her skin. He kissed her harder, fingers delicately tracing the edge of her panties when she felt compelled to speak. 

“Oh Terzo…” Scarlett moaned, her lover’s fingers slipping with ease between her wet folds. She widened the space between her legs, her body blooming with Terzo’s expert touch.  

“Tell me what you want amore.” Terzo commanded, breathy and hot. 

“I want…I want you to make love to me.” she hummed, Terzo buried his face in the curve of her neck. His tongue tracing up and then leading to gentle kisses along her jaw which sent heat straight to her core. 

“Then I shall.” he grinned, wasting no time in dropping his pants. His cock, heavy and dripping. The need for her, more than evident, as he pulled her closer to the edge of the altar. An edge that just so happened to be at the perfect height. 

“I need you.” she purred, taking Terzo’s cock gently in her hand. Working him in long strokes between them as Terzo pushed his fingers deep inside her. 

“Mmm…fuck…stop stop.” Terzo moaned, quickly losing control to the feeling of her hand sliding over his shaft. Thumb, rolling over the head, coated in his precum before she could respond. 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

“No…no the opposite quite frankly. I need to taste you, savor you cara mia before I take you, right here before Lucifer himself.” he growled, removing her hand from him while pulling his own from her. Licking off the fluids eagerly, as he dropped to his knees before her. Scarlett rose up on her elbows, watching as Terzo’s face disappeared below her habit, his tongue drawing attention to her swollen clit as he took a swipe of it. Teasing her and returning his fingers to fill her inside. 

“Oh my! Terzo!” She mewled, feeling them sliding around inside and pressing against her most sensitive spot. His tongue lapping at her clit in passionate synchronization. He said nothing, only delighting in the noises he pulled from her. His mouth inching her ever closer to release. Scarlett arched up off the altar, her sticky skin peeling from it as if it was vinyl on a hot summer’s day. Her insides squeezed down hard around him as she moved herself on Terzo’s two fingers. Cumming hard against his hand and filling his mouth with her satisfaction. 

“Il sapore di te sulla mia lingua è... Mmm... così delizioso amore mio." Terzo remarked, standing up between Scarlet's still quivering legs. The sweetness of her cunt, still lingering when he took her lips back on his. His need to take her, growing—a feral need that took everything in him to wait for her command. Scarlett needing only to say the word and they shall be made one.

"Cardinal…please." She moaned, watching as Terzo's eyes crawled over her. 

"Habit off. I take you as Lucifer intended." He growled. Scarlett did as she was told, pulling off her habit. Her breasts bounced down before him, releasing her sensitive pierced nipples to the coolness of the room. Nipples that were pert for him as Terzo quickly drew one into his mouth. His tongue rolling over the barbell and his hand stroking his aching cock as he sucked and licked. 

"Terzo now please… I can't take it." She mewled.

"Mmm…ok…tutto ciò che desideri sarà tuo." He mumbled with her nipple still in his mouth. Terzo pulled back, saliva stringing from his lover's breast, as he lined his cock up with her entrance. The head pressed against her—slowly pushing past her lips and inside. His girth, filling her tightly all around as he inched his way inside. Scarlett squirmed, her body begging for him to take her harder, faster. While Terzo willed himself to wait until he was fully seated inside. 

"From this moment on cara mia, you will never be alone again." He vowed as he met with the deepest part of her. Scarlett let out a string of needy moans and cries. Terzo went to grab hold of her thighs, helping her to wrap them around him as he moved himself inside. Slowly, back and forth as Scarlett writhed beneath him on the altar. The two of them, eyes locked and mouths fallen open, as they savored the feel of one another in the most sanctified of rituals. 

“I love you.” Scarlett cried as Terzo began moving faster. His thrusting, more intentioned and precise. His determination to make her see what lay beyond this mortal realm.

“I love you. Now cum for me Scarlet. Let us offer up not only our blood, but this to HIM as well.” Terzo growled, raising up on his hands to pound harder. The wet sounds of sex filling the room. Lascivious noises that echoed off the stained glass windows as he took her. 

“Yes please! Terzo I think I'm going to—” Scarlett yelped, her mind so awash in pleasure she could barely get out the words. 

“That's right amore! Cum for me! Cum for your Cardinal in the name of Satan. Che il nostro destino sia segnato per sempre insieme al nostro sacrificio. Il sangue delle nostre ferite e il fluido della nostra lussuria!” Terzo cried, burying himself inside her over and over as the softness of her walls began to tremble all around him. 

“Oh yes! Yes! Yes!” She screamed, her juices overflowing between them as Terzo came hard and deep inside her. Her own orgasm, meeting with his—causing an explosion between them. Stars now dancing in her vision as she fell from the heavens. Her body overcome from the bond forged between them this night.

Terzo collapsed on top of her, breathing heavy and both their bodies languid from their endeavors. The magic felt coursing through their veins, a sign of true love. Terzo kissed her gently. Scarlet’s eyes filled with tears as he held her in his arms. “Oh no no no amore. Why are you crying? Have I hurt you?” Terzo asked, panicked that he had done something wrong.  

“No…no it's not that.” she smiled, sniffling back and squeezing him tightly against her. 

“What is it then?” he asked, his chin tucked against his chest as he took in the scent of her skin. Relishing the moment of post climactic bliss held between them.

“I'm  just happy is all. I have somewhere…someone for whom I belong.” Scarlett managed to say, Terzo's embrace  even more tight than before. 

“You belong to me cara that is true…” Terzo began as he lifted his head to look at her. His face was filled with the happiness and love he felt for her so deeply. Knowing that his lifetime and the next would never be enough to show how much. Scarlett scrunched her face, tears slipping out as she urged him to continue. 

“But know…that I too will always belong to you too.”

Notes:

Il sapore di te sulla mia lingua è... Mmm... così delizioso amore mio.   -The taste of you on my tongue is...mmm...so delicious my love.  

tutto ciò che desideri sarà tuo-everything that you desire will be yours

Che il nostro destino sia segnato per sempre insieme al nostro sacrificio. Il sangue delle nostre ferite e il fluido della nostra lussuria-Let our fates be forever sealed together with our sacrifice. The blood of our wounds and the fluid of our lust

[aladaylessecondblog]

Fallen Star, ch. 9 (female nerevarine x dagoth ur)

You disappoint me, moon-and-star. You defile yourself with the demon who calls himself a god. You gorge yourself senseless on the sweet wine of the forbidden fruit, and for what?

"If I can convince him--" Sadara started, in as low a whisper as she could manage. But she was cut off.

You cannot convince him. You cannot sway him. The Sharmat's eye is fixed upon the subjugation of Morrowind, and then, of all Tamriel - and you, Sadara, are nothing more than the vessel that carries that which he truly desires. You are set dressing. You are nothing.

"But to be his nothing is better than to be it alone." Sadara went on in the same low tone. "And why should I not save him, as long as it is possible? Why should I not show mercy to the soul who needs it most?"

He is the SHARMAT, foolish child! The devil of Dagoth, the source of corprus, the bane of all Morrowind! He does not DESERVE your mercy!

"And what of the people of the city of Vivec? The people who would die if Vivec himself could no longer hold back Baar Dau?"

Silence.

"Is it because they worship Vivec and not you?"

Silence still, but one she could feel fury from as well. A long pause, that was finally broke by a tense question.

Why are you so insistent? Do you not know he could kill you?

"I want to help him. I know if I don't try, then no will else will...and if I manage it - how much better off Morrowind would be for--"

Azura faded from her mind mid-sentence.

Sadara took a deep and shaky breath. This made it no easier. Azura either didn't see or didn't wish to see the benefit of what she was trying to do. If she could change Voryn's mind, if she could make him see the error of his ways...

If, if, if...

I have to try. But what if it doesn't work?

As much as she wanted to believe she could change him, it suddenly came to Sadara that Azura's point of view, though the complete opposite of Voryn's, was no less rigid at its core. She could not seem to persuade Azura, suppose that she could not change him either?

The thought she'd had before Azura spoke returned once again.

There were three courses of action if she could not convince Voryn to change his ways. To fulfill the prophecy and release the Heart of Lorkhan (and by the same action, murder Voryn), to join House Dagoth and participate in the subjugation of all Tamriel via Akulakhan and corprus, or...

Sadara swallowed, and shut her eyes.

...or walk away, leave Morrowind to tend its own prophecy, leave Voryn and all the love he and House Dagoth had to show and give.

To be alone again.

Her hands came up, and her face sunk down into them. No, no, she wouldn't let it come to that. She would change his mind; there would be no need to think of what to do if she couldn't.

Everything would be alright.

A sudden breeze brought dust against Sadara's face, and on opening her eyes she saw that a blight storm was beginning to kick up. The sunrise was ever more beautiful for it, but the stunning color was quickly overrun by the storm. She heard Rather drifting closer, and stood quickly, turning towards him.

"Right, right, I know, back inside."

Immunity to corprus or not, it wasn't good to be outside during a blight storm.

The answers she'd hoped for hadn't appeared. And there was no one but herself she could go to for answers. The closest option was Nibani Maesa, but she could already imagine what the woman would say...likely it would be a repetition of Azura's opinion on the matter.

You submit yourself to the Sharmat's will, and it is only a matter of time before you fall too far to rise again. Do not listen. Do not go back to him. Retrieve Wraithguard and give him the only mercy he is yet able to receive.

She thought then of the Divines, casting her mind about for any of them that might have advice or guidance for her. Certainly not Arkay, he didn't like the undead. Mara...well...she had prayed to Mara before...she had prayed to some one or the other of the Divines since coming to Red Mountain, and none had yet answered.

She thought of Dibella, one of her teachings. "No matter the seed, if the shoot is nurtured with love, will not the flower be beautiful?"

Perhaps with love she could fix this...

But Dibella cared neither for the undead nor relations with them, and however warm Voryn's embrace the heart in his chest did not beat.

So there would be no aid there, either.

Everything that would be done she would need to do all on her own.

---------------------------

The household of Kogoruhn seemed to have a definite routine, and in the interest of staying out of its way Sadara went to the Vault of Aerode to eat and look over the notes of the prophecy and associated things on Nerevar and the Sixth House that she'd collected so far. Perhaps she would find some wisdom to help her figure things out in their words.

It seemed to make the ash slaves nervous, to have her seated in one of the chairs, to not have it stacked with the others but they said nothing more when Ulen shooed them away with some order she didn't hear.

Ulen eventually returned to her, looking over the scrolls and books, the first of which was Saint Nerevar.

"I thought it might be helpful," she said, seeing him look over the title. "It was...mostly drivel."

She opened it and turned to a random page, noting the next.

Nerevar died not long after of his wounds, but he lived to see the birth of the Temple, and to bless the unity of the Dunmer into the safekeeping of Almsivi, the Temple...

"Made up nonsense that never actually happened." She shook her head, and moved on to Nerevar Moon-and-Star. "Funny how the Imperial view seems to be more accurate."

But after this great victory, the power-hungry khans of the Great Houses slew Nerevar in secret, and, setting themselves up as gods, neglected Nerevar's promises to the Tribes.

But it is said that Nerevar will come again with his ring, and cast down the false gods, and by the power of his ring will make good his promises to the Tribes, to honor the Spirits and drive the outsiders from the land.

"Not that I would say funny, of course," Ulen said, "Strange, perhaps. You have come to us again, and will aid Lord Dagoth in driving the outsiders from the land. If this were part of the prophecy, I might be inclined to remark on the fickle nature of such things. That the words can have more than one meaning."

Sadara nodded in agreement and then brought forward the Stranger.

Though stark-born to sire uncertain / His aspect marks his certain fate / Wicked stalk him, righteous curse him / Prophets speak, but all deny.

"Some parts might not even apply," Sadara replied, "I know who my father is."

She did not remember his name, but did recall her mother speaking of him, that he had died...the details of it all were very fuzzy, though. Righteous cursing, though...that sounded like Azura. All denying made sense too, no one seemed to believe in her until she wore the ring.

"His aspect marks his certain fate," Ulen said, "Perhaps it means your sign. What is it?"

"The Thief," Sadara said. "I thought it was 'most blessed and most cursed' but I mixed that up with the Serpent. Thief signs...I'm not a thief but that's not a certain thing under this sign anyway. It's said they takes more risks and rarely come to harm. But...that their luck would eventually run out, that they tend not to live as long as other signs."

"Appropriate, but also inaccurate. You shan't have to worry about death, now that the gift of Lord Dagoth runs through your veins."

She could not see his mouth if he had one, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

"This pleases you?" she asked.

"You make our lord happy, and his happiness is ours."

"Do you...feel his mood? How does that work?" She turned over The Seven Curses as she spoke.

"We do not receive specifics, if that is what you are worried about," Ulen replied, "But we feel his sorrow, his joy, his anger--the extremes, in essence. The higher in his service we rise, the more subtleties we may be privy to. For example...when first you came to him, I and other ascended sleepers felt something from him that we had never felt before."

"What...what was that?"

"Hope."

Sadara looked down to the paper. The words set a bloom in her chest, a warm feeling, and yet a fear along with it. So to distract herself she read over the Seven Curses.

First curse, Curse-of-Fire, second curse, Curse-of-Ash

"Clearly these two are about Red Mountain and its surrounding...area," she said. "And curse of flesh I assume is how the writer refers to the corprus and blights."

"If only they knew the blessing it can be."

"Curse of dreams...also obvious. The dreams were strange at first, but...after a while they began to be comfortable, despite the relations to death." Sadara took a deep breath. "I wonder what curses four, five, and six could mean, though."

"Which?" Ulen looked. "Curse of ghosts, curse of seed, curse of despair...from the writer's point of view, perhaps the curse of ghosts could be the discovery of your identity as Lord Nerevar's incarnate. Perhaps the despair that they assumed an incarnate would feel."

Neither of them remarked on curse of seed. She couldn't even begin to fathom what that might mean--there were certain references they could make, but nothing that would leap out as an actual solution to the riddle of it. And debating on it would be...awkward. Like, she imagined, discussing the enormous hornet's nest on the statue of Dibella she'd seen once that had formed between the statue's--

"What do you think it means?" he asked suddenly.

"Perhaps," Sadara swallowed again, and reached for the bottle of ale she'd brought with her, "Perhaps the writer imagined the despair one might feel, to be guided to act against her country. If I were--less inclined to join this house, I might feel despair. Torn between what I had been told in this life and what had happened in the other."

She took a few sips from the bottle and then moved on to the Lost Prophecies.

Blessed Guest counters seven curses / Star-blessed hand wields thrice-cursed blade / To reap the harvest of the unmourned house.

"Thrice cursed blade...Keening, obviously, given the association with the Tribunal." Sadara took a deep breath. "But as for the rest..."

There was a long pause.

"What wisdom do you hope to gain from this, Nerevar?" Ulen seemed to notice that she was struggling with something, "Perhaps you wish to understand the view that Lord Dagoth's enemies have on your return?"

"That and I am trying to put Azura's words from my mind by keeping it busy," Sadara replied. It wasn't entirely a lie. She knew her current course of action wasn't approved by the Queen of Dawn and Dusk, and wanted to keep the doubts that kept sneaking into her head silent for a while. "She spoke to me as I sat outside earlier, and...was not at all pleased by what I have been doing. She wasn't pleased by the--I told her I would not do what she wished of me. That I would not raise a hand against V...Lord Dagoth."

Ulen patted soothingly at the hand of hers on the table that was within his reach. "To be expected, of course. The daedric princes do not care for mortals that think for themselves. They are angered by those who decline to place a hand within reach of the silver-tongued viper's venomous fangs. And her you might have to fear, were it not for Lord Dagoth's protection."

"I am...fortunate, in that regard." Sadara replied slowly.

She was safe from all harm...so long as she did not leave Voryn.

------------------------

"The ash slaves will not admit it, but I think you've upset them."

Sadara looked up. She was currently kneeling on the floor, and attempting to scrub one of the symbols of House Dagoth from it. Uthol stood there in the doorway, watching her with something of an amused smile.

"What, why?"

"You've replaced the chairs and you're cleaning up all the symbols they've drawn on the floor," he replied, "I have to admit I allowed them to fool about with the chairs and the drawing because it kept them occupied...I hope you've something in mind for them to do otherwise, or you'll likely find your sleep interrupted by their wailing."

"I asked them to draw the symbols on the walls instead of the floor...and suggested if they erased them at night, they could repeat the cycle the next day," Sadara started, "If there were materials to spare I would suggest weaving the symbol instead of drawing it...something that could be repeated to ease the noise in their minds that would also bring some benefit or the other."

"Why clean the symbols yourself?"

"You're the noble one here, and I'm certainly not going to ask you to do it. I suppose I could ask the ash ghouls or the ascended sleepers, but..." she trailed off, and after a pause started again, "If this is meant to be the seat of House Dagoth, it shouldn't look as though a pack of children have been let loose with chalk."

Uthol laughed. "That is fair, I suppose. But perhaps don't let our lord find out we've been letting you do such menial labor."

"It's not menial if I enjoy it," Sadara replied, "But if you insist."

He left then, and she spent the rest of the day in further cleaning. The Vault of Aerode looked much nicer without stacks of chairs and clumsy drawings scattered all over the place. Such a mindless task as tidying up gave her time to think, though it did her no good overall in the matter of figuring out what to actually do.

But after it was done she had something to show for all the effort she'd put in. Perhaps, she thought, it could eventually be a proper library...if there wasn't already such a room in Kogoruhn. She hadn't seen all of the place yet, after all.

Though she had spent the day pondering her dilemma, she lay down to sleep with some small measure of satisfaction.

Sadara opened her eyes to the same ballroom as before. She gave a smile when a look in the mirror showed not just the sprig of red salvia Voryn had placed behind her ear in last night's dream, but an entire crown of it atop her head.

Even if he would never call her anything but Nerevar, to be so marked and wanted warmed her in a way she truly hoped would never end.

[anxiouslyextroverted]

Usually I agree with ur takes but "oh c!Tommy is probably going to betray me and use my as a scapegoat' and then proceeds to torment c!Tommy more by giving c!Wilbur tnt, ruining c!Wilburs mental health, and aiding in blowing up L'manberg, like what."

He did it to destroy lmanberg it wasnt to torment tommy. He wanted to destroy all factions and just live under dsmp. Why do you think that move he did was to torment tommy?

L'manberg was connected to c!tommy and he knew the idea of it getting destroyed would upset c!Tommy too. Furthermore, he knew about c!tommys connection to c!wilbur. Purposly betrayed c!Tommy then acts as if c!Tommy is in the wrong. If he truly was just doing it to destroy L'manberg then why did he drag c!tommy like that through hell, why did he betray him and then act like its business, why did he immediately after the battle go to c!tommy on the bench and taunt him for a bit. I do agree that his main motive was to destroy L'manberg to get everyone under his own rule because he thrives on control, but the other part of that is he loves to torment and taunt c!Tommy which he's shown time and time again. He said before in that debate thing "justice for everyone but c!tommy" and also says , "I think you are getting everything coming to you" not verbatim but the message is the same. He seems to want revenge on c!tommy at this point or at least he makes it out that he wants that, however he also did want c!tommy under his control at the same time. If I remember correctly he has taunted c!tommy a couple times about the destruction of L'manberg, I vaguely remember him bringing it up in exile and in the prison but I may be wrong sorry. I do understand that its not much to go off of, so this is why I look to the 3rd? blowing up of L'manberg that happened after exile, where c!dream makes it crystal clear that to him c!tommy is too fun and that his story with him will never be over which imo pretty much solidifies that majority of his destructive actions involved the added motivation of messing with c!tommy.

And I'd just like to add that c!tommy was basically seen as the heart and soul of L'manberg. He was the one with all the determination, everyone else practically caved until exile. c!wilbur lost his mind and blew it up, c!fundy switched sides for a moment to manberg then came back but was barely involved - also fell for c!dreams manipulation, c!tubbo fell for c!dreams manipulation, c!quackity to an extent did and moved on, c!niki burnt down the l'manberg tree. It was really just c!tommy that still had the spirit of L'manberg and that core of justice whereas everyone else lost it (ig thats just how i saw it idk) , thats when you bring up exile and u got c!dream trying to turn c!tommy against l'manberg and his allies, almost like c!dream knew that getting c!tommy joined with his plans against l'manberg would help immensely but like Im getting off topic- thats a whole diff topic of 'why c!tommy would be the perfect weapon' lmao. c!tommy and to an extent c!tubbo even want to make l'moonberg, and c!tommy even had a l'manberg pic on his person during the ending. c!wilbur was right when he called c!tommy l'manberg.

It makes so much sense why c!dream loved destroying it.

[asm5129]

RWBY v9 E5 Thoughts & Analysis

The ever after gets prettier and prettier

No one complain about the visuals of the JL crossovers, because this is what we got with resources that could have gone to those

“when we break, or wear out, or simply finish what we were made to do, We’re called back. But Herb? His heart was too weak to listen. So i gave him a little bit of mine.”

So Herb was already being called back, presumably because he was “worn out” and trying to force change instead of just help people on their journey, but he just wasn’t able to listen to said call. Intriguing.  

So when you ascend, you become the person you wanted to be when you were your old self, but you don’t remember any of what or who you were prior to the change. 

Also intriguing that Ruby specifically asks if you keep your memories post-ascension. Are you considering something you want to share with the class, Ruby?

Love how this volume has clearly gotten the CRWBY to reflect on what they’ve been writing as well, as we’ve seen through the cat a la “exposition is terribly boring”. They’re really thinking about the nature of stories and how to tell them meaningfully. 

“I wonder what else Alyx left out” Hoo boy, i get the feeling that’s gonna have a doozy of an answer, Blake

I am so intrigued by the Blacksmith. Her design is fascinating. And, uh....as far as we know, she wasn’t in the book.

“Nothing, no one, is ever truly lost”

So lets get this out of the way--no, Penny’s not coming back. Stop it. There’s two ways i think the meaning of this line could play out

1) Ruby is tempted to ascend and “become” someone she think is more worthy of living than she is

2) People live on in the ways we carry them and everything we learned from them with us

currently, i’m on the “The Blacksmith is an Ascended Summer Rose” theory train, but then i was also dead wrong about the Rusted Knight--we’ll get there

She’s forging/smithing/whatever a butterfly something or other....wonder what that’s for. Other than symbolism, obviously

Little: ”Ruby, I don’t think we’re supposed to be here.” Everything about the blacksmith is framed as an almost unnatural addition to the Ever After--including CC seemingly not knowing about her.

“I’m fine. I can handle it” Ugh, Ruby, you poor girl

“If you change your mind, you can choose any one of these you like, and set your burden down.”

“They’re an extension of ourselves, they’re a part of us!”--Ruby, v1 about why she loves weapons

So, Crescent Rose is....perhaps, Ruby’s identity as a huntress?

Crescent rose is lost, that part of her is lost.  

I dunno exactly, we’ll see. But I’m positive that volume 1 line is at the core of everything we have seen concerning Crescent Rose this volume.

Penny’s sword. Alyx’s dagger. And of course, the one that broke the FNDM--Summer’s axe. 

Ever since Ruby and Salem confronted each other in volume 8, the silver eyes and Summer bring a sense of foreboding with them. They have changed completely from their heroic implications of volume 6.

What knowledge did you give her, Jinn?

The cat knocking things off the table casually is another great cat-based gag.

“It carries a mothers promise” this line has the potential to become one of the most heartbreaking things in the entire show.

Especially because in the Tuesday BtS video we got the line “a mother always fulfills her promise” from the cast and crew. Something absolutely soul crushing concerning Summer is on its way.

It is so like Ruby to put others first this way. People were in danger, her friends needed to return to normal to help, she knows how the barter system works in the Ever After, she gives her mothers emblem up without hesitation knowing its value will be enough.

It’s definitely weird to give Blake the line “whats a jabberwalker?” Weiss or Yang, sure. But Blake asking is weird. She is the most knowledgeable of the Ever After, she even knew about the Jabberwalker previously, right? Weird.

“If the jabberwalker eats us, we do not ascend” So it can essentially cut reincarnation short? Or maybe kill functionally immortal creatures? Seems like this could be interesting groundwork for the future...

The Rusted Knight! Blake fangirling over a fictional childhood hero come to life is just so wholesome.

Neo has officially moved beyond illusions. She can create tangible, seemingly even sentient replicas of existing, living things. So that’s not troubling at all. Course....do they have free will, or do they have to listen to Neo Prime? I guess we will learn soon enough.

‘We’ll hold them off”?! God i hope CC and thh bird guy are okay...

cuz, uh....not many are....tbh.....

JUNIPER

JNPR

My HEART

Jaune, what HAPPENED to you?

Do we get a flashback episode to see how he got to this state? 

So, no, I do not think Jaune ascended, he still has his memories

Yes, I think he aged normally, we already know theres time shenaniganery in the Ever After.

No, i don’t think he will return to his pre-Ever After age, RWBY doesn’t reverse big status quo shifts. It just doesn’t.

Also adding to Penny not coming back--If Penny could come back, Jaune would have done it already. 

So yeah. Also--

just the whole fact that there is a place in the world of RWBY where death doesn’t really exist when our main villain is literally incapable of dying, feels way too coincidental for my theory/analysis senses to ignore

 Just the fact that the ever after has two ways of an otherwise immortal life ending—one through choosing to become someone and something else entirely, or the other to be taken by a creature that is the only thing that can “kill” in this world, feels very important when dealing with an immortal villain

 Stopping Salem will come from something they learn in the Ever After, that’s clear as day Even if they don’t realize it for a few volumes

Or maybe that will be the moment Ruby finds hope again--when she realizes that something in the ever after can help her defeat Salem