#but the more level headed and wiser versions of him are white

[cosmics-beings]

when nonblack artists (especially white) draw nonhuman characters black or racebend characters black they really need to ask themselves why they subscribe certain traits (like aggression, stupidity, arrogance, largeness, etc.) to black versions of those characters and why they view kinder, wise and morally ambiguous characters as white or lighter skinned.

(kinda unrelated but it also slips into shipping (esp in mlm stances). like why are you making the larger/dominant one black and the smaller/submissive one white or lighter. )

this isn't a jab at anyone , but i just implore some artists to asks themselves why they see a character being aggressive and dangerous and automatically assume that character is black.

at the end of the day you don't even have to listen to me - draw what you want. i am just a faceless icon on tumblr dot com.

[svankmajerbaby]

ok here goes the beginning of the snow white thing im working on

It was a white winter morning: the first snow of the year. The king was away, once more, on his efforts to establish alliances with the surrounding kingdoms. They were a rather small nation, but still, she thought with a sigh, it was not a position to complain about.

The Countess had been married for at least two months, and no news of a child as of yet. She had little knowledge of the exact method, but the procedure had been regularly done thrice a week for the month and a half that she had with the Count. She didn’t know if she was being impatient, or if it truly was a matter of waiting a bit more. She continued her embroidery, swallowing quickly, her mind away –she ought to go back to the chapel, pray once more, ask the Lord to keep her healthy and fertile, and her position secure.

She gazed out the window, at the snowflakes falling slowly like dove feathers on the twisted, blackened bushes outside the castle. The Countess smiled, remembering her childhood days, playing in the snow with her sisters. It was truly magical, the sight of the gentle winter day, just as it begun –with the memory of the golden autumn leaves still fresh in the mind. She rested the ebony embroidery hoop on her lap, and stretched her neck to gaze further, outside the foggy window, at the apple orchard that stood right by the garden gate.

The maids were a bit puzzled by the Countess’ decision, but said nothing to it. What could they say? While the king was away, as far as they were concerned, she called the shots in the castle. Of course, in matters of politics, of what happened beyond the stone walls –that was the domain of the ministers. But she didn’t care for politics. She had the warmth of expensive furs, of a steady hearth, of a hot mug of cider at her behest. She could return to the shelter of her home whenever she liked, and her maids would have to follow.

And so, there was a small marble table set by the empty apple tree, and the Countess was covered in the black fur-trimmed cape and the heavy black boots, the leather gloves, and the thick stiff bonnet with the silk ribbon, to shield her from the cold. It was snowing, but so gently and quietly that she thought it was all a bit unnecessary. Still, winter was the cruelest season of all, with its trickeries and its enchanting transformations. It would be best to not forget the dangers of the potentially sickly air that she would be exposed to. The wind, after all, came from the village, where the common folk mingled, from where the miasma could travel up to the land she occupied.

As a noble lady, the Countess had spent most of her life in the safety of a gilded nest. Now, she lived in a proper castle, as high as she could hope to reach. She had to be thankful. No matter how lovely the outdoors could be, she was not naïve; she knew, having been warned her entire life, of the dangers of the forest, even those of the village crawling with peasants. Pickpockets, thieves, killers; and further, wolves, bears, boars. Beasts of both sorts. No, she would never go beyond the apple orchard, beyond the edge of the garden gate.

As she sighed, her breath seemed like freshly cut wool frozen in midair.

The Countess huffed –it was impossible to embroider with these unwieldy gloves. She decided to take off just one, the one that would be working the needle, which surely would be enough exercise to keep it warm.

She had been entertaining herself by embroidering a representation of the baby Jesus, with a white dove flying above it in a ring of light, its wings spread wide. Though, the Christ was looking less like a child and more like uncooked dough. The Countess had never been particularly good at manual crafts, preferring more social activities like singing and dancing. Her mother had always discouraged her to be too sullen, too sunken into herself. It was important to be learned, yes, but more important was to entertain, to speak the languages she studied, to be of good disposition, amiable and pleasant to have as company, after all. Even if her embroidery skills were rather lacking.

A good wife and mother should be able to do it all, her mother had told her once. Sing, dance, play an instrument or two, draw with an acceptable level of artistry, sew and embroider, and be witty, whatever that meant.

Those talents had gotten her a good husband. She was glad. Not necessarily happy –but glad. Glad was enough.

The handiwork was moving slowly. She was bad at threading and her rough sketch over the white linen was coarse and fading. If the Count later asked what she had been doing during the day, she ought to say she had spent the day indoors, guarding her health, quietly toiling away on a pillow for him. The Countess had seen the embroidering of one of the maids, an exceptionally fine work, despite the poorness of the threads. The Virgin, cloaked in red, her pink hands facing upwards. Yes, she would have that embroidery and pass it as her own. The Count would be pleased.

The wind had begun to blow. The Countess blinked her blond, almost invisible eyelashes against the flurry of snowflakes beating against her face. She huddled in her furs, her exposed hand trembling, searching the proper placement to pierce through the fabric. The black-leather hand pulled the needle, perhaps a bit too taut; and as it emerged back again through the linen, with the one finger searching for a bump, she pushed forward –and the needle’s point pricked the tip of her finger –hard enough to draw blood.

The Countess left her ebony frame on her lap, taking a pause to gaze at her wound. A blob of crimson emerged, becoming more swollen by the second. Its intense color seemed even vibrant against the black of her garment, the white of the day. When the drop became fat enough, it slipped away from the trembling finger –and onto the empty space of the embroidery hoop, where she had been planning to embroider the dove. The Countess smiled. Her fingers were numb from the cold, and the sharp sting was felt only for a brief moment. She was too entranced by the way the red blood slowly soaked the white linen, stretching further, growing like lichen on a stone. Like the blush on a maiden’s cheeks.

She remembered herself as she had once played with her friends in the snow; now older, wiser, a beloved mother to a healthy heir. She would laugh and raise the child up to the sky, their hair blowing in the gentle chilly wind, their noble brow stroked by the blossoming branches of the apple tree.

“Oh,” she sighed once more. “To have a child so beautiful that they could have hair as black as ebony –skin as white as snow –lips as red as blood.”

The Countess pictured the child’s face in her mind. A round face, glowing white, framed by black locks, with her own round fair eyes staring back, and an easy smile displaying a red mouth. A better version of herself, she thought. Prettier, gentler, smarter… A great heir, ruler of Waldeck.

She only hoped that creature could be a boy.

As she was distracted by these fantasies, a sudden gust of wind blew one of the Countess’ velvet gloves off from her lap. She gasped. A servant rushed to her side and caught the glove in midair, just before it could disappear behind a curtain of snow.

The man reached the delicate glove to the lady. The Countess offered him a thankful smile, slightly shivering, and then had a good look at him. He was a groom, judging by his own gloved hands, the hay on his clothes, and the potent if not slightly watered down smell of manure. Of course, the Countess recalled –the apple orchards were not far from the stables.

For a stableboy, however, he was considerably handsome. The thought briefly embarrassed the Countess, but when he smiled back, any shame melted away. He had small but shiny black eyes, milk-white skin, and thin lips. And, when he took his hat off in respect for his lady, he revealed a head of soft black hair, as dark and smooth as a raven’s wing. The Countess’ heart fluttered. God was listening. She had never seen a man as striking as he.

She stretched her naked hand to the groom’s face. His smile faltered, but it remained frozen in its place, even as the Countess’ fingers stroke his cheek, to then go over his frost-nipped lips. She was his lady; he was to submit to her requests.

The snowflakes gently landed on his hair, and gleamed like faraway stars in the deep of the night.

 ...

Months passed, and winter gave way to spring, to summer, and finally to autumn, when the child was born. While at first the news of a baby thrilled the Countess, the joy soon was replaced by disgust at the changes the little parasite produced in her body. At first it was what the physicians warned her: dizzy spells, moments of feeling sick, some swelling of the body. The swelling was the worst part of it. Her favorite, richest garments of lace and brocade didn’t fit her anymore, from her deep purple velvet slippers to her pea-green embroidered gloves. Her hands had become swollen as well, and reddened, and it would hurt to hold stuff firmly. There were sharp sudden pains on her back, neck and sides. By the final weeks she could barely move from the bed. Some nights the discomfort and the weight on her hips and back would be so unbearable she could hardly sleep.

Though, as the Count would come to her side and supervise the development of her pregnancy, and lay a hand over her bulging belly, the Countess would smile satisfied. If the child was born healthy and safe, then it would all have been worth it.

It was difficult to keep that in mind during the birthing.

The women crowded around her, their hands cold and clammy. Their faces seemed bloated as they hovered over hers, giving her commands, grabbing her hands and squeezing them as she pressed and pushed. The air was thick with heat and smoke, the candles lit all around her, becoming bright blurred suns. The Countess groaned and cried and shrieked. Her body was covered in sticky sweat, her back felt as if nailed to the bed. It was as if her body was splitting wide open. The Countess peered down the bump on her belly and saw the women working, their robes splattered with blood –there was blood on the bed –there was blood soaking her white damp chemise –there was too much blood, far too much. Perhaps this was how she would die. Giving birth, how appropriate, she thought, as she gritted her teeth and, just in case, muttered a few Hail Marys under her breath, slurring the words, repenting for everything. The women yelled louder. Something was happening, something new, and the Countess wished it was over soon. Her skin was burning, her insides were ripping her apart, struggling to see the light. She spread her legs further, pushing harder, and finally there was another cry, a high pitched scream, and the Countess sighed in relief. The baby was crying –it was alive –she was alive –all this calvary hadn’t been for nothing.

But when the offspring was pulled out, she still felt the pain: it wasn’t blinding as before, but it was there still, and, realizing it wasn’t over yet, the Countess wept like a child.

A maid, her face marked with blood and sweat, approached her lady with the earsplitting baby swaddled in the last clean cloth and a congratulatory grin. The Countess raised a hand and waved it weakly, both trying to cover her ears and push the baby away from her.

“No, take it, take it away…” she mumbled.

The maid lowered her head in respect, and, taking the baby out of the lady’s chamber, was followed by the other women. They closed the door, though the creature’s shrieks were still audible for a few minutes more.

Slowly, though the Countess couldn’t move yet, she began regulating her breath. There were sharp pains on her sides. Her chest felt sunken, and her legs were weak. Her arms were tense, her fists still holding onto the wet sheets. If she remained still the agony was bearable. She blinked, the tears and beads of sweat clinging to her eyelashes. She sighed. It was done with, at least. The Count would be pleased.

Two weeks passed with her lying in bed. The windows were opened on the third day, and when the chilled wind rushed in the Countess took a deep breath, filling her breast with the fresh air. She had done her duty. As long as it meant no more pain, she didn’t care if she died.

But she did not die. The maids took turns to enter the chamber, silently, carrying food and drink with them. The Countess did not ask about her child. She knew that if something happened to it, then she would be notified. No news were good news. Sipping her soup, her body still feeling too heavy to move, listening to the quiet chirping of birds outside the windows, she wondered if her health had been transferred to the baby during the birth. She had no wish to leave the bed as of yet, though. There was a new emptiness inside her, now that the child was gone from her body. The realization dawned on her: who was completing her duties, now that she was resting? Who, besides her, could run the estate, order the servants, supervise the household accounts, keep the wheel of the Waldeck castle turning smoothly and without a hitch? Someone else, apparently. There was only one duty she was truly, solely responsible for: giving the Count an heir. She had done her duty. What followed, now? The production of a spare?

As far away as the chamber was from the nursery, the baby’s cries ringed in the Countess’ ears, making it impossible for her to sleep. When she got any rest, she was tortured by nightmares of the child becoming cold and stiff, like those who would have become her siblings. The women came and went, bringing hot food that fortified their lady, but nothing that could alleviate her wandering mind. Perhaps the child had been born deformed. Would it be killed, then? Who would have the heart to do it? Would they wait for her to give the verdict, or would the constant crying stop, out of a sudden?

The Countess hoped and prayed for the child to have a long, healthy life, if not for the Count, then for her own sake: she did not know how she would withstand another pregnancy.

The baby was baptized without her presence. It was named by the priest as he sprinkled holy water on the child, the Countess was told, and it was decided on the spot: Maria Margaretha.

The Countess wailed. Maria, after the noble virgin. It was a girl, after all.

[generallypo]

“I heard your voice, so I came... Aoba-san.”

Hooo-boy, if that doesn’t get me emotional every single time. Call it my bias for eccentric bundles of sunshine and softness, or my crippling weakness for the secretly-handsome-and-devastatingly-earnest type, but you can’t change my mind: Clear is, hands down, DMMD’s best love interest. Character development-wise, thematically, romantically, he nails every trial thrown at him, gets his man,  and proceeds to break your heart in the tenderest, sincerest way possible. I am hopping with Huge Fan Energy, so this post is gonna be unapologetically long and self-indulgent and grossly enthusiastic. Yeeeee.

———— 

Look, DMMD meta analysis has been done to death, I get it. This game is old. But I think it stands as testament to its excellent production that it’s still a game worth revisiting years later — especially during these times when social contact is so hard pressed to come by and we all rabidly devour digital media like a horde of screeching feral gremlins. (Have you seen Netflix’s stock value now? The exploding MMO server populations? Astonishing.) It’s pure, simple human nature to want to connect, to cling to members of our network out of biological imperative and our psychological dependency on each other. As cold and primitive at that sounds, social contact also fulfills us on a higher level: the community is always stronger than the individual; genuine trust begets a mutually supportive relationship of exchange and evolution. People learn from each other, and grow into stronger, wiser, better versions of themselves.

Yeah, I’m being deliberately obtuse about this. Of course I’m talking about Clear. Clear, who is a robot. Clear, who is nearly childlike in his insatiable curiosity regarding the human condition.

And it’s a classic literary tactic, using non-human entities to question the intangible constructs of a concept like ‘humanity’ — think Frankenstein, or Tokyo Ghoul, or Detroit: Become Human, among so, so many works in various media — all tackling that question from countless angles, all with varying measures of success. What does it mean to be human? To be good? Who are we, and where do we stand in the grand scheme of things? Is there even a scheme to follow? … Wait, what?

Jokes aside, there are so many ways that the whole approaching-human-yet-not-quite-there schtick can be abused into edgy, joyless existential griping. Nothing wrong with that if it’s what you’re looking for, except that we’re talking about a boys’ love game here. But DMMD neatly, sweetly side steps that particular wrinkle, giving us a wonderfully grounded character to work with as a result. 

Character Design — a see-through secret

Let’s start small: Clear’s design and premise. Unlike so many other lost, clueless robo-lambs across media, Clear does have a small guiding presence early on in his life. It takes the form of his grandfather, who teaches Clear about the world while also sheltering him from his origins. It means he learns enough to blend sufficiently into society; it also means that Clear has even more questions that sprout from his limited understanding of the world.

Told that he must never remove his mask lest he expose his identity as a non-human, Clear’s perpetual fear of rejection for what he is drives much of his eccentricity and challenges him throughout much of his route. As for the player, the mystery of what lies underneath his mask is a carrot that the writers get to dangle until the peak moment of emotional payoff. Even if it’s not hard to guess that there’s probably a hottie of legendary proportions stuck under there, there’s still significance in waiting for that good moment to happen. And when it does, it feels great.

His upbringing contextualizes and affirms his odd choice of fashion: deliberately generic, bashfully covered from the public eye, and colored nearly in pure white - the quintessential signal of a blank slate, of innocence. Contrasted with the rest of DMMD’s flashy, colorful crew, Clear is probably the most difficult to read on a superficial scale, not falling into the fiery, bare-chest sex appeal of a womanizer, or the techno-nerd rebel aesthetic that Noiz somehow rocks. Goofy weirdo? Possibly a serial killer? Honestly, both seem plausible at the start.

And that’s the funny thing, because as damn hard as he tries to physically cover himself up from society, Clear is irrepressibly true to his name: transparent to a fault. He’s a walking, talking contradiction, and it’s not hard to realize that this mysterious, masked stranger… is really just an open book. By far the most effusive and straightforward of the entire cast, his actions are wildly unconventional and sometimes wholly inexplicable. But given time to explain himself, he is always, always sincere in his intentions — and unlike the rest of the love interests, naturally inclined to offer bits of himself to Aoba. It doesn’t take the entire character arc to figure out his big, bad secret — our main character gets an inkling about halfway through his route — and what’s even better is that he embraces it, understanding that his abilities also allow him to protect what he cherishes: Aoba. 

So what if he doesn’t fit into an easily recognizable box of daydream boyfriend material? He’s contradictory, and contradiction is interesting. Dons a gas mask, but isn’t an edgelord. Blandly dressed, but ridiculously charming. Unreadable and modestly intimidating — until he opens his mouth. Even without the benefit of traversing his route, there’s already so much good stuff to work with, and sure as hell, you’re kept guessing all the way to the end.

Character Development — from reckless devotion into complaisant subservience, complaisant subservience into mutual understanding. And then, of course: free will, and true love. 

At its core, DMMD is about a dude with magic mind-melding powers and his merry band of attractive men with — surprise! — crippling emotional baggage. Each route follows the same pattern, simply remixing the individual character interactions and the pace of the program: Aoba finds himself isolated with the love interest, faces various communication issues varying on the scale of frustrating to downright dangerous, wanders into a sketchy section of Platinum Jail, bonds with the love interest over shared duress, breaks into the Oval Tower, faces mental assault by the big bad — and finally, finally, destroys those internal demons plaguing the love interest, releasing the couple onto the path of a real heart-to-heart conversation. And then, you know, the lovey-dovey stuff. 

Here’s the thing: as far as romantic progression goes, it’s really not a bad structure. There’s room to bump heads, but also to bond. The Scrap scene is a thematically cohesive and clever way to squeeze in the full breadth of character backstory while simultaneously advancing the plot. In this part, Aoba must become the hero to each of his love interests and save them from themselves. Having become privy to each other’s deepest thoughts and reaching a mutual understanding of each other, their feelings afterwards slide much more naturally into romantic territory. They break free of Oval Tower, make their way home, and have hot, emotionally fulfilling sex or otherwise some variation on the last few steps. The end. 

That is, except for Clear. 

Clear’s route is refreshing in that he needs none of these things — the climax of his emotional arc actually comes a little after the halfway point of his route. When Clear’s true origins are revealed, he comes entirely clean to Aoba, fighting against his fear of rejection but also trusting that Aoba will listen. It’s a quiet, vulnerable moment, rather than the action-packed tension we normally experience during a Scrap scene. 

That doesn’t mean it’s prematurely written in — it simply means that he reaches his potential faster than the other characters. Because of that, he’s free to pursue the next level of his route’s development much, much sooner in the timeline: he overcomes his fears of his appearance, he confesses his love to Aoba, he leaves the confines of a largely dubious master-servant relationship and allows himself to be Aoba’s equal. Clear’s sprite art mirrors his emotional transformation all the way through, exposing him to the literal bone — and Aoba’s affection for him doesn’t change a single bit. Beautiful.

The whammy of incredible moments doesn’t just stop there, though. I don’t exactly recall the order the routes DMMD is ideally meant to be played in, but I believe Clear’s is meant to be last. And if you do, I can guarantee that it becomes a hugely delightful gameplay experience — in order to achieve his good ending, you must do absolutely nothing with Scrap. It doesn’t just subvert our player expectations of proactively clicking and interacting with our love interests; it grabs the story by its thematic reins and yanks it all back to the forefront of our scene. 

In every route besides Clear’s, Scrap is a tool used to insert Aoba’s influence into and interfere with his target’s mind. Using his powers of destruction, Aoba is able to prune whatever maligned thoughts are harming his target; in any conventional situation, using Scrap is the right choice. 

But one of the central problems in Clear’s route is his conflict between the impulses of his conditioning and his desire to live freely as a human would. Breaking free of Toue’s programming is what initially made him unique; growing beyond the rules imposed by his grandfather is what makes him human. In the final conflict scene, Clear’s decision to destroy his key-lock is an action of true autonomy, made with perfect understanding of the consequences and a sincere, selflessly selfish desire to protect someone he loves. In order to receive his good end, you have to respect his decision. It doesn’t matter which option you pick — by using Scrap, Aoba turns his back on every positive choice he made with Clear and attempts to exert his authority over him. This is Aoba becoming Toue; this is Aoba trying to reinstate himself as ‘Master’ right as he approved Clear as his equal. That’s blatant hypocrisy, and it doesn’t matter if Aoba is trying to do it for Clear’s ‘own good’ — that’s not Aoba’s call to make. If you truly wish to respect Clear’s free will, you will stand by. This is the truth of the moment: Clear has no emotional blockages that Aoba needs to fix. Believe in him, just as he believed in you.

The path to his heart is, and always has been, clear. Scrap was never needed from the start.

While Aoba might be the main character, Clear is undeniably a hero in his own route just as much. Tirelessly earnest and always curious, he leaps headlong into the unknown and emerges with his newfound enlightenment. He’s unafraid of weathering trials, even to the point of accepting death, and returns anew from oblivion to a sweet, cathartic ending. That’s about as textbook hero’s journey as it gets — if that doesn’t make him unquestionably, certifiably, unconditionally human, then I will scream.

And only finally… there is the free end. The final CG is like a throwback to our first impression of him: indistinct, purposefully obscured from proper view. But this time, we know better — and so does Aoba. Looks were never what mattered in Clear’s route. If you were patient, and you were open-minded, and you listened… well, what we realize now is that Clear was doing the exact same thing for you, too.

From a carefree, aimless robot-man with only the gimmick of “eccentric ditz” to carry him forward, we get a supremely more interesting character by the end: a man who has graduated from the well-intentioned but claustrophobic conditioning of his childhood; a weapon who has defied the imperatives placed on him by his creator’s programming; a wanderer who has, through unconditional patience and empathy, discovered love, and striven to become a better person for it. Who was it that ever doubted Clear’s character? He’s the goddamn goodest boy that ever wanted to be a real boy. Of course Clear is human. And in fact, he does it better than every single one of the actually human love interests. You can’t change my mind.

The Romance — kindness is really fucking attractive, okay.

Like I’ve said earlier, I have my Big Fan Blinds stuck on pretty tight. I might be conjuring sparks from thin air. But I think every choice was a deliberate creative decision on the writers’ part, and they deserve all the kudos for it — I’m just the lucky player who gets to enjoy it. But aside from Noiz (who I also think is a perfect darling as well — I could go on and on about him), Clear’s route is a model example for consent and healthy relationships in VN storytelling. This is reciprocated on both sides: never does Aoba infringe on Clear’s boundaries, and neither does Clear. They’re sensitive to each other’s needs and concerns; they ask for permission and stop when it isn’t granted (and when it is, boy do they get frisky — I’m not complaining!) I don’t need to say much more, because I think that consent is both fantastic and yes, incredibly hot (the scene in DMMD is tons more sad, go play Re:connect!). Good writing shows off the massive erotic potential enthusiastic consent puts into intimacy, and Aoba’s and Clear’s relationship is honestly a dream playground. The point is, I think Aoba and Clear genuinely do find equal balance in their relationship by the end of his route (and certainly through Re:connect). If you follow through Re:connect’s storyline, there’s even more thematic richness that comes through in the form of Clear’s greatest asset: communication. The couple get to discuss the long-term implications of them being together; they both offer concerns, points, and assurances to the other, and it’s just a soft, honest moment not so unlike the worries of a real relationship. Hearing is kind of Clear’s motif sense, but it’s really great to see that Aoba also subtly picks it up, really flexes his own communication skills to better engage with Clear. 

Point is, Clear’s route spoke to me on a lot of little levels. Design-wise, he’s already got a ton going for him, and his story builds upon it rather than against it, enriching his development and grounding him a little more solidly in the DMMD universe (and in my heart). His route, aside from being emotionally ruinous, carries a pretty solid chunk of world-building (only beaten out by Mink’s and Ren’s, probably), and the romance feels organic, healthy, and realistic. He’s not the only one with an excellent route, but he’s my favorite. If you read through all of this, you’re a real trooper and I’m extremely impressed. Thanks for tuning in. Peace.

[iamtheempress]

Cold Blooded

A Dragon Ball Horror Fic {Part 8}

☆☆☆

The Gravity Chamber, at 500 times gravity was nothing compared to how heavy the princes heart felt. Whether he wanted to admit it or not he hurt Carlie and the fact she was UNDERSTANDING- other then alive- is nothing short of a miracle.. shes still his fiance, his mate. Vegeta was getting sloppy and keeping his mind occupied was proving to be a bigger challenge in and of itself.

"Why dont you go apologize to her already?" Bulma's voice cut through the gravity chambers speakers. Vegeta pounded his fist straight through a bot and looked to the screen on the wall. Hes quiet. "Vegeta, your so fucking dense.. shes going through trauma too. All she wants is to be comforted and if you can collect yourself and man up and speak to your *fiance* maybe you two will be stronger then ever.. just get your ass outside and see her." "Where." The prince piped up and turned off the chamber that was encased in red light. "Balcony from my room shes checking out the scenery with her new vision" she winks and turns off the display. "New vision..?" He furrows a brow and rushes out of the chamber.

He made his way to the other end of the building paying no mind to doctors and physicians who stood around scratching their heads. It seems like confusion was becoming more infectious in the walls of capsule corp then people were comfortable with..

He saw her.

Standing on the balcony with the robe that was leant to her from Bulma, he took a deep breath and made his way to the door. The wind fluttering curtains out of the building.

"Woman." He piped up, clenching his shaking fists. 

Carlie turned eyes wide and tilted her head. Shes not wearing glasses. Its a new sight for the prince and certainly for her. She was so interested in seeing him she had a look of childlike wonder. 

"Hey Vegeta, i was just about to come look for you, wanted to show you this." She pointed to her face, she was focused on him for the first time without glasses and Carlie simply loved it.. she welcomed him on the balcony and they stood side by side, Vegeta kept his place and stared at her gathering his thoughts and how to say it. 

"Carlie. You know i didn't mean to do what i did… in any way shape or form id never lay a hand on you maliciously.. what I'm saying is that-'' she cut him off with a finger to his lips silencing the bumbling prince.

"My prince doesn't stutter over his words. That tells me your sorry and that's all i need." He sighed in relief and held her arms staring into her eyes. "No more glasses i assume?" He pushes bleached blonde locks out of her face to view her new look closer. "Nope! I have 20/20 vision now! The serum perfected it completely.. should be permanent. Like it?" 

Vegeta tilted his face and hummed out a chuckle "Never mattered to me woman" he encircled his arms around her back and pulled her into a passionate hard kiss, nothing about Vegeta was soft or sweet. Let alone kissing or a rare apology. She welcomed it with a smile and running her fingers into his hair and deepening it. They were interupted by the sound of Bulma's voice. "No sex on my bed please you two." She casually asked of them making Vegeta smirk down at his woman beaming with relief. "No promises." Carlie held him close and looked at the blue haired engineer. "So i take it you both made up? Wedding still on?" "Plan never changed if im not mistaken" Vegeta grumbled and leaned back against the railing. "Good. I have food ready for everyone, Carlie go get dressed and meet us out there." She requested disrobing from the white lab coat. "Heard that. Im guessing hes not joining us again." She gulped, referring to Frieza. "No he had his fill already. Gets his food sent to his room." Bulma always had a way of making people comfortable in any bullshit situation. "Alright ill meet yall out there."

Carlie dressed in the little black dress she had as a backup in Bulmas closet. Simple and easy to slip on. Along with blue slides on so she wasn't barefoot going to the balcony. Upon closing the door she was met with the quiet halls of capsule corp she adjusted the dress and made her way down the hall only to be stopped by a familiar sight.

"Carlie!" Goku chirped coming from the direction of the lab. "Hey Goku! Long time no see. How you been?"

"Oh y’know all well and good, Vegeta told me that the serum was done so i stopped by and went into the lab to get the edible versions. Hope that’s no trouble!" He rubbed the back of his neck with a grin.

She laughed and walked in tandem with the larger saiyan to the balcony. "No no problem there. I should really come up with a name for it instead of calling it 'serum'." Goku made a thoughtful noise and tilted his head.

"Pick Me Up?" He said quite instantly. As if he already had a name for it. "Goku where the hell did you hear a phrase like that?" "Huh? Im not sure, really. Somethin i used to say with senzu beans or when I'm in a hospital bed, and believe me everyone needs a good Pick Me Up" Carlie snorted, Goku was that weird comic relief she needed in her life, some things are just too serious and then there was Goku to remind people there’s worse thing out there to be worried about then that on earth, the both of them stopped at the doorway from the balcony.

"It was strange actually, Frieza let me in the lab when i got there." Carlie raised a brow. "Really? Weird." She goes to the balcony with Goku who sees the smorgasbord of food. "Got room for one more?" "Yes Goku, we got more" Bulma says being served and points to Goku. The wait staff nods and goes back to fetch more food for the Saiyan with the biggest appetite and Carlie, who took her place beside the prince.

Something still sat heavy on her mind..

Why was Frieza in her lab?

Beneath the foundation of the corporation was Carlie’s Lab, and within that lab lay her best creation now being manufactured ten fold from enterprises, and Frieza was witnessing the young scientists' empire rise slowly. The former emperor strode around the lab and to a display with Frieza’s name scrawled across the drawn on screen. He smiled at the little things, whether it be penmanship or be it her dainty way she wrote in general there was something about her that Frieza enjoyed. Maybe it was her interest in him, maybe it was her kindness where others found reasons to hate him.

He didnt hate it. He felt the need to keep it to himself, to let it fester for his own amusement. He dipped his head forward and looked to a bag sitting erect on the floor.

Marked with the letter F. He tilted his head and picked it up, curious, he pulled out a large bottle of Merlot. “Hmm… Precious little thing remembered” He was caught off guard by the sound of someone opening the door to the lowermost part just before the labs door, he twitched upon hearing an unfamiliar voice.

He slid the wine back into the bag and placed it back to where he found it. Gliding with grace and absolute silence to the wall besides the door to listen. “Have you seen Norman anywhere?” A deep voice questioned, an older human physician.

“Havent since he sent another nude of Carlie..” “A real dime piece she is.. Too bad she still is with that weird alien.” “Ah come off it.. We have our Stache and she is none the wiser.”

Friezas fists clenched tight behind his back as he leaned against the wall, and a small knowing smile spread across his tightly lined black lips. Easy prey. He thought.

“So why are we down here, Nick?” the fat short one asked as the other fumbled with pills and some strange vial. “Easy, Bruce… were sabotaging her coffee so she can fall asleep faster, and were going to get that coding for that stimulant. Dumb bitch wouldnt know what hit her.” The door clicked open and In walked the Physicians, unbeknownst to them there untimely end would be at the hands of frieza.

At breakneck speed, Frieza apprehended both of them one by the neck with his tail and the other with his hand outstretched gripping the fat short ones neck, tight enough to hear a loud crunch before he could cry out for help.

“Tsk tsk tsk… you meddlesome little vermin were going to harm, Carlie” He lifted the one who was devising the plan into the air and tightened the appendage around his throat tighter, his fat friend gurgling almost unconscious on his own blood. His eyes flicked to the room in the back marked incinerator. Friezas devilish smile and bright vermillion eyes flickered from one physician to the other. “I do believe a swift punishment for disgusting little creatures like you are in order., wouldn't you agree, Bruce?” He walked forward with one hand anchored to his back as the door opened to him as if by will, the one being suspended in mid air was kicking and gasping, while the other was being dragged by his bottom jaw.

“This is a crude little disposal unit but it will do for now, besides trash belongs in the trash.” He tossed the fat one into the disposal pit with enough force to crack his head against the wall, the impact making a loud crunch; he gasped and twitched, spitting up blood on the ground, covered in charred remains of glass and waste.

Frieza brought the human to eye level with him and tilted his head as he stared in the face of sweet delicious fear, decadent tears and the succulent sight of sweat and blood shot eyes of the strangled doctor. 

“Those pictures better be worth your utter demise. Too bad you wont be able to touch a woman as beautiful as her,” He took hold of his arms and with minimal effort popped both of his arms off his person like a doll, the dismembered doctor went wide eyed and cried before being flung head first into the same spot his partner hit.

“Now you wont have anything to touch her with….” He grinned laying the arms one over the other in the pit before clicking the incinerator activation button, sealing the two still living doctors away in a hard glass chamber door, and licks of fire erupting from the floor like hell reaching up to grab at them both. Frieza leaned against the wall marveling at the two doctors flop around like fish out of water… screaming silently for a help that will never arrive. Only to see their executioner behind the glass window beyond walls of rising fire, like the Devil himself.

“You will thank me, Carlie.” He assured sauntering from the room only to be met with a tiny floor cleaning robot that mopped up the floor of all the blood that soaked the linoleum floor. The perfect murder, and the best little cleanup crew and no one was any the wiser.

The emperor looked over at the bottle of wine left out for him then back to the screen with all the information of his physical genetic makeup, hes thoroughly impressed and with a swipe of his hand the coding goes over to the Saiyan genetic makeup with the green wording beneath it.

Perfected.

Frieza narrows his brows and hums. A tab opens with all the reasons why it is perfected. Most of these reasons are beneficial and to aid civilization as a whole. Both alien and human alike, and shes only put forth the battle stimulant. “This benevolent little woman is more creative then I expected.. Ohoho.. Your only peaking my interest further and further Carlie.”

He goes back to his own investigation and feels like hes seen enough. He’ll inspect his findings later, but for now he is in wait. The incinerator dings indicating its disposal has ended. Frieza grins maliciously. “Too bad that was much faster than anticipated…”

☆☆☆

Authors note: Thanks for waiting, works been crazy and havent had time to really get this done fast enough.

Taglist: @gallickingun​ @gonuclear​ @dragonblobz @dragonballcollector @lilfriezatyrant @mommaofthesayianguild @lizardhipsdontlie @supremeleadershitlord @thotful-writing @trans-asshole @memevember

[imagines4abrokenheart]

My request is kinda similar to my first one. (Dragon Ball) Android 18 (Destroyed Future Version) Finding a guy hiding out from the Androids. But she thinks he is cute so she decides to make him her boyfriend. (Even if he likes it or not) But if she catches him trying to escape she sits on his face to teach him a lesson, having his face trapped under her booty until she is sure he will be faithful to her

I gotta ask, what’s your obsession with women sitting on dudes faces to show dominance? I’m not judging, but what is so fascinating? Also, sorry this took so long but I tried to go extra, so I hope you like it!CW: Male reader, Mentions of gore(very brief), POV switching(Only once), Facesitting to show dominance, male submission, mentions of enslavement and forced pet play. 

Queen of Apathy’s new pet

The buildings stand in defiance of the people who fell. They are no vulnerable flesh but concrete and steel, not as timeless as the mountains that ring the city but able to outlast the civilization that created them by centuries. Given enough time even the smooth grey will give way to a jungle of green and this “ancient” civilization will lay ruined for future generations to discover and perhaps piece together how we lived. I wonder if they'll know how we, with all our labor-saving devices could barely glean six hours sleep, and even when the opportunity to rest came our stress levels kept us unwillingly awake. But for now, all I can do is walk ant-like between the monoliths, grey at my feet, grey at every side, under a carpet of grey that promises nothing but a storm. In the end, it was not our using up of resources that killed us. It was our arrogance and lust for technology that doomed us, for it was man’s own created machines that slaughtered us simply because they could.

A bleak, thin wind it was, like a fine sour wine, searching the marrow and bringing no bloom to the cheek. A thick dreariness that hung in the air and condensed in my lungs making it difficult to breathe. The sky swirls, ominous clouds tinted with the blood of the fallen which had turned to mist in the heat of their death, curling together like a serpent. These clouds were followed by the sudden burst of lightning, sometimes flashing bolts of pure energy seem to stand for long moments around certain buildings. Count one, count two, count three, then, came explosions of thunder in great waves of discordant and demented sounds. The noise level became so intense that it rattled what few windows were still intact. The wind raised to the level of a thousand howling hounds.

I bend forward, pulling my hood over my head and picking up my pace. I run into an abandoned building, the rain pounds against my back like bullets. By the time I get to my sanctuary, I am soaked to the bone and stand shivering like a rat just pulled from the water. My teeth clatter together to create a melody with my pounding heart as it thumps against my ribcage. I drop the hood of my jacket down, it slaps onto my back with a wet splat that has a small, childish chuckle leaving me at the obscene noise. I breathe slowly, in then out to still my heart and relax my tense muscles. They hadn’t been seen in some time and so I had volunteered to go out to scavenge the cities with a small group. I had wondered away from the others, I wanted to see my old apartment and try and scavenge what I could from it- at least pick up a few of my old toys for the kids back home, I knew they could use that cheering up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If apathy was a person, Dr. Gero once said, her skin would be pale from lack of sun and her limbs would seem to thin and long for her torso. Her hair would be as pale gold as wheat overdue for harvest, swaying in the wind and eyes of a clouded sky on a summer day. Her voice would be of a viola, slow and even with the hint of more emotion under a stone facade of uninterest. If apathy was a person, I would be her. Through all his constant monologuing, that was the few things I remember. Apathy, yes I am apathy. Nothing is as interesting anymore, if things were different would I still be apathetic? Possibly, what could be stronger than my brother and I?

Flying over this broken cityscape brings more waves of disinterest, constant boredom that gnaws like an insistent rat at the back of my mind. It burrows itself in my bones and tightens my muscles to the point I feel I may explode if I don’t find something to do. My eyes scan below me, surely scavenge teams have been sent out? Surely, one human will be foolish to walk out in the open. I close my eyes, crossing my arms and weaving around buildings in frustrating ease that spoke volumes for the monotony of my current life. However, I jerk to a halt. A noise, soft and near blending into the rain that mops my hair. Feet, running. My eyes scan the area now on full alert and spot the retreating form of someone running into a building. A smirk dances onto my lips and I fly higher into the sky, knowing the building had a hole on one side of the roof. As I approach the roof I can hear it chuckle, a deep sound. A male. I descend at a quicker pace, peeking inside to get a feel of the situation before chuckling myself.

A lone guy soaked to the bone and thinking he was safe. How...pathetic. Truly, apathy did not feel like this. I landed silently, his back still turned to me. Surely, he had heard me or was he so enraptured with his escape from the rain that he was truly oblivious. I stand behind him, a sudden wave of giddy anticipation for what I could do this human thumping through my body from head to toes. He was none the wiser to my presence just behind him. I could blast a hole through his back, strangle him from behind or if I don’t mind getting dirty, I could rip his intestines out as he slowly bleeds to death and watch as the life leaves his eyes. However, we are both startled as he turns abruptly and he screams, throwing himself back against a wall. For my part, my eyes only widen a margin before I am closing in on him.

My hand snaps up and my fingers wrap around his neck, feeling his quickened pulse against my palm. His own hands fly up to grip my wrist and he struggles to breathe. He gasps, eyes glassing over and mouth gaping like a fish. His hair is tousled and wet, clinging to his forehead and his eyes look frantically at my face and at the things behind me. He begs, only barely with my crushing grasp. My head tilts, my own eyes flickering around his face and body. For a human, he was attractive I could suppose. More of an endearing cuteness added to the fact of how weak he was, it was like seeing a puppy. Your instinct to kill it diminished when it gave you pleading eyes and soft, high pitched whines. My hand unlocks from around his reddened throat and he drops to the floor. His hands now feeling around his throat as he coughs and sputters, trying to scoot further back into the wall and appear as none threatening as possible.

I rest my hands on my hips, thinking. If I killed him now, it would be boring again. I’d fall right back into the rut I was in before with nothing to do. However, if I kept him around I could have endless amount of fun. I could make him do useless chores, do tricks like a dog. 17 wouldn’t be happy at first, but he did say I could have anything I wanted and perhaps, at least for the time being, I could keep him on a leash. If he got boring I could torture the location of the other humans out of him and get a new toy. What to do now, though? He seems submissive enough but what would really drive home the fact he is laughably weak compared to me?

A smirk slowly drew up my lips and my pearly white teeth exposed themselves. I knelt before him, grinning like a shark as I slowly undid my belt. If it worked in the animal kingdom, surely it would work for this. He was just a dog now. I stared in down as he watched in abject horror as I grasped my belt in hand. “Your hands. Put them out in front of you.” I practically purr out, I couldn’t have him thinking he could try to get away and if his hands were bound he wouldn’t be able to stop me. He doesn’t listen at first, stares blankly at me before I snap the belt. That jolts him into action and he presents his hands as if he were expecting to get handcuffs. I chuckle, “Used to being bound, are we?” I cooe before quickly binding his hands together with my belt. I then stand, stepping on the extra belt and effectively pinning his hands to the ground between his legs.

I turn my body, my foot that stands on the belt simply twisting with me instead of picking it up. I could hear him swallow and it causes a chuckle to work its way out of me. I then grab a fistful of his hair, using it as an anchor. “You’re pathetic, a dog. A lowly mutt that serves no purpose but for my entertainment.” I then lean back, pressing my ass to his face. He struggles but I keep his arms and head still as I grind.

“Do you understand? You belong to me now. I am your master, your Alpha and you are nothing but an omega who lives to serve me until the day I decide you are useless.” My voice is chipper, giddy at the end and I laugh. My eyes sparkle with a level of pure delight, not even killing can accomplish these days.

He whimpers like a dog, body going limp and I can feel him nod, agreeing to whatever I say. I pull away, he gasps for breath that I had stolen from him for a second time. I step away, throwing him to the ground and he lands on his side. His eyes are red and puffy, wetness now from crying running down his cheeks. His face is a deep red from my action and he shivers from a combination of cold, fear and pure humiliation. My head tilts up, looking down at him from my nose and my hands go back to my hips.

I may be the personification of Apathy, but that does not mean I can’t take an interest in something.

[thescreamsleuths]

Recap 7: Knowledge and Mystery

The Scream Sleuths woke up leisurely to the pattering of rain falling down over the city of Relttic. They took a moment over breakfast to decide what they wanted to do. The majority of the group wanted to head back to Asmain Academy to do a bit of research and possibly attend some classes. The crew traveled together most of the way there before Faylen broke off from the others to go to Avandra’s temple for her first treatment session.

When she arrived she sat down with the head clergy there. They began a brief conversation before Faylen let him know of Avandra’s surprise visit. He seemed shocked and immediately asked Faylen to show him where she saw Avandra. After inspecting the area, he then requested his intern bring him a locked wooden box. Upon opening it he revealed two feathers, one white and one dark. He held both out in front of him, let go, and then watched the two fall. The white one hit the ground first while the darker one hesitated a bit in the air before also descending to the ground. The clergy looked horrified and directed his intern to write to someone named Holimion immediately. He then explained that he had just conducted a test if change were coming. The white feather was representative of good change, such as the ending of a war, while the black feather foretold trouble to come. He answered a few of Faylen’s questions regarding the test before pivoting back to the reason for Faylen’s arrival.

For a few moments the two talked about Faylen’s night terrors and how they all started. Faylen revealed that she had been captured in battle and was kept as a prisoner and tortured by a clan of Orcs that threatened her home’s survival in the Stiffpeak Mountains. It took a few seconds for the clergy member to digest this information and respond. Faylen had endured a horrible trauma, one that wasn’t easily fixed with healing magic. He recommended she enroll in a more long term therapeutic program. Faylen wasn’t super pleased with this idea and let the clergy know her adventuring schedule wouldn’t be conducive for routine therapy sessions. Slightly disappointed, Faylen left Avandra’s temple and headed back towards Asmain Academy where she told the other Sleuths she’d meet them.

During Faylen’s religious excursion, Baelsar and Brinne had a very brief heart to heart. Brinne didn’t exactly forgive Baelsar for what he said the previous day and Baelsar in no way apologized, but the two seemed to come to an understanding. When the two had finished what ended as an awkward encounter, the two split up to search the Khalathenriche Citadel for answers to their separate questions. Brinne wanted to learn more about Tempus’ agents and familiarize herself with chained devils or demons. She was unsure if Seraphina was good or bad, especially after Kathra’s comment about chained beings more than often aligning with great evils. Unfortunately for her, she was not able to find a source on either subject. Whether it was because the written texts didn’t exist or because Brinne was only looking in the Gnomish section of the library, she would never know.

While Brinne had zero luck finding the answers to her questions, Baelsar had his nose buried in multiple books. He first wanted information on the strange weapons Brinne has spoken of in the east. He was able to uncover that they were called firearms and were watered down versions of prototypes created by one of the first known Artificers. Baelsar also revealed that the first recorded inventions were massive, metallic crossbows that were operated by arcanum men. For Baelsar’s second question, he was able to uncover a large amount of information regarding how the war in the Stiffpeaks began. He took careful notes on his findings, only bringing up his found research later that night when asking Faylen if the name Elija or if the letters T-Y-R-C were familiar to her.

The last member of the group, Kathra, was busy attending a class taught by Zolmer, a Drow the Scream Sleuths had built a relationship with on a previous trip to Relttic. She learned a new spell before the class came to a close and she reunited with the rest of her party. She also learned of a class she could attend the following day that focused on rituals she was particularly interested in. She still couldn’t read the tome Mr. Mackado has given to her before she’d left home but had learned of a spell that could potentially allow her to do so. Zolmer invited her to join the course and she excitedly accepted the offer.

With the Scream Sleuths back together, they quickly recounted their separate adventures before being interrupted by a familiar face. Steve, one of Captain Scott’s men, entered the library and immediately recognized Faylen from his time working with the group back in Telmerk. After exchanging pleasantries, Steve told the crew he was in the citadel on official business. He presented a message which bore an unbroken black seal that he was to deliver. He quickly did so and after a few moments, returned with Vanity. Steve then asked if the group wanted to accompany them back to the Abies district where there was an issue at the Crown’s Assembly, the main law enforcement building in Relttic. The Scream Sleuths we’re curious and agreed to help out.

When the group arrived in Abies, they were quickly ushered into the building and led down many hallways and staircases. They were eventually brought into a room deep below the surface where the crew was reunited with Captain Scott and a few other familiar soldiers. He told the Scream Sleuths that the high security prison within the building was broken into the previous night. The prisoner that was being held was killed, his body mangled and blood splattered across the walls. The guard on duty was also killed, but was not pulled apart like the prisoner was. Faylen quickly put two and two together. Vanity was requested because he had the means of communicating with the dead.

Led by Captain Scott, Vanity and the Scream Sleuths were brought down one more level to the scene of the crime. The group immediately spread out and started looking for clues of what could’ve killed the two. When they came back together, Vanity began to cast his spell on the guard. The group took turns relating different questions to Vanity and began to piece together the story of what happened. The guard was on the night shift when the prisoner began to beg to be let out. The prisoner had often begged to be let out, saying that “she” would come for him. The prisoner began to scream and the guard heard a female voice say “you have failed” before something stabbed him in the back and pierced through the front of his armor. He had died almost immediately without seeing anything or anyone. No doors had been opened, no walls collapsed. The murderer had somehow appeared in the high security prison without anyone having been any the wiser. The other guards on duty on the higher floors heard nothing but were being interrogated nonetheless.

The crew didn’t find any clues or signs of a break in, no matter how many times they went over the crime seen until Brinne found something carved into a wall of the cell. It appeared to be a symbol: a round center surrounded by three curling lines. When she pointed it out to the others, something flared up in Baelsar’s mind. He’s seen this before and could’ve sworn it was on something on his belongings. Immediately, Baelsar poured the contents of his back out onto the ground and began sifting through his things. Kathra helped out, looking over his weapons and such while Brinne dug through his coin pouch. She managed to find a false coin that bore the symbol. Baelsar couldn’t remember specifically where he’d picked it up, but the last time he’d gained more coin was when robbing Bellowhood a week ago in Acrollu. Captain Scott also seemed to recognize the symbol, saying that he’d seen it around Finex a few years back but assumed it was just graffiti.

With Vanity’s work done and the group’s investigation leaving them with one lead, Captain Scott led the crew back up to the room above. When they arrived, a new person had entered the room. He introduced himself as Spyros Fig, a member of Relttic’s council and the current overseer of all law enforcement in the city. He warned the Scream Sleuths not to speak of what they saw outside of the walls but were free to conduct their own investigation privately. Kathra briefly inquired about payment for their role in the investigation but was shot down quickly by Fig.

Before the party left, Captain Scott pulled Faylen aside and gave her a message and small pouch. Upon opening the letter, Faylen realized it was a message from Kriona, a woman she had saved back in Telmerk. She thanked Faylen for her help and offered her accommodation with the Shellford’s if she were to ever visit Finex. After wrapping up her conversation with him, she rejoined the group and headed back to Kathra’s guild. With a new mystery at their fingertips, the Scream Sleuths were returning to what they tried to do best: sleuth.

[hiroasu-akika]

Yo everybody, here have some VRAINS Fanfic Ideas/Prompts

I'll probably try my hand at these myself at some point, but I'm putting them out for anyone to use because I probably wouldn't write them well. Prompt #1: Yusaku can see and/or summon Duel Spirits. Just a general thing, feel free to do whatever you want with this one. Some of the following prompts are a more fleshed out version of this concept.

One of the thoughts that spawned this idea was what if Yusaku was spirit sensitive during the Lost Incident, and thus was pretty much adopted by Duel Spirits. Fast forward ten years, and he has a Jiraiya of the Sannin-level spy network without anyone being any the wiser. There was also the thought of stern and standoffish Playmaker being Soft(™) with his monsters. Animal-like and The simple machine monsters would be pets. The human-like monsters would range from parental figures, to older or younger siblings to small children. The Code Talkers would absolutely act like how medieval knights would toward their king/liege. His dragons would be the seemingly ferocious guard dogs that growl at anything within 30 feet of Yusaku, but are in reality “the attention span of a sparrow” puppies. (They are adorable and Yusaku loves them, yes he does. Firewall really is a ferocious guard dog with everyone except Yusaku tho)

You could also do a Yusaku slowly awakens to the ability to see/hear Duel Spirits mid-canon (at any point in the plot you want). 

This could be funny: Yusaku being confused(™) until it makes sense, or angsty: Yusaku getting incredibly paranoid/anxious or thinking he's actually going insane while his friends/allies/fans begin to worry as he begins to act strangely.

(I just really want Spirit/Psychic Duelist!Yusaku in any form okay?)

Prompt #2: The one where Yusaku catches the eye of Stardust Dragon, and is subsequently adopted by said dragon without any say in the matter.

(Bonus if Yusei is just there and serenely lets it happen.)

Stardust: this is my son I will vaporize anything that hurts him

Yusei: yea cool guess I've got a little brother now

Yusaku: ...do I get any say in th-

Stardust: shh my sweet child I will protect you

Yusei: no not really

Yusaku:

Random Knight of Hanoi #179: *hurts Yusaku, is realizing his error* OOOOOH SHIIII-!!!!! SOL Tech: *sweats*

Note #1 - Yusaku can see Duel Spirits in this AU. They tend to materialize themselves [read: to defend their precious child] in his general vicinity whenever they feel like it. Den City as a whole is pretty much resigned to and somewhat fond/proud of this fact. (Most of its residents have in fact all adopted Yusaku as well. Tourists are usually hella confused.)

Tourist: hey does that kid have a Kuriboh on his head? Den City Resident: that's just Yusaku, don't mind him

Tourist: is that a goddamn DRAGON??? Den City Resident: *serenely, not even looking* that's normal everything is fine

Tourist: ?!??! Note #2 - Yusei can be along for the ride. If so, he and Stardust are pretty much post-5D's immortal gods that watch over mankind while the Crimson Dragon sleeps.

Note #3 - Can be cracky, serious, angsty, or anything in-between, go wild! Prompt #3: How to Train Your [Cracking/Borrel/Stardust/Sky/Winged] Dragon - The one where Duel Monsters wander freely and peacefully around VRAINS when not in use during duels, and Playmaker stumbles across an injured Cracking Dragon. Chaos ensues as he helps and inadvertently befriends the beast. Note - Could alternatively have the Duel Monster be one of Revolver's "Borrel" Dragons, Stardust Dragon, or- for the lols- Slifer the Sky Dragon or the Winged Dragon of Ra. Prompt #4: The one where Yusaku is thrown headfirst from Link VRAINS into the world of My Hero Academia, with Ai along for the ride. (Can be cracky, serious, angsty, or anything in-between, go wild!) Suggestions that don't have to be used - Yusaku's “Quirk” could be his Link Sense, only amplified to the point where he has the ability to connect to/hack the network and manipulate it however he wishes with any electronic device or his thoughts. He can also summon his Cyberse monsters by forming them from raw data. Yusaku can also turn into Playmaker to hide his identity.

Ai can either remain in Yusaku’s duel disk, or leave it in either his tiny or full sized “human” forms. He can also transform into his six-armed monster form, in which he can consume data to either save or delete it. Kaminari could possibly trigger Yusaku's PTSD with his Quirk on accident. Prompt #5: The one where Yusaku is unknowingly infected with a virus, and all hell breaks loose. Can either be pretty-much-drunk/high!Yusaku, or essentially Berserk Jinchuriki!Yusaku, or just angst. NOTHING sexual, please. Prompt #6: The one where Link VRAINS falls prey to a virus/hacker, leaving everyone currently logged in with no way to log out- including Playmaker. Basically SAO, YGO-style. Go wild with this one. Prompt #7: The one where VRAINS and the real world are merged without any warning, and Yusaku is unfortunately smack in the middle of Algebra when his Link Sense goes crazy...seconds before he forcefully glitches into Playmaker right in front of his entire class. (This one was a random thought, and can be cracky, serious, or angsty.)

Prompt #8: The one where Yusaku’s account is hacked so that his avatar has the features of Firewall Dragon, and he can’t remove them. (...It was Ghost Girl’s fault, he just knew it.) Note - Yusaku has Firewall Dragon's halo, wings, tail, and can have some of its armor. He can also have elongated canines and claws. (And yes, the original thought was Ghost Girl pranking Playmaker.)

Prompt #9: The one where Yusaku is blind or deaf IRL due to permanent damage suffered during the Lost Incident, but he has his sight/hearing while in VRAINS because it isn't his physical body. (Conversely, he still lacks his missing sense(s) even while in VR, and is just really good at hiding being blind/deaf.) Suggestions for this AU that don't have to be used:

Note #1 - Can use one of two types of damage as the cause of Yusaku's disability:

Direct Damage: Yusaku suffered damage directly to his eyes/ears, allowing VRAINS to ignore said damage and for Yusaku to temporarily recover his lost sense while logged in. Brain Damage: The electric shocks caused damage directly to the parts of Yusaku's brain that are responsible for sight/hearing, which causes the damage to carry over even while Yusaku is logged into VRAINS. Note #2 - If blind, Yusaku programs his avatar's eyes to automatically track people's movements and faces so that he can “look" at them, and his cards to either have braille text, or an audio feed that only he can hear that reads his cards off to him. May have Ai and/or Roboppi serve as something similar to a seeing eye dog. Or you could throw Prompt #1 into the mix and also have Duel Spirits help Yusaku out. Yusaku can have a specially programmed set of (Ai-themed) headphones that Ai can inhabit that allow the Ignis to speak with him privately or IRL. They are a headset in VRAINS and earbuds IRL.] Note #3 - If deaf, Yusaku knows sign and is mute as well. He has specially programmed text boxes that allow him to read everything his opponent says during duels, and follow whatever is going on easier. Yusaku can have a specially programmed phone that Ai can inhabit to send him text messages when IRL. Ai can also learn Sign.] Note #4 - In either version, Yusaku knows Morse Code and programs his avatar to have a higher sensitivity to vibrations as well. Ai is also quite a bit more protective of Yusaku.

Prompt #10: Playmaker counts out his convictions in threes for everyone to hear. Fujiki Yusaku hasn't spoken in ten years. (AKA The Selectively Mute Yusaku AU.) Prompt #11: The one where the same virus that killed Dr. Kogami traps and fragments Playmaker's consciousness data (mind) in Link VRAINS, thereby rendering him comatose, and his allies are left with no way to rescue him- save for delving into his fragmented mind to wake him up in person. Basically the Danny Phantom's-class-enters-his-mind fic, VRAINS-style. If you've ever read one of those fics, you'll get the concept, but I'll try to explain it a little anyway. [Note #1 - Suggestions for the people who enter Yusaku's mind are: Ai, Kusanagi, Takeru, Flame, Ryoken, Spectre (follows Ryoken), Akira, Ema, Aoi, Aqua, Go (hacks in), Roboppi (brought by Ai), and Kengo (also hacks in).] [Note #2 - The group has to experience Yusaku's memories as they attempt to save him- including those of the Lost Incident- in visceral detail. (I, personally, would serve still-in-his-asshole-phase-Go a nice heaping helping of #Guilt/Remorse/Horror(™) if you have him witness the memories.)] [Note #3 - The facets of Yusaku's personality are fragmented, with each being represented as their own separate version of Yusaku. Some suggestions are as follows (feel free to use them or do your own thing). Anger: Playmaker, and his eyes as well as the glow lines of his suit are red. Fear: Yusaku in his pajamas, as he was when he was shown suffering night terrors. Happiness: Six year-old Yusaku before he suffered the Lost Incident. Sadness: Base Yusaku, but he barely reacts to anything or anyone. His eyes are blue and he is constantly crying in near silence.

Hate: Think pissed off and severely injured Playmaker, but if he also had Vector(Zexal) or Lightning's twisted personality traits. 

Self Doubt: Yusaku as a nervous wreck and blaming himself for everything that has ever gone wrong. Shyness: Yusaku, but if he acted like Reira(ARC-V) or Hinata from Naruto.

Confidence: Playmaker, but friendly and smiling and enjoying dueling.

Selflessness: Yusaku, but his color scheme is predominantly white. Would sacrifice himself for his allies.

Selfishness: Playmaker, but his color scheme is predominantly black. Would cast his allies aside without a second glance.

The true Yusaku can him as he normally appears, or his beat-up six year-old self just before being rescued, or a beat-up six year-old Playmaker.] Prompt #12: Dark Signer AU. The one where Yusaku didn't survive the Lost Incident, but thanks to being a Dark Signer, nobody realizes this little detail. (I need more Dark Signer!Yusaku m'kay? Nemesis by DarkZorua100 is glorious, bUT i neeD mORe) [Note #1 - Angst obviously, unless you can somehow put a humorous spin on Yusaku trying to hide the fact that he's, y'know, dead from everybody. And semi-failing. Takeru: ooooh my god he's f*cking dead yoU'RE a f*CKinG zomBIE-

Yusaku: wait i can expla-

Takeru: *illegible screeches of terror*

(i'm a terrible person who would make this funny heLP)

Can have the temperament of Yusaku's Immortal vary depending on whether you do angst or humor:

Angst: Either a complete asshole that makes Yusaku's unlife hell, or semi-benevolent. Humor: Excited puppy.]

[Note #2 - Stray thought was that Yusaku's Earthbound Immortal could be Ai's monster form? Or at least based on it. (or even be the reason Ai has it, since none of the other Ignis seemed to have alternate forms.)] [Note #3 - In my version, Yusaku was the only Lost Child to actually die. But you can have some or all of the rest of the children be Dark Signers too.] [Note #4 - Yusaku appears normal to everyone IRL- save for the facts that he-

Has no heartbeat and is strangely pale.

Exudes no body heat.

Never eats/sleeps or seems to react to pain when hurt (he doesn't bleed either).

He's a walking corpse and most people just don't connect the dots. In VRAINS, he's Playmaker as normal, but his sclera can change to, or permanently are, black. He also has a mark on his left cheek under his eye that's vaguely reminiscent of lines of digital coding.] Feel free to use any of these! Please send me a link to any stories you may write!

[systematicfailure]

The Weight of the World and All Its Soldiers, part one.

Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: With anxious hands, you reenter the world, forced to rebuild your life from the ground up. No place to call home, frequent nightmares and a thrumming power buzzing in your veins you don’t understand, can you really be free? The strangers, calling themselves the Avengers, reveal that it might not be so hard after all. 

Warnings: Dark themes - torture, death, gunshots

Word Count: 2.7k

“Tell me, do you fear death, 81?” 

A long exhale sounded in the air, followed by a plume of smoke. Each corner of the four-by-four cell you called home for the past twenty-odd years of your short life were coated in grime, the white painted concrete walls were chipped and cracked in more places than not. By now, you knew the fragility of your stance in a place like this, had known it ever since the man behind the vibranium door stole the light from your eyes. 

You were only six when it happened, an age where you didn’t know any better. Not like the naïve, child version of you stood a chance. Truthfully, it was an elaborate plan, concocted before you were able to draw your first breath of life, enacted on numerous occasions. Still, maybe if you were just a bit older, a smidgen wiser, a tad more careful that fateful night, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. You can still remember the dance of the carousel in the distance, the smooth transitions of the horses ascending and descending, as your hand left the loose confines of your mother’s, who was too distracted to notice. Your baby brother’s curious eyes trailed after you, a toothy grin appearing between the gap of his two front teeth when you winked back at him. The dust had risen from the gravel underneath your pounding feet as you took off, child-like glee surfacing in your eyes that reflected the colorful bulbs of light. Even though you could hear the frantic cries of your mother’s voice grow distant, your feet never stopped, too intent on reaching the swing of the plastic animals. 

If you had been smarter, you would’ve realized that your doe-eyes stood no chance against the bored ones of the teenager manning the entry stand. You would have turned away and went back the way you came to find your worried mom. Things would have turned out much simpler if you had. You didn’t.

“Sorry, kid. No ticket, no ride.” 

The beginnings of a protest formed on your lips before a heavy hand landed on your shoulder, stopping your reply in its tracks. The man dwarfed your height, his shadow cascading over your shoulder as he stood behind you. The inner workings of a deceitful grin stretched across his chapped lips, an arm circling around your thin frame. He bent down at the waist, snaking his head past your body to get a good look at your face. With a small hum of approval, he straightened back up, pulling a maroon ticket from his jacket pocket, a twinkle appearing in his coal eyes. 

“Here ya go, sorry about my daughter. You know how kids can get.” 

You should have denied it, this man was definitely not your father but he was right. You were a kid, one desperately looking to just get on the dang carousel already so your lips stayed closed, a slightly uncomfortable smile etching its way along your mouth as the man ushered you up the stairs, ignoring the faint confusion brimming in the dark-haired teenager. Maybe if he had stared a little longer at your retreating figures, he might have realized that the man came from the complete opposite direction. 

Once you got on the horse of your choice, a white mare with a splotch of black around it’s right eye and speckled brown spots littered throughout its torso, you forgot about the strangeness of the man next to you, about the lead hand that never left your shoulder but only seemed to grow tighter, because your serotonin levels were at an all-time high and nothing could bring you down from the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

You swung in time with music, laughter bubbling in your throat and bursting forth in an excited squeal. He had turned to you then, the grin from before easing into a half-smirk you missed as your arms pushed outwards, fingers waving through the cool evening breeze of early fall. The joy ravaging your body was insurmountable, worries long forgotten. 

There’s a cruel lesson you’ve learned in life, one that has weighed down your soul and robbed the breath from your lungs. At first, you were too young to see it. Then, too scared to admit it. The world would not let you so easily forget, it’d force its snake-like grip around you until you were choking on the vile truth of it all. 

All good things must come to an end. 

When the ride ceased its course, lulling to a stop, the man whose name you’d soon learn to be Dr. Frazier, grabbed your hand. With a steady yank, he pulled you up and off the plastic saddle, leading you into the direction you briefly recalled when exiting your mom’s car earlier. A wrinkle appeared between your brows, head twisting around to watch the fair lights grow dimmer as you grew closer to the parking lot. Where was he taking you? You didn’t want to leave! You hadn’t done nearly enough yet, there was still the teacups your mom had promised you could take your brother on once she finished getting you guys the elephant ear you had so craved when first entering. 

“Hey, Mister! Let me go!” You said, a huff escaping as you dug your heels into the gravel. It was ill timed as your body was tugged forward from his brisk pace, collapsing onto the sharp pebbles. A cry escaped your lips at the feeling, rocks tearing into the flesh of your legs that weren’t protected because of the bright red shorts you wore. The sting of blood radiated against your scraped knees, your bottom lip folding beneath your front teeth causing tears to rush forth and burn the corners of your eyes. Dr. Frazier let out an agitated sigh, bending at the knees as he towered over your cowering frame. 

“Listen here, дурак. I’m only going to say this once. You’re going to get up, dust yourself off and follow me obediently to the car. I don’t wanna hear another word, got it?” He snapped, roughly grabbing you by the shoulders. After a shaky nod from you, his features relaxed into an almost serene smile. At the sight of it, you had to hold back a flinch. How could a man so quickly change faces at the drop of a hat? 

Raising on trembling legs, you stood. 

“Good girl. Now, come along. I have some people I want you to meet.”

If your six years of life had taught you anything, it was that you were anything but. Time and time again, you tested the patience of your parents, whether that be by throwing flour across kitchen counters at your siblings while your father made dinner or by the simple nature in which you radiated constant energy. Your mom always blamed it on your age but as you grew older and your legs never stopped bouncing or shifting in place, they had begun questioning it. 

By age five, you were in the doctor’s office of your local pediatric hospital, eyes darting to and fro as your foot tapped a frantic rhythm on the linoleum floor. When the kind lady doctor entered the room, you shot up out of your seat, your mouth spouting off random sentences that your mind jumbled together in the effort to leave the confines of your head. From then on, it had been an upheaval battle to focus your thoughts. You wanted to be better because you saw the exhaustion in the gaze of your parents but you didn’t know how. You had so much to say and so little time to say it, you couldn’t help the fact that your senses were constantly bombarded by everything and nothing, all at once. 

So it took you by no surprise that once your nerves calmed ever so slightly, you threw yourself into a sprint, away from the man that you finally realized wanted to hurt you. Your freedom was short-lived, your legs only so long, your feet only so fast. Dr. Frazier was back on you in seconds, the deserted parking lot doing nothing to aid in your attempt to escape. He whirled you around, behemoth of a hand shuttering its way across your mouth to silence your scream. In no time, he had hoisted you up, slamming your head against the collar of his shirt. You kicked and screamed, making all the effort but to strangers, it would only appear to be a father quieting his daughter’s tantrum. 

He had taken advantage of your childish urges, used them against you, and you had been paying the price ever since. The experiments had started shortly after but that was a time you refused to look back on. You did that enough in your nightmares. You wished desperately that you were back in your mother’s hold, to hear the sound of your brother’s babbling. To remember your father’s face, to see their smiles and just be whole again. No fears, no trauma, no pain.

You wished for all of those things but you had lost the hope of them a lifetime ago. 

Another long exhale broke you out of reverie but this time, smoke did not follow, and the sound was accompanied by the flare of Dr. Frazier’s nostrils. He never was happy when you ignored him, of course. 

Making eye contact with his flaming, coal irises, your expression settled into a neutral one. You had long since stopped giving him the satisfaction of any one emotion. 

“No, sir.” You spoke precisely, both words enunciated with clear intent. He did not suffer a bumbling fool, the angry, red lashes on your back attested to that. 

You did not fear death, for it is only in harboring it, will you be set free. Going so far as to fool yourself into believing that you would welcome it with open arms. God, you were tired. Tired of experiments, of the constant need to please, of sacrificing every part of yourself for the good of someone else. You wondered when it would be enough, if it would ever be enough? Hope was such a fickle thing, it fleeted carelessly each passing day. Back before you knew better, you held onto it in tightly fisted grips but all it ever did was crunch beneath the weight and fall in shattered remains through pleading hands. It no longer bore any life into aching bones and dull eyes. 

A smirk fused itself into the corners of Dr. Frazier’s mouth, an airy chuckle blowing residual smoke from tar-tainted lungs, further proven by the dry hacking that produced droplets of blood that fell to the floor near your feet. A surge of satisfaction ran through you at the sight but you quelled it before your lips could uptick. 

The lock to your cell door clicked, signaling its unlocking as the rest of his body came into view. 

“Time for another trial, 81. Maybe death will show its face for you this time.” Four armed guards flanked around you, forming a rough diamond shape once you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. Dr. Frazier took his place at front, a single guard in-between the two of you. Fresh faces, it would seem. Your head tilted vaguely at the thought, surveying your surroundings without moving your head. The only guard you couldn’t see was the one directly behind you but you caught a glimpse of him when exiting your room. He was fidgeting with his rifle, eyes skirting between everyone and a nervous breath breaking into the silence. 

The guard to your left held none of those same ticks, face cold and closed off. The one on the right held himself in the same way. To your luck, the one in front shared similar traits to the guard behind you, with faltering steps and bated breaths. If you so desired, you could risk an escape but the humming shackles tightly enclosed around your wrists served to remind you that you were currently powerless, rendering the jolt of energy that rumbled in your veins null. You couldn’t remember the last time they were taken off. 

Following obediently, you were led past multiple corridors, mindlessly counting and naming off each turn even though you already knew the path by heart. Left, right, right, left, right. Coming to a halt, you took in the familiar sight of yet another vibranium door. As you passed the threshold, the room before you opened up. The back wall had a floor to ceiling one-way mirror, hiding the onlookers from view that you knew watched every single trial. The rest of the walls were made of the same metal as the door you came through, free of scratches and dents unlike your own cell walls. In the middle of the room sat a lone recliner chair, facing away from you, a neuro-brain scanner attached to the headrest. “You know what to do, 81.” 

Fate was a cruel mistress.

You made your way to the chair, your arms extended so that Dr. Frazier could attach the long, threaded chain to your cuffs. An inaudible sigh reached your tongue as he tightened the scanner around your chin before the chair drew back with a hiss. Your eyes closed on instinct when he pressed a series of buttons on the rollaway computer but snapped open soon after when you felt his presence on your left. In his hand was a syringe filled with a frosted liquid, stark in color against his tanned skin. You shook your head at the sight of it, knowing its purpose. 

Lights out. 

The needle fell from his grasp as alarms blared overhead, a frantic look overcoming Dr. Frazier’s features. Quickly, he paced back over to the computer, fingers anxiously typing out a shutdown sequence and subsequent wipe of all systems. The screen flashed, a loading bar steadily creeping. Five percent complete. A round of muffled footsteps echoed behind the trial room door, drawing closer as multiple gunshots were fired and a strange clang cut through the noise. Twenty percent complete. Sweat gathered on your forehead, glistening in a light sheen as he swiped the syringe from the floor. Swift footfalls drew near as Frazier plunged the sharp point into your skin, emptying the liquid. Thirty-two percent complete. Your body seized, rattling in the seat, a spluttering cough leaving your chest. 

“Time’s up, дурак. The Reaper shall be the one to pay your dues now.” Frazier whispered menacingly in your ear, a loose hand digging into his lab coat pockets -- two different but cylindrical pills resurfacing in his grasp. His beady eyes swept over your convulsing form, fingers reaching to comb the long bangs plastered to your head, longingly. Pressing his palm to your forehead to stabilize your movement, the white capsule in his fist settled over your mouth, forcing its way past your clenched teeth. 

The processing bar jumped. Seventy-two percent complete. 

“Hail Hydra.” Dr. Frazier popped the other, black in color, tablet down his throat. The reaction was almost instantaneous, one moment his feet were grounded on the floor and the next, his lean body doubled over, choked gasps foaming down his chin. You looked on, wincing as your brain pounded against your skull. The veins in your forearms rose from deep beneath your skin, forming almost thick strings that cascaded throughout your flesh. He had granted himself a quick, painless death but had not given you the same luxury. 

Ninety-five percent complete.

You had lied to Frazier earlier, you were completely terrified to die. You still wanted to taste freedom for the first time in twenty years, you wanted home cooked meals and soothing drawls to talk down all the fear you were forced to face. You wanted to learn, about anything and everything, however useless the skill or hard the task. You wanted the forest and all its trees, the ocean and its rumbling waves. The shore, the moon, the endless expanse of stars. Selfishly, you wanted it all. Everything you had missed out on because a cruel man decided he had the right to take it away. So, please. You thought, as your head swam, vision blurring as you heard the door behind you bang open. Rushed footfalls drawing closer as you caught a faint glimpse of red hair and a glimmer of urgent voices before the darkness took over. 

Let me be free.

Error: Shutdown cancelled.

[darkblueiguess]

thus you trusting me with top secret information no matter the subject. Plus, niece and nephew time is the neatest. And if I have ever done anything to make you think that I’m a judgmental, disapproving, overcritical, untrustworthy, conceited, smug, too good to come around piece of shit, then I have messed up somewhere along the way. You guys are my blood, my fucking babies and I am very much proud of who you’ve become. I’m sorry if my face looked like I was sleeping half the time, that’s just my face man!! You enthuse me!! I love how we can disagree, because that means you have your own thoughts, own opinions. You believe in something because you want to and that takes courage, dayton. No matter the odds. Hell you’ve taught me some things. Of course my instinct is to want you close enough for late night shenanigans, joy rides, 3 hour conversations in my white 1999 Toyota Camry 4 cylinder power steering 4 wheel drive sedan, jam sessions and other things.. but most of all dayton, is that I want you to thrive, to grow. Become who you are going to be and don’t let anyone or anything disable you. You shouldn’t ever feel the need to sacrifice the good in you by being constantly put down by the man, and replacing the good with rational anger, caused by anyone, but it’s david in this scheme. But you were at the edge of yourself, and david poked, prodded and fucking pushed. And for that, I am truly and deeply sorry. You were my first little nibling, and I want nothing more than to see you grow and transform into an ultra dayton. This isn’t a pep talk, or maybe it is? I feel like I would be saying these things whether you graduated 12th grade at age 8 or dropped out in 3rd grade and became a crackhead. Maybe I have been dogging david alot in this note, but it just goes to show that being older does NOT make you wiser. Sure, he’s supplied the goods like groceries, internet, school function money, electricity, etc.. but the fault lies somewhere within. Of course he has the ability to be level headed, somewhat compassionate, sincere and attentive.. but that’s just it, it’s an ability for him, not second nature. Which it should be second nature considering you know, that he’s a father and grandfather and all. I hope that you think this is ok for me to say.. but I am sure to believe that nana would want you to be where you are most happy, too. Your guardians such as nana, kaykay, me or granny would of course want you close enough to where we could grab your buttcheeks. But if we look at the bigger picture, no matter what, you deserve a place where you can be comfortable, safe and happy. Whether is be in Texas, Louisiana or damn ass Germany. Always, no matter what, put. yourself. first. There is no age for that. Fuck 18. My version of ripping off my ankle bracelet and walking to Texas was getting married and hopping on a plane to Utah. Yeah I said it.. Of course I was 18, 2 years older than you are now. This is my unrelated story, bottom line being that I’m glad to have spent the time when, with who and where I did. The last vacation I took to stay 1 week in Shreveport from Utah nearly killed me, in a good way. It was the week me and you took that picture on thanksgiving night where you’re on my shoulders at pawpaw Rudy’s house. I got to see chris hale, lee, brandon, ashley, my dad, momma and family, and other friends. Every moment was pure bliss.. it was like time stood still with the people I was surrounded by, all the laughs and togetherness, I didn’t want to blink. I took it all in because I knew it would go by fast if I let it slip away. I missed my momma, family and friends all too damn much. I had the most wonderful time and my heart was so full.. and then I had to go back.. It was nearly a month that had went by before I decided to pack everything I could fit into my car, say goodbye to dear friends and call momma to tell her I was coming home. She said ‘come on behbeh!!’ During the month building up towards me driving from Utah to Louisiana, it was so lonely. I would suddenly wake from a dead sleep. It was quite and still. I

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, ROGUE! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE WORLD with the faceclaim of NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO. From the minute I thought of her skeleton I knew that The World would need to be written in a way that showed an understanding for the atrocities and horrors that come with being royal and the power that comes with change, and Rogue, you were a perfect fit. Aurelia -- aptly named, that lovely daughter of Septimus’ -- fits into the world. She makes it right itself when crooked merely by existing. From her voice, to the whopping amount of plots you provided, to the clear delight that bled through with every sentence I read, I think that Aurelia is meant to be here, and I am so glad you brought her to me for me to love and cherish as long as I can. 

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC

NAME: Rogue! PRONOUNS: She/Her. AGE: 23. TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST, uhhhh idk how to pick numbers. I have been known to keep track of like 100 threads god I wish I was kidding, but I also am in other rps... so like. 7? 8? Somewhereish around that. ANYTHING ELSE?: 

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: The World. Future, Upright — You are the relief that comes at the end of a long and winding project, the comfort taken from the knowledge that it’s done well, and the sense of completeness that brings. You are a circle that has no beginning, a closed circuit of a girl with her hopes settled and dreams nothing more than a memory, for what you want is now in hand. You are someone defined by your goals, yet comforted by reaching them, on a larger scale or even day to day. The journey has been hard, but you have been rewarded with the celebration of your achievements, and you understand that your responsibilities exist, but do not inhibit your joy. You carry with you a sense that every step of the journey has made you smarter, stronger, or wiser, and even when your path was lonely, there has always been a light at the end of your tunnel. The light is you, and all that you encompass. Self-reflection is key to who you are, and your awareness of your faults and strengths is what keeps you going. In the completion you seek, you will find new beginnings, too, for yourself and those around you. Whether you enjoy change or not, you must tug it ashore and present it to the world, neatly wrapped and tied off with a bow. Present, Reversed — You are the sensation of standing at a crossroads, turned in the opposite direction of the path you know you must follow. You fear that first step more than anything, but finding closure is essential to your happiness. It is only your tether to the past that inhibits you, and you worry endlessly over the journey, though your feet will make it there whether you want them to or not. In order to find balance, you need to embrace where you are now and let go of what came before, for the conflict within you is only an illusion. Your journey will be personal and quiet, filled with turmoil and self-recrimination, but you will emerge from this, for there are no other options left to you. You have a necessary task to complete, but it strains you nearly to breaking, and it will cost you more than it already has before it’s completed. No trial or turn in your path can be overlooked in order to complete the cycle started with your birth. You define the sensation of never being finished, of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel stretch further away with every step you take. You are still a project with an essential piece missing, and until you find it, you will always feel hollow. NAME: Aurelia Josephine Liviana Valmont. Names are chosen for all sorts of reasons, on any normal day, for any normal babe. The problem, of course, is that this is not a normal babe. This is the only daughter of Septimus Valmont, and as the priests gather to bless the name of the princess, King Septimus is tired. Still, her face is as beautiful as her mother’s, even in infancy, and it inspires her father to emerge from boredom into a modicum of enthusiasm. He names her for her beauty, Aurelia, for he’s always wished his own name had some grand meaning, rather than being the equivalent of numbering your children so you won’t forget which came first. Why bow to such wretched tradition? After all, Septimus could have been named Primus for all the good it did the first heir of his generation. On a whim, he named her something gilded or maybe gold, and hoped for her to turn out as pretty and vapid as he’d been, before the burdens of the world were placed upon his shoulders. Any daughter of his should be gilded, no? Even if the gold may only be a film to cover rot and decay, she would always have her filigree, and would always be permitted to harness it. After that, he meandered. Josephine, for his favorite aunt as a child, for she’d died young and the former king had not spared the resources to bring her back to life. He spared no thought for his bride, who had carried the babe to term but was given no option to name her themself. They were as powerless as the daughter they’d provided him, and he cared not for their wishes, not enough to notice them, at any rate. He might have stopped there, but as he looked down into her now-peaceful face, at last stopping crying after being separated from her mother, he smiled a little melancholy smile. He remembered all too well what it was to grow up in the lap of luxury and know the crown would never fall onto his head, despite what he became. He remembered with fondness and chagrin how his second-born sibling had trailed after the heir, always wanting to inherit, never understanding what a burden it would be. The second-born’s life is defined by the heir’s, he murmured gravely, bending down to pretend she could understand him as his thumb brushed her ruddy cheek, if I recall correctly. He cooed at her a moment, and her lashes fluttered as though she was dreaming, maybe even of him. Ah, yes, I know exactly what to expect from you. And so he named her Liviana, because it was for the envious, and he expected her to know its taste on her tongue before she knew how to say the word. He could not know, of course, that she would grow to know nothing of the kind, never coveting anyone’s life but her own, for she knew instinctively that one did not need to be heir apparent to know their own worth. King Septimus could have continued, as each priest and noble in the room waited on him to do so, but he grew tired of the game. Even life and death had become such to him these days. Her life was nothing more than an opportunity for him to reflect, in the end, on his siblings and their demise. Absently, he pressed a whiskery kiss to her forehead and declared her a Valmont, and it was recorded with the rest for the purpose of their royal history. FACECLAIM: I apologize for this, first of all, but it seems like the most efficient thing to do is just list all the ones I would be cool with based on their racial heritage. Not all are on the approved list bc I didn’t want to bug you THAT much but there it is. I am literally down for any of these. White/White: Kristine Froseth White/Black: Marina Nery Chinese/White: Natasha Liu Bordizzo Black/Black: Kiki Layne White/Japanese: Reina Hardesty Vietnamese/Vietnamese: Jolie Nguyen White/Latinx: Seychelle Gabriel Korean/Korean: Hyuna Turkish/Turkish: Simay Barlas Indian/White: Anya Chalotra AGE: 21, born the equivalent of May 17th, in the fantasy world version of Taurus season. Stable, resilient, and capable, she will always have her feet planted firmly on the ground. She knows well her own likes and dislikes, and gravitates toward material pleasures and wealth in spite of herself. Aurelia is most comforted by stability, and disliked fast-paced change, which makes her the perfect person to so easily wave away the concerns of the prophecy to the watching eyes and ears of the nobility. Who, after all, would suspect that a girl too afraid to cut her hair would be the one to change the foundations of the world? She has no issue, however, with change at a slow and steady pace, heralded and planned out by herself and her own sharp mind. She is most interested in being her own master. Responsible and capable, she has a strong work ethic, but that does not mean she forgoes luxury altogether. Aurelia is a perfectionist, which she sees as both a flaw and a decent trait to have, considering her goals in life. She is extremely set in her ways and focused on the big picture, which means that while she empathizes with the small slights inflicted on others, she may allow them to occur while working to fundamentally alter society for the greater good. Aurelia won’t stop until she has what she came for, and she won’t compromise her values (love, empathy, fairness) to obtain it, either.

DETAILS: What drew me to Aurelia was all of her, really. I know this is where we highlight the things that we liked most, but I can’t pick her apart without explaining why I like the whole, irrefutable package. She’s soft for others to a large degree, but that doesn’t entirely define her; it runs parallel to her other traits, yet it doesn’t work against them. She’s strong, even with her soft heart, strong enough to see that what she’s been told her whole life is right is very, very wrong. She has a will of her own, and you can’t get that by being weak and easily influenced. I love that she refuses to fight outright, preferring to maneuver in such a way that no one has to get hurt, and I love that she has the ability and the confidence to see it through. She knows that she would be a good ruler because she cares, and she cares fiercely enough to protect her family, even when they mostly don’t deserve it. She knows she’ll win because she absolutely cannot lose, all her cards are on the table but they’re also face cards, maybe even an ace. Her power comes from the desire to protect, and her pragmatism is married to her sense of love and duty in an indelible way. She cannot have empathy without having responsibility, and she refuses to lead a violent revolution against those who have cared for her all her life. She’s not one dimensional, not naive, not hopeless. I love her for all those things combined, and to pick them apart wouldn’t yield the same results. BACKGROUND: — Growing up in a fortress can feel isolated at times, but Aurelia found ways to play with those around her, even as a rambunctious child. She was the girl who would sneak cookies for the stable-boy’s dogs and giggle playing peek-a-boo with a guard when he was supposed to be on duty. Curious about others and rarely allowed around other children, she devoured the attention of adults, and from an early age cultivated a strangely adult manner of speaking. The other nobles thought it was charming, that a princess would know to speak so regally throughout her years, and Aurelia never disabused them of the notion, preferring instead to delight them with fun new vocabulary. This got her into trouble, of course, when she learned about swearing, but she was too sweet-faced to be stern with long, and too sweet-natured to take advantage the way a brat or a bully might. For this, she was doted upon by her nannies and tutors, as well as those in the barracks. It was easy, later on, to begin cultivating those people as a network, sneaking her information with worried glances and trust in their eyes. What a sweet girl, they would murmur, pressing their lips to her knuckles, to worry so about such simple complaints. — When she was six years old, they began placing books atop her head and forcing her to walk without them falling. She always thought it was to improve her posture, with the way her nanny was constantly straightening her spine, but she knew it was more than that when she first put her crown on. By Undeath, that thing was heavy, and it took all she had to walk with her head held straight, to eat five courses of a meal, to talk and dance and not throw her head back and let the thing slide right off it. No one would listen if she did complain, and she never told anyone, save for THE LOVERS, who she eventually grew to trust so much that she could let them in on the secret. When she takes the crown for herself, her first non-essential decree will be to melt them all down and make them smaller, sleeker, and more easily wearable. — Aurelia is fond of pestering THE SUN, though she wouldn’t call it annoying them so much as caring for them. Necromancers have always seemed so lonely to her (other than THE HIGH PRIESTESS, who unnerves her), and that’s especially true for the old ones. How terrible it would be, to grow older and older and lose all those you’d once loved. Would you ever try to love again? She’s not sure, but she wants them to know that she’s okay with it if they never love her back. They’re a strange, morbid part of her family, but they’ve been family since the day she was born. What else can she call someone who might one day be asked to kill for her, or on her behalf? She would inherit them as well, after all, and Aurelia is cognizant of the responsibility that would be. They have one of the hardest jobs, she thinks to herself sometimes, and therefore must be treated with the most care. Do they ask for it? Perhaps not, but they’ll have it regardless. — It would be easy for her to hate her family, but she doesn’t, she can’t. She’s loved them as long as she can remember and she will love them after she is dead. She knows the touch of her father’s kiss at her temple as well as she knows the cruelty with which he sends men to the noose. She knows her cousin’s laugh as she knows the whistle of his blade through the air, the way she remembers how to breathe, the way she counts the steps down to the barracks every time she goes. Her brother, best of all, she knows to be as useless as they are lovely, cruel as they are decadent, and all these things don’t make it any easier to choose between them and her people. She will not. She cannot be asked to. As much as she understands that her first priority must be the citizenry, because someone on earth should care more for them than themselves, she also won’t part with her loyalty. Not to them, and not to her family, either. She will find a humane way to settle this, by Undeath, and if she can’t, then it will be on their heads, not hers. Still, she feels confident in her own victory, bolstered by her knowledge of the people who love her, and who she loves in return. She will not be vicious to them just because that’s what people clamor for, or because it’s asked of her with wolfish smiles. Aurelia wants justice, not bloodshed, and she will have it. — It always surprised her tutors, how much she longed to attend lessons with her brother. She was hungry for knowledge from a young age, eagerly snatching up everything and anything she could. Aurelia was curious not just about the castle but about the world beyond it; she would ask that her rooms be decorated with maps, until she knew the lay of the land by heart. Any time there was a visitor, she would attempt to ask that they correct her maps, to ensure they were kept in date. Her fascination with geography was not the only thing she took interest in, however. She wanted to know the ins and outs of trade, wanted to learn as many languages as she could and know the difference between an emerald and a diamond with her eyes closed, hands clasped tight around the stones. She wanted to know the seal of every nation or rebellion that had ever tested their borders, and she asked so many questions that they were forced to send for answers, again and again and again. It should’ve annoyed her tutors, but her enthusiasm was so genuine, they wanted to please her. Over time she grew to recognize that fact and treat it as a responsibility; she could wield the care of others as a weapon, but she chose not to, and that was the difference. — There is not a guileless quality to her, no matter how often she might be called naive by some of the cruel portions of her family. In quiet moments, when it’s only her and her ladies-in-waiting, the age of her thoughts reveals itself in her eyes, in the grim set of her mouth, or even in the delicate curve of her shoulders. She doesn’t pretend not to know about the farce of her existence, because that would never inspire confidence in her as a leader, and it would only hurt those who have come to depend on her. Instead, she makes her rebellion known in small ways, refusing participation in games she doesn’t approve of, humiliating nobles she finds foolish and cruel, or small-minded and weak. The one thing she doesn’t shy away from is executions: Aurelia attends each one, refusing to let anyone die for her father’s whim without someone who respects them bearing witness. They can’t know how she feels, but she makes a promise to each as they die before her eyes: I will never let this be for nothing. Sometimes she comes across as over-aware, too sensitive, too passionate to understand the cool logic of the world, but she understands it all too well. She does not believe that you can exist as a good person without marrying logic and emotion, as disparate as they are, and she will never abandon that part of her that cries for each life lost, each hurt inflicted, each blade in the hands of someone far too young for it. She cultivates it like her own personal garden, honeysuckle growing wild in her rib cage. — The first time she truly understood what she could do, she was only fifteen. TEMPERANCE had said something particularly upsetting, though they never truly understood why she stormed away. With tears in her eyes, she’d run, not knowing where she was going until she almost slammed into the body of a castle guard. They weren’t assigned to her rotation nor her quarters, but they knew her from when she would drop in at their meal times and ask after their days, or peel oranges to slide under their helmets as they stood outside in the hot summer sun, armor burning, skin sweltering. He caught her by the shoulders and held her steady as her guards and attendants rushed to catch up with her, and wiped away an errant tear with one gauntlet-covered thumb. What’s happened, Princess? They asked and she answered, for she was a teenage girl whose heart had been wounded, and as they listened, as all of them did, their faces fell in sympathy, too. When she looked up at them, this guard who barely knew her, it was the first time she understood what it looked like, to watch someone decide they would kill for you. Their offer was couched in softer words, but it was no less lethal, and when she shook her head she could’ve sworn she saw disappointment in more than one face. It was the last time she ever took her relationships, or her feelings, for granted. — She cried for months as a child, wailing unhappily no matter how often her wet nurses tried to shush her. They ended up going through six of them before one realized the problem; the child did not want a wet nurse, she wanted her mother, and she knew the difference quite clearly. Perhaps it is this sense of abandonment, fostered in her early youth, that makes her reach out to others so often. She wants more than anything to hold them close, but the one person who was meant to never has. Oh, she’s heard of the prophecy, but it doesn’t excuse her mother’s cowardice. In truth, Aurelia loves her father and even her brother more, because they at least have shown her who they are. They have shared with her something THE EMPRESS always denies. By eight years old she was calling them by their proper name, much to the shock and confusion of the court, but even that would not prompt them to explain things to her. They looked almost through her, as though she were an alien being, a parasite in their womb who had now been made into flesh, and Aurelia regards it with more bitterness than anything else in her life. Is it not enough, one of her ladies asked her once, to be loved by every person but one? Of course it wasn’t. She didn’t covet adoration from everyone, she simply wanted acknowledgement from the only person who would never give it, and it has curdled her sweetness into poison. They, more than anyone in the world, inspire pettiness and anger with no compassion in it. Aurelia has no empathy for the person who seeks to throw her away, and even if they can make peace, she knows they would never be on her side, anyway. Not when they’ve picked anyone over her at every opportunity, over and over until it left a scar on the inside of her heart. — She was a coward, the first time her father declared her ready to attend an execution. The man’s crime was a bawdy poem about THE HIGH PRIESTESS, but it was entirely her father’s decision to make it punishable by death. He said it was defaming the crown, by extension, and he had no advisor powerful enough to say no, or with the will to do so. No, you can’t! she cried, and bored, he’d said quite simply that he could. Again, he asked if she would attend, and tasting bile on her tongue, Aurelia declined. She dreams, still, about what she might have seen, and about whether he died with everyone jeering around him. Did a single person look him in the eye and remind him of his humanity? She’ll never know, because she was too weak to bear it. No one can say she doesn’t learn from her mistakes, though. The next time she was right in the front row, lip trembling, tears running down her cheeks. Her ladies hate it, always trying to persuade her not to go, but without enough power to save their lives, this is all she can do. She can’t shy away from the ugly bits. Each time, it reminds her of what she needs to fight for, and of what she could be capable of, if she does not continuously tend to the flowers blooming in her chest. She still flinches when the blow comes, or when the boards drop beneath their feet. It still feels like weakness. — She keeps a list, in a pocket-sized journal in the false bottom of her vanity drawer, of all those she must make reparations to. Sometimes it’s just a family name, people whose child was taken from them too soon, or who died in a battle against those who wanted better for the world than her father. Other times, it’s nobles wronged merely for standing up to him, or peasantry she sees abused by the guards who seem to think along the same lines as him. Aurelia is running out of room, even in her smallest hand, and she’s terrified to start a new journal, because that would be crossing some invisible line. If she fills it, how broken does that make her family? How unforgivable? — Every child looks up to their elder siblings, and there were periods of time in Aurelia’s life where she tried to imitate both THE EMPEROR and THE CHARIOT. She tried to be tough, like her cousin has always been, but her skin bruised too easily and her feelings even easier. She tried her hand at the casual cruelty her brother always displayed, but the first time she said a mean thing to a servant, she burst into tears and threw herself into her arms, where the woman patted her back consolingly, likely terrified and confused by her mercurial behavior. The cruelty she inhabits is accidental, and if she’s made aware of it, she rectifies it as best she can. Simple things, like a lack of understanding for what a simple existence might be, or a careless comment from someone dripping in privilege and stained with gold. She can’t understand them, as hard as she tries, and sometimes she forgets them without thinking, though she always feels genuinely chastised later on. She is as close to good as anyone in power can be, but she can never be wholly so, for she has never known true despair or suffering. — Aurelia plays the piano forte, but it’s singing where she really shines. Considering all the useless lessons royal non-heirs are put through, it surprised her to discover she enjoyed music, but she often plays near the window, now, and feels a little like she’s singing a duet with the birds on the ramparts. She likes best when the guards are training outside, because sometimes they hear her, and some of them sing along. She likes that music connects otherwise disparate people, that it can bring passion into lifeless eyes and coax a smile out of misery. More than that, though, she likes to create. So much of the Valmont legacy is destruction, now, and she may never cleanse their name, but she can make things. New, bright things, untainted by the poison of her blood, coming straight from her spirit. Every tune she carries, every new combination of keys, she’s bringing something beautiful to life, not razing anything to the ground. She is endlessly fond of THE STAR for this reason, who looks like magic to her, even if he uses not a lick of it. — While she loves the look and feel of plants, and she tends to the garden within her soul rather well, Aurelia is what you would call the opposite of a green thumb. A red thumb, maybe, for she consistently pricks herself on any bush she can, and plants wither under her care within moments. It’s lucky she has so many servants, who can attend to her desire to have plants hanging in her quarters without a second thought, or she would forever rue her bad luck. Nonetheless, while she doesn’t touch her plant babies and lets others care for them, she does chat with them about things in her day, usually making up fantastic stories about the events just so that she feels like she’s caring for them. She knows they can’t hear, knows it doesn’t do anything, but she hates the idea of having something so lovely around and not at least trying to offer it what she can, however meager fruit that is. — The oncoming conflict with Koldam was the first time Aurelia ever directly asked THE EMPEROR for anything. Mercy, brother, she whispered, I entreat you to try a little mercy. She knew that it’s never been in their nature, but what was she if not someone who tried, even when she failed? She had already petitioned their father to simply reprimand or offer a treaty to Koldam, but that was a failure. This was her first time trying her brother’s version, and look how that turned out? She hasn’t been able to look them in the eye since, in spite of generally seeing the best in them, even when they’re cruel to her. Being cruel at home is one thing; senseless violence is another. She can’t condone it when Father sends people pointlessly to execution, and she can’t condone it for THE EMPEROR either, because he was given enough authority to act. Koldam has taught her one thing: the only royal she can rely on is herself, and perhaps THE CHARIOT, though she hasn’t approached them directly. — Unlike her father, Aurelia has always been fascinated by magic. The wonder and horror of it enthrall her, and at the same time, the pain they are forced to endure to use it wounds her heart. She would not employ magicians unless it was dire and necessary, but for opposite reasons to King Septimus: she will not condemn anyone to torture lightly. That said, she visits the practitioners within the castle often enough, always wanting to be sure that someone in her family treats them with the respect they deserve. At night, lying awake and counting stars out her window rather than sleeping, she sometimes imagines what it would be like to have magic. The power to heal, the power to kill, the power to bring others back to life… all of them would make her a stronger and more capable presence in court, even if they would inspire fear and awe in her father’s eyes and perhaps change her position. Still, she must make due with what the Undeath has chosen for her, and must cultivate the only power that remains to her: that sharp mind and that brave heart. — Her inner circle is how she refers to her ladies-in-waiting, while her guards retain the name of Coterie. This is because while they must be distinguished, she doesn’t think of them as only guards or only ladies-in-waiting. They are friends, confidantes, and trusted sources of information, without which the bare bones of her slowly growing claim to the throne would not be possible. They aren’t disposable tools, and they certainly aren’t only soldiers. This distinguishes them and allows them to stand a little taller, and walk with a little more pride. Naming groups both allows a feeling of exclusivity and reminds them of the privilege they have to be within those circles, and to be cast out hurts all the more for it. PLOT IDEAS: — TO LOVE ANYTHING GOOD, AT ANY COST, IS A BURDEN | Considering THE LOVERS is such an important connection to who she is at her core, I think it’s important to explore that relationship and grow or burn it down. Either works for me. Sometimes, a good ruler must give her heart first to her people, and it leaves no room for anyone else. Sometimes, a good ruler must have a good partner at her side, to share her dreams and prospects for the future, to advise her when she is down, to take care of that heavy, heavy head. The problem is that Aurelia must take care of all of Tyrholm, and that will never leave room to focus on any one individual. So what can they do? They love each other, and what is lovable about Aurelia might also be what undoes them for good. She has already decided to pick family over vengeance, but can she choose love over duty? So far, the answer is unclear, but it crawls from the fog of indecision, closer by the day. — GIVE ME THE BLADE. SOME THINGS ARE WORTH SPILLING BLOOD FOR | There cannot be a bloodless coup, not when the King himself is so bloodthirsty a man, and his heir is worse. She believes she can end this peacefully, but it’s a foolish dream, born from love rather than from logic. Usually, the two pair well in her, but in this she has become blind to the path forward. It will take a lot to open her eyes, but when they begin to see what she must do, I want her to balk. I need her to cower, because it’s what makes her human. She will rage against it, she will fear it, and most essentially, she will be forced to confront it. There will come a time where Aurelia can’t move forward without bloodshed, without ousting someone from her path permanently, and I want her to face that with all the courage she can muster. By the time the knife is in her hand, I want her to have come to the point where she can use it, even if it hurts, even if it twists a blade in her own gut. — WE MUST RESIST. WE MUST REFUSE TO DISAPPEAR | Connecting members of the revolt will be essential to its doing, and I want her to be one of the lynch pins that holds them together. She is the most likely to get along with the most people, to see the way THE FOOL suffers or THE HIGH PRIESTESS grows tired of these games. She can coax revolters together to some degree, with the help of a couple others spread across the city, and if she can win a majority of them to her side, she’ll have won the game. The trick, of course, is uniting their common goals, and in convincing them to pick her over THE CHARIOT, who is the person she most needs to win. Still, consolidating power will become necessary as the revolt kicks up steam, and she will not be left out or left waiting on someone else’s whim. She will pluck the best of the best from those she can coax into aiding her, and together, they will make her dreams a reality. — IT INFURIATED ME THAT THEY KNEW ME BY HEART | With how often she’s been thrown together with TEMPERANCE, she should know that there’s more for her here than animosity, but she doesn’t. I want her to recognize that she cares for them, because in turn, it will help her recognize that they call to the petty jealousy in her, to the frustration she bottles up day in and day out. They call to the spirit of a fight in the pit of her stomach, and there’s no one else who sees that part of her, the not-so-pretty parts. That they care for her anyway, that they float marriage no matter how many years go by, fills her with warmth when it shouldn’t, and for that, she despises them. Love should be soft, she thinks as she looks at THE LOVERS. It should care for her heart and cradle it in careful fingers. Yet they don’t quite challenge her the way TEMPERANCE does, and that fills her with dread so profound she can’t examine it yet. I want her to look into it and make a choice, once and for all, about what she wants, because it will define not only her life moving forward, but potentially the one sharing her throne at the end of it all. — AND EVERYTHING’S HOLY— EVERYTHING, EVEN ME | She acts the pious one because she must, but truth be told, she is afraid of death in a way that she has to confront in order to gain the Undying’s blessing. She wants it, because it’s of her people and she loves her people, but she doesn’t really have a firm grasp of death, not in the way necessary to commune with Undeath themself. She’s too young and too sheltered, and while her heart hurts for those who die too soon, it’s in the abstract, without real context to define her grief. She has not had to accept death before, to look it in the face and make peace with it, and that will be her gauntlet when she moves for the throne. Religion in name only isn’t going to cut it, and she knows that, but she puts it off, afraid of what she’ll face in the Sanctum or, even more dangerous, within the Temple of the Undying God itself. It’s the cross she will grow to bear, and developing her relationship with religion is key, not only for her own development but to grow her connections within the worshippers themselves. Their support would be essential to her coup, after all, as their declaration of the Undeath’s favor and her confirmation of it would bolster her support. — I DON’T NEED TO BE LOVED EXCEPT WHEN I DO | Ultimately, Aurelia will need to confront THE EMPRESS, and I would like to take her development in that direction. For good or for ill, this is her mother, and there can be no moving forward without hashing out their lives. Ultimately she would come to a point where she might even ask her mother to join her, desperate to prove that she can be creation, rather than the destruction they’ve always seen her as. Her need to be cared for by them is constant and frustrates her, but she can’t rid herself of it, either, damned for something she’s not even done yet. Can she understand, Aurelia wonders, that this coldness has led her closer to revolution than love ever would have? That if they had held her closer, perhaps they could have stayed her hand? Without that foundation, she will never listen to them, but she might attempt to take advantage of their political acumen for her own gain. — YOU COULD NOT SPEAK / SOMETHING WAS DYING IN YOUR CHEST | The Necromancers have been used as mindless tools for too long, but Aurelia grew up with them around her, and she knows that they aren’t hollow vessels for magic, they’re people. Sure, maybe the magic takes some of it away, but it can’t take everything, and Aurelia doesn’t want to let it. They deserve more than what they’re given, and so do the Inferni; the Vitalus aren’t the only practitioners worthy of magic, but they’ve been treated like it for their noble birth and their easy to swallow techniques. Aurelia wants to change that. If the Necromancers interact more with the world, perhaps they will consider the lives they take more preciously; if the commoners are forced to interact with them, perhaps they will recognize those sparks of humanity within and foster them. The Inferni can learn that life is precious, that their power can raze the earth and leave it clean for rebirth if they’ll allow it. There’s no one way to handle magic, no perfect system, but then, there’s no perfect system at all with people involved in it. All she knows is that Aurelia would treat them all with respect, if not always kindness; a ruler cannot always be kind, but they must endeavor to always be just. — I DOUBT EVERYTHING, EVEN MY DOUBT | There will come a time where she will be asked to betray her family and she will say no. I would love for that to break someone’s trust in her, as a ruler and as a leader of the revolution. I would love for it to shake her faith in herself. Can she be a good person when she loves them, these awful people she has decided belong to her? It would be a stumbling block, and I want her to need to prove that she’s in this, preferably by deliberately and methodically betraying her family at a later date, after her resolve solidifies. It won’t kill them, she tells herself as she wakes up crying for the fifth time that week. It will only hurt. — LOVE HAS TEETH WHICH BITE, AND THE WOUNDS NEVER CLOSE | This will involve a layer of integration, but someone close to her dying would really galvanize her. If that happens, it would invigorate those parts she’s always bottled up: things like rage and decisiveness would become paramount to her. She would be a little more ruthless, a little more sensible about the reality of the world, if she had to lose something precious. Any loss of something she loves is a loss of a bit of herself, she gives her loyalty so fiercely and without any sort of restraint. She hadn’t known loss, hasn’t known a bit of it, and thus doesn’t know when to hold back and when to pour herself into another person. Her disillusionment would grow, and her view of leadership and its duties would change, which I would love to explore if the plot of the overarching group allowed it. — WHICH SHOULD I REGRET: WHAT I BECAME, OR WHAT I DIDN’T? | It would be essential to her to find the person who originally gave the prophecy about her birth. If they’re no longer alive, then she would find their closest relative or any witnesses to it. She wants to know the exact words, and more than that, she needs to gauge whether this person is bullshit or not. Her hunt would culminate in finding out more about who she’s supposed to be and what she’s supposed to do, with a healthy dose of angst to go alongside it. After all, it’s one thing to hear rumors about a prophecy; it’s another entirely to realize it’s real this entire time. It would depend on what happened, how she reacts, but I know it would change how she views herself and her mother both, at the bare minimum, let alone its effect on her responsibilities to the revolt. — I NEED A VOICE TO ECHO / I NEED A LIGHT TO TAKE ME HOME | This is probably the most fun plot idea I have, but it’s subject to a lot of other people helping, so bear with me. I would love for Aurelia to start masquerading in Lowtown and other places far from the castle as a bard. Not a well-practiced one, but a revolutionary one that always wears a mask. She would have to spend hours practicing, and would involve all her ladies-in-waiting, among others, to help her sneak in and out and ensure her safety. Still, poems and songs are often used to foment the seeds of revolution in all cultures, and royals are so often educated in music, it just seems like a natural fit. It would also tie with her fondness for THE STAR, not wanting to ask his help in fear of endangering him or herself, but will he find her out anyway? He just might, or someone else who frequents these areas of Tyrholm might. In any case, I would like to build a slow-burning revolutionary plot where the princess masquerades as one of the people, both to learn more about them and to show them it’s okay to raise their voices. Maybe it leads to the tavern she performed at once getting razed by the guard, and she realizes she gravely misjudged her father. Maybe she gets unmasked and punished, or even killed. It just offers so many opportunities, and seems like the sort of thing a romantic revolutionary might cook up. — THE FAULT LINES, SEEDING, LYING IN WAIT | Despite knowing herself as the best person for the throne, Aurelia is not, in fact, opposed to THE CHARIOT taking it for themself. With a little more spine, she sees the making of a great ruler in them just as easily as she sees it in herself, and she has a goal to foster that. I would love as an alternative plot, as her first option, to see if she can maneuver herself into aiding their bid for the throne, and then either deciding that she must take it or helping them to grow would be my next objective. Aurelia wants the best ruler for Tyrholm, full stop, and THE CHARIOT is in front of her. They are therefore far easier to get into a sitting position upon it, and together, the two of them might have enough power to do it without killing anyone, especially if they enlist THE EMPRESS. This plot is too dependent on others’ vision to expand on, but I wanted to include it, because I don’t want Aurelia’s only option to be herself. That’s not in character for her, not really. — FOR LOVE, I WILL HANDLE YOUR SINS | This is up to whichever player is down to do this plot with me, but essentially, Aurelia will have started cultivating a friendship with a specific Necromancer. This is so that she can use one of her back-up plans, and it’s definitely a last resort, but if one of her family dies in this revolution, she would want them brought back very badly indeed. In fact, she would give some of her own life to power that regeneration, if necessary. In the event that the King dies or even THE EMPEROR falls, she would want a way to bring them back and set them to sail across the sea and live out the remainder of their days as a commoner. It’s fitting punishment, in her mind, and it’s better than them being dead, isn’t it? For she cannot and will not kill them, but exile will satisfy her needs, and their public death will satisfy the people’s needs as well. CHARACTER DEATH: Yes, but I would prefer her to get close to taking power, first, because it will be sweeter to have that hope and see it taken away. WRITING SAMPLE: SCENE ONE // Aurelia relishes in the feeling of grass beneath her palms, her head cradled safely in Petra’s lap as she cards through her hair. Her voice fills the small space between them, reading to her from the latest novel she’s plucked from her father’s library, and Aurelia lets her eyes flutter shut. She’d prefer if THE LOVERS were with her, but they’ve fallen ill, and she would never coax them from a restful slumber if it will make their healing faster. Petra is her second favorite of her ladies, anyway, her voice the lowest of them all and most suited toward reading. She never minds, either, whether it’s complicated, confusing poetry, or a simple romance novel from twenty years ago. She’ll even read intercepted missives to her, though Aurelia generally lets those lie until her eyes alone can read them. It’s not that she doesn’t trust her ladies, for they are her closest confidantes and her very best friends, but she doesn’t want to endanger them. They can’t know more than they should, for their own safety. Now, the tale is coming to a close, and the Crying Tree whispers in the slight breeze as Petra’s voice trails off into silence. Aurelia sighs; it was a good story, if not a great one, and she’s sad to part with it. ❝ Thank you, Petra, ❞ she says almost to the wind, lashes still brushing her delicate cheeks. Book set aside, her lady-in-waiting now uses both hands to comb gently through the princess’s hair, much to her lazy delight.❝ I thought it was… good, in the end. What is your verdict? ❞ A hum comes from on high, making Aurelia smile slightly. Petra is a thinker, always considering each angle before she responds. She’s the best strategist in Aurelia’s arsenal, certainly. ❝ Passable, my lady, nothing more. ❞ Aurelia has managed to break most of her ladies of their formal habits when they’re alone, but Petra clings stubbornly to some sort of title, downgrading it from highness to lady only after much pleading on Aurelia’s part. Now, she sits up, letting Petra’s fingers trail from her scalp and fall into her lap as the wind plays with the strands of hair around her face. She turns a beatific smile in Petra’s direction, whose responding expression is indulgent and fond. ❝ You comment thusly on all the novels, ❞ Aurelia points out. ❝ We must endeavor to find one that measures to your exacting standard, or I will never be satisfied. ❞ She turns at the sound of Luneria’s voice, looking over her shoulder to where another of her ladies is popping a fat grape into her mouth and giggling. It takes her a moment to swallow, and she offers a grape to Aurelia as she speaks, who takes it with aplomb. ❝ Have you tried her on any historical novels, Aura? ❞ She thinks around the fruit in her mouth; Luneria is the newest of her ladies, and thus would have little awareness of what she has or has not attempted to have Petra read her. ❝ I attempted once, though it was a romance, which we quickly discovered was not to her taste, ❞ she admits after thinking it over. Petra steals an orange from the basket in the middle of their blanket and begins to peel it with practiced precision, neatly curling round and round the fruit until the rind can be neatly coiled in the palm of her hand. As she works at the small project, she smirks a little bit; ah, this is Aurelia’s favorite side of Petra. ❝ The frippery of the language and the content suits me ill. Nothing in them is ever practical, and if you’re not careful, they’ll fill your head with flights of fancy, my lady. ❞ ❝ Give it here, please, ❞ Aurelia asks after the skin of the orange, distracted from their conversation by her overwhelming love for the scent of oranges. She takes the rind and cups it in two hands, leaning down and inhaling the sharp scent of citrus. Luneria giggles again, and Kolva raps her on the knuckles with the spoon they’ve been using to sample the saucer of mousse. Embarrassed, her cheeks flush red, and she turns wide eyes in Aurelia’s direction. ❝ I’m sorry, Aura. I’ve never seen someone so excited by an orange peel, that’s all. ❞ Another member of her family might have punished her insolence, but Aurelia only wrinkles her nose before laughing too. ❝ If I could fill my bath with orange and lemon every day, I would, ❞ she admits, pressing the rind to the skin at the nape of her neck so she’ll carry a fragment of the scent with her during the rest of the day. She can be entirely unselfconscious with her ladies-in-waiting; that’s why she vets them so thoroughly, getting to know them without pretense before admitting them into her inner circle. Luneria is new, but she’s not cruel, and she would do anything for Aurelia. She can be nothing less, else Aurelia would’ve declined to invite her altogether. Now, she holds out her hand for the rind, which Aurelia hands over with mocking reluctance, smile delicate but sure. Luneria lifts it to her nose a moment before smiling. ❝ It smells like you, ❞ she realizes, mouth opening in surprise. ❝ More fool am I not to have recognized it before. Do you keep these beneath your pillow? ❞ ❝ Tucked into the pillowcase, ❞ Kolva explains before Aurelia can. The princess merely shrugs, opening her mouth when Petra offers her a slice of orange so that she can taste the sweet fruit without getting her hands sticky. Luneria claps her hands together, delighted to learn something new about Aurelia’s routine. They’re so easy to please. Sometimes it scares her, honestly, that they’re this easy, but their love is the kind that’s without reserve. She’ll never take it for granted, not with how blessed she feels to have it, but she won’t curtail it, either. She wants them with her always.   Turning bright eyes Kolva’s way, she eyes the mousse with suspicion. Kolva avoids her gaze a moment, but her mouth twitches, barely containing her giggles. For the most taciturn of her ladies, she has a streak of wildness and delight to her that Aurelia coaxes out as often as she can. Now, she leans forward in an attempt to inspect the saucer, but gets caught in the sheer amount of fabric in her dress. ❝ Kol-va, ❞ she sing-songs, flopping onto her back with the effort exerted. ❝ You better leave some for me, or I shall have to inform the entire castle of my most fearsome lady-in-waiting’s sweet tooth. They say it may be the sweetest tooth this side of Koldam. ❞ This memory exists in the space of time before Koldam was destroyed, when they were nothing more than a smaller city-state she’d read about in history books and seen as a dot on the map. It’s also where Kolva is from originally, before her family moved to Tyrholm for better prospects and Aurelia spotted the delightful shade of her hair from across the market. The rest, as they say, is history, aside from Kolva’s light accent. She hears rustling around her, and when she opens one eye, she sees Kolva sitting above her, red kissing the blonde in her hair even more than usual in the halo of midday sunlight. Eager, she sits up almost too fast, breath knocked from her by the corset around her ribs. ❝ Ouch, ❞ she whispers, and all three of her ladies are immediately crowded around her. They strike like soft lightning, like the edge of a healing blade, sharp in movement but soft in expression. ❝ Are you hurt, my lady? ❞ Petra asks, running a hand down her side in an absent, soothing gesture. Aurelia shakes her head, tenderness in her smile as she looks at each of them in turn. ❝ Merely winded a moment, and perhaps touched by your ready response, ❞ she admits, for sharing affection always makes her happy. Petra presses a kiss to her temple, while Luneria takes her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. Kolva dips her spoon into the saucer, holding it gently to Aurelia’s lips. ❝ Your tooth rivals mine, ❞ she says stubbornly, even as she slides the silver spoon between the princess’ lips. The texture is airy and rich, a perfect compliment to their picnic, and Aurelia’s sigh is one of contentment. ❝ And you never let me forget it, ❞ she answers, reaching out to cup Kolva’s cheek in one soft palm. ❝ What would I do without you, hmm? ❞ She looks at each of them in turn, Luneria practically in her lap and Petra behind her, one hand still on her shoulder. ❝ I would be lost without even one of you. ❞ Yes, even Luneria, as green as she is. Her infectious enthusiasm and joy is something Aurelia had been afraid she was starting to lose, but with Luneria at her side, how can she? Each of them brings something to the table, something to her heart. Her ladies. Her circle. They are the thing that keeps her balanced, her corner of sanity in a world that makes less sense each day.

SCENE TWO // Disclaimer: While I included THE LOVERS, I did my best not to god-mod them. That said, this is only a sample, and not meant to be canonized without the consent of my fellow player. Her receiving parlor is not a throne room, but Aurelia sits in her ostentatious bergère as though the crown is already atop her head. THE LOVERS stands at the back of her chair, to her right side, but they know to keep quiet. The best help anyone can be in matters of censure, with Aurelia being so young and seen as so gentle, is to be silent. Her expression is cold and imperious, a far cry from her usual gentility, and though their heads are bowed, she is almost positive the three guards kneeling before her can feel the sharpness in her gaze. ❝ I have been informed of quite an ugly circumstance, ❞ she says quietly. Her voice is not cold, not nearly so frigid as her eyes remain, but it is far worse: each word drips with disappointment, with the feeling that you have let down someone who loves you dearly. They’ve laid their helmets in front of them, and she can see quite clearly when one uncovered head dips, right at the center. They do not like this treatment, and they should not. She doesn’t have to be cruel to them to punish them. This is something her father and brother have never once understood. When you are the warmth of the sun, you must only force someone to remain in the dark, and they will learn well what it is to appreciate the heat when it returns. The silence is its own form of punishment, forcing them to wait on her to continue. They know what they’ve done, of course. They knew when they began that she would not approve. They just didn’t seem to care. Now, she looks at each of them in turn, wondering which will be the first to break down and apologize directly. ❝ As my midday meal came to an end, I was approached by a servant with news from the dining hall. She claimed that three guards, my personal guards, were disrupting the peace. Would any of you care to confess as to why you would interrupt the rest and rejuvenation of those around you to be needlessly cruel? ❞ She waits. Aurelia was not impatient, and she has nowhere else to be today. This is, after all, the privilege of being second-born. She is never expected, not really, not if she doesn’t want to be. In a lack of duty, a sense of honor was born to her that ensures she has her own responsibilities to attend to, this being one of them. Her fingers tap against her lap for a moment, the rhythm precise and methodical. ❝ No? ❞ she inquires one last time, into the deathly silence of the room. ❝ Then I can only assume none of you will plead ignorance to what you have done in my name. ❞ Her voice now hardens as she confirms what she knew from the start. At in my name, the guard to her left flinches, and her heart hurts. Still, this is what must be done. She cannot avoid punishing them simply because she cares for them. ❝ I have only three rules you must obey to stay a part of my Coterie, ❞ she reminds them, authority ringing even in her own ears. Coterie, she calls them, for they are not only a Guard, they are her friends. They wear her heraldry, her own personal identification on their armor, and every single act they take has her name on it. That is why their betrayal hits her so strongly, perhaps, and it is a betrayal. To go against her beliefs is as going against Aurelia herself. ❝ The one you have broken is the one I value above all else. Will one of you recite it for me? I know you capable and aware of which it is you have forsworn me by. ❞ Etienne is the first to speak, thus refusing Octavia and Isobel their chances. ❝ No one with the privilege of wearing your heraldry shall wield it for the purpose of cruelty or out of spite, ❞ they say, corn-silk hair falling out of their braid and into their eyes as they look up to speak. Whatever they see in Aurelia’s expression burns them, for they gaze upon the floor again soon enough, trembling head to toe. ❝ Thank you, Etienne, ❞ she says out of politeness, for nothing in her countenance suggests gratitude. ❝ We’re so sorry, your Highness, please — ❞ Isobel starts, her voice revealing her to be on the verge of tears. As they are all looking down for the moment, Aurelia reaches over her shoulder for THE LOVERS hand a moment, to steady her. She has never enjoyed making her people upset, even if it’s for a righteous purpose. The warmth of their touch gives her courage. ❝ Not sorry enough, or you would never have done it. ❞ She sighs. ❝ Besides, I am not the one who merits an apology from you. When we are done here, I expect you to apologize to Guard du Jardin, and I hope that you will mean it. ❞ ❝ Of course, ❞ Isobel whispers, ❝ As soon as we are able. ❞ Aurelia is sure they will. She’s sure they mean their apology sincerely, and she’s positive that they will not act in such a manner again. That’s not the issue. The issue is a deeper one that underlies every part of her section of the court, from her Coterie to her inner circle. It’s not particularly their fault that they’ve highlighted it to her, but if it goes unpunished, it will galvanize the others. ❝ I understand that a position within my Coterie is highly coveted, and that my restrictions make it hard to obtain one. ❞ The ban on cruelty and spite is fairly simple for people to swear to, but the five recommendations and the trial period before her inner circle decides whether they stay on in a permanent position are not. ❝ What I do not understand is why you would use that envy against someone else, when you yourselves have felt it so keenly. Your solution is to laugh at someone for thinking to try? To hold your position over their heads and talk down to them? ❞ She shakes her head, expression miserable. She will not be used as a cudgel to put others down. She will not be lorded over anyone. Aurelia turns to Octavia, who has done an admirable job of keeping quiet. ❝ Do you have anything to add, Octavia? ❞ She does not call her the oh-so-affectionate V normally reserved for her, does not indicate any inch of familiarity between them, but Octavia doesn’t flinch. Instead, she meets Aurelia’s eyes evenly, without malice or defiance. ❝ I do not, your Highness. You have said it best yourself. It was a petty thing for me to do, and I regretted it immediately. Any censure you have for us will be deserved. ❞ At this, tears well in Aurelia’s eyes, though she does not allow them to fall. Octavia is the only one in a position to see them, anyway, and at the sight, her own eyes well with salt water as well. They must both be strong, for the sake of not only each other, but Aurelia’s right to respect from her court. They love her, yes, but they must also obey her, and Octavia understands this most of all, coming from a noble house herself. Aurelia nods. ❝ Yes, I find it will be. ❞ At last getting up from her seat, Aurelia leans down to Etienne and Isobel in turn, tilting their chins upward with careful fingers, so that they can see her. She hates this part, the punishment part, but it’s a necessary step. She refuses to do it without at least looking them in the eyes. Once done, she returns to her position, regal as always. ❝ For misusing the power I have given you, I see I can no longer trust you with it. Each of you are no longer a member of my Coterie. ❞ Isobel gasps, a wounded sound that Aurelia associates with hospice or injury. ❝ If you wish to return into my service, you will be required to receive no less than seven individual recommendations, none of which may be issued by those who previously floated you for your positions. In addition, ❞ she says, hardening her heart to the look of horror on Etienne’s face, ❝ I require that one of those recommendations come from Guard du Jardin personally. ❞ They’re lucky that she has enough members in her Coterie now that they will not be missed. Were that not the case, were they infringing on her safety, their punishment would be far greater. ❝ Stand, please, ❞ she says, and the three of them rush to their feet. Octavia holds her head high, but Isobel is crying, and Etienne’s lower lip trembles. Rather than asking THE LOVERS to do this part, because it’s hard, Aurelia approaches them herself to unpin her insignia from their armor. They bear it with as much grace as they can; she knows if this were her brother or father, they would do it where the entire court was watching. Then again, they would never dismiss a personal guard for cruelty in the first place. Once collected, she hands these items to THE LOVERS for safekeeping and turns back to them, now looking somehow naked with no heraldry to mark them as her own. ❝ As I hope you understand by now, your punishment is that which you so disdained your fellow Guard for mere hours ago. I hope, should I see each of you in my service again, you will comport yourselves in a way that does not debase me. I will treat you with exactly as much honor as you show me yourselves. ❞ Head held high, she returns to her bergère and sits, exhausted. ❝ You are dismissed. ❞ The moment they have left the room, Octavia shutting the door behind her, Aurelia allows her tears to fall. It is hardest to punish those you love, she thinks as she covers her face in her hands, allowing THE LOVERS to hold her at last. EXTRAS — In my first writing sample I wanted to say there was a Weeping Willow, but I renamed it Crying Tree because it just seemed to fit the mythos more to me. I would think it would be interesting if perhaps they’re favored by The Undying God, considering their mournful legend in our own history. — The only weapon Aurelia will ever carry herself is a knife, because it’s easy to conceal amid all her layers, and it will only be used as a last resort. She trains with it, so she can defend herself if she’s caught alone, but she isn’t a physical fighter and she never will be. She hopes she’ll never have to use it on a living person, not ever. — Here’s her pinterest. — Here’s her playlist.

[stretchjournalemerson]

What I Call Home: An Exploration of Privilege

By Katherine Healy 

It’s hard to love a place and know a place. The first week of college I brought my newfound friends to the town that I learned to walk in, grew up in, and spent hours upon hours simply existing in. However, I was shocked by their reactions. “This is so beautiful,” “what a place to grow up in,” and “do you know how lucky you are to live here?” were the only sounds in a car where everyone stared out the windows. Although I was shocked, I understood their reactions. The beauty of my town is obvious: blue is smeared across the sky and the sea while green compliments it from below. 

I don’t remember moving to Marshfield, Massachusetts. I think I was able to say “Mom” and “Dad” when I did, but not much else. However, the move from Florida was motivated: my parents were dead set on my future education. I was destined to go to the best of the best. Therefore, I went to a very specific elementary school. Now referred to by many as “The Academy,” usually accompanied by a soft laugh, my school’s name was always associated with prestige in my small town. With only 60 children in my graduation class, we were told for years that we were to achieve great things; how could we not? We were given all the skills, materials, and counseling to do so. However, with small bows in my hair and wide eyes, I never asked why. Why were we the best? The brightest? The most likely to succeed?

Years later, and hopefully years wiser, the reason becomes less pixelated but more nuanced. My elementary school is not as picture-perfect as my parents once believed. While the academics were exactly what my parents always dream of, there was a reason. Marshfield is 95.9% white. And, because of our demographics, our education reflects exactly what we are. We read stories about white characters by white authors in towns that felt eerily similar to Marshfield. We learned whitewashed history and assumed that it was nothing but the truth. We are all smart—we have to be—but in the way that Marshfield wants us to be.

However, this is not my elementary school’s only fault. As one of five elementary schools in my town, imaginary borders were drawn for the district years ago. However, in 2014, these borders suddenly changed. In a shocking school committee vote, Marshfield redistricted, sending 43 students from my elementary school to the neighboring one. While never explicitly mentioned by anyone of status in my town, a rumor about the reason for redistricting has circulated for years. Marshfield wanted to send students with disabilities and IEPs to a different elementary school. Despite this disgraceful and ignorant choice, parents simply talked about the inconvenience the choice established for their families. Cognizant that this is regarded as a rumor, I reached out to my town’s current School Committee Chair. As the student representative for two years for the committee and the chair being my Youth and Government advisor for two years, we developed an honest relationship. Although quickly responding to my first text inquiring about asking about a rumor, he left the question itself unanswered. While this does not concede anything, it is evident that this is not a matter he is interested in discussing. But, in a town built upon ignorance, it's hard to believe the town was destined for anything else. 

Born and raised on stolen Wampanoag territory, my town is a clear reminder of all that is destroyed. Instead of repenting our injustice to the native people, we celebrate the conquers. In second grade we took a field trip to Edward Winslow’s house--located in the center of my town and the site of a Senior Leader of Plymouth Colony. We learn the history of a man who built his livelihood on top of other people’s, crushing them with each movement. Then, a year later in third grade, we traveled to Plimoth Plantation to learn about the peaceful relationship between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag people. They leave out the genocide part. So, how does a town get to be so ignorant? So unaware of their own faults? 

Ultimately, it comes down to one word: privilege. But, for many in Marshfield, that word sits funny in their mouth. Unpacking one’s own privilege is never easy. For me, it included nights crying and reworking and reflecting on everything I had ever known. However, people in conservative Marshfield view it as a deeming and demanding word. When called out, people go on the attack: “you’re making me seem like a bad person” and “I’ve never had it easy” usually perforate the conversation about privilege. Because, to many, Marshfield is not the epitome of privilege, instead it is the definition of blue-collar life. While Marshfield is not racially diverse, it is certainly socioeconomically diverse. 

Like many other coastal Massachusetts towns, people settle in: they build homes for generations to live in and they create careers for their children to work in. Their way of life is specific, and, more often than not, predescribed. They labor day in and day out to provide for their family. Even to my own extremely liberal family, privilege is a gritty topic. My mother grew up surrounded by poverty. With a paralyzed father, eight siblings, and sporadic foster children, money was tight. My mom recounts molasses sandwiches for dinner and years where Christmas was postponed because they couldn’t even afford their typical Charlie Brown tree. When you are questioning your next meal it’s hard to believe you are privileged. However, on the opposite side of the same spectrum, exists my father. Born and bred in a high-class white tower, my father’s biggest problem was that his real-estate developer father did not attend his high school hockey games. Although I am not minimizing the effect that had on him, he has never even heard of this discussion--nevermind participated in it. So, when socioeconomic status gets filtered into the intersectional conversation surrounding privilege—how do you navigate? My parents chose to meet in the middle. Now living a life of middle class blissfulness, they never have to have this conversation. The problem isn’t that they’re unaware, it’s that they never have to be.   

Upon reflection, I often wonder, was my education worth it? Was an “astonishing” reading level even worth it? How could I have truly learned if I was in a tower of privilege? The walls of this tower were covered in mirrors; everywhere I looked there were just reflections of myself. 

But, despite all these unanswered questions, it’s still home. I still wake up in the middle of the night longing for what used to be. I still get homesick for the sea. My best, most treasured memories exist between Marshfied’s sea walls. When I turned eight my grandmother painted a picture of me. On the canvas it was me with hair as bouncy and red as ever, but slowly growing. Three versions of me exist in the painting: each older than the last, but all in Marshfield. When I drive down the picturesque streets of Marshfield, I see each version on the streets. I see little me: happy as a clam on my elementary school playground. I see the next me: curious and bright in my town library. Finally, I see the last me: head down and ashamed, seeing Marshfield for all it will ever be. Not pictured is the fourth me: aware of what Marshfield is but still loving it, nevertheless. 

Youthful ignorance is exactly that. It is head tilted back from laughing and a hazy glow from the moon. It is nights where there is no destination but joy in every right and left turn. It is the ability to fall and scrape your knees with no consequences. It is reading until odd hours of the morning with your bedroom window open and crickets chirping. The feeling never goes away. I will always, infinitely be young and in Marshfield. I will always be wonderstruck by my own youth--and the consequent ignorance.

When people talk about home, they don’t talk about the piece of you that’s left there. In my case, that piece is nurtured and ignorant, blind to the world around her. However, it’s still me. It’s still a phantom limb I feel every day. But, I was only able to reflect by leaving. At Emerson, with its discussions and unpacking, I am able to witness, and sometimes participate, in conversations that weren’t even ideas in Marshfield. I am able to learn from stories and perspectives that are diverse, creating an education that is authentic rather than binary and whitewashed. I am able to grow as a person. I still can’t answer all the questions. Because of the foundation I was given, I have more to learn than my peers. But, I am learning nevertheless. So, I will always love Marshfield. I will always long for it's comforting embrace. Yet, I see it clearer now. I see it for everything it will ever be. 

Works Cited

“Parents React to Marshfield Redistricting Plan.” The Patriot Ledger, Quincy, MA: Local News, Politics, Entertainment & Sports in Quincy, MA. Accessed November 5, 2019. https://www.patriotledger.com/article/20140304/news/140308650?template=ampart.

“U.S. Census Bureau QuickFacts: Marshfield Town, Plymouth County, Massachusetts.” Census Bureau QuickFacts. Accessed November 5, 2019. https://www.census.gov/quickfacts/fact/table/marshfieldtownplymouthcountymassachusetts/AGE295218.

Acknowledgements

With such a personal essay, it is hard not to get personal with my thanks. First, to the people that read my essay: Sophia and Noah. Both of your writing inspires me as both a writer and editor. You remind me, constantly and consistently, why I am pursuing this and why it is what I have always wanted. Sometimes, when you are an editor, no one really cares about your work. But, both of you continue to show an unprecedented amount of care towards my work. In regards to the essay itself, I have to thank its inspiration. Thank you to my parents for always being transparent with your faults. You have taught me to grow from your mistakes and my own. And, most of all, thank you to my muse: Marshfield. Thank you for letting me love you and leave you. Thank you for all the love and all the bruises. I will be forever a part of you. 

[junker-town]

Charles Rogers and the scrutiny of public life

The former Michigan State and Detroit Lions wide receiver deserved better than to be haunted by his failures.

I’m ashamed of what I assumed when I saw “Former MSU and Lions WR Charles Rogers has died”. Rogers was, at one point, known as one of the best athletes anyone had ever seen. That was before he became better known for squandering that potential. He was 38 when he died, and I thought he might have done the really bad thing.

But I was only perpetuating a sad trend in Rogers’ life. For as long as he was a public figure, it was easy for the rest of us to assume who he was, and thus easy for me to believe that those assumptions, stated loudly near his ear for years, ultimately consumed him.

He was one of the biggest football recruits ever, especially in the state of Michigan, which rarely produces players who could be considered the best in the country. The era of breathless online recruiting coverage had only just begun when Rogers graduated in 2000, which made Rogers one of the first players to be built up to mythic proportions for internet clicks, beyond what any teenage athlete should bear.

The hype spilled into the columns of local newspapers where the question was: Michigan or Michigan State? Somehow, he chose the Spartans even though then-head coach Nick Saban was headed off the LSU. And somehow, he met the expectations set for him, no matter how distant they seemed. He won the Biletnikoff Award as the best receiver in college football as a junior, after a season in which he broke Randy Moss’ record streak of 13 consecutive games with a touchdown reception. He then went No. 2 overall in the NFL Draft to the Detroit Lions.

“The latest with Charles Rogers” was a regular local sports talk radio segment from when he was torching high school DBs. He would have been heavily scrutinized wherever he ended up as the No. 2 overall pick, but it had to be especially difficult to never once leave the bubble of praise and criticism around his every move within the state Michigan. He was always being measured in some way in the place he called home. And when his pro career went belly-up in three years, it had to hurt to see his jersey burned by people who were ostensibly his neighbors.

The Aughts felt like a particularly cruel time to be a bust. Say what you want about today’s internet, but there is a better understanding now that an athlete’s demons can be the product of something much greater than their character flaws. Back then, when you were liable to get your sports filtered daily through the same three or four white men, it was easier to come to half-baked opinions. In this case, the refrain went that Rogers was a spoiled millionaire content to smoke out the remainder of his rookie deal.

Under-cooked reporting still exists today, of course. Take this Fort Meyers news report from when Rogers resurfaced in the public eye in 2017:

It’s a great lesson in how to use writing and smash cuts to tell a story when your primary objective is wrapping up in three minutes. A story that begins with the words “injuries, drug addiction and failure” and never moves beyond them, or dares interrogate why it is that the word “bust” still haunts Rogers 13 years after his last snap.

The Rogers in the segment is tired and lonely. He’s a wiser, older version of a person who said he raised himself in one of the roughest cities in the country. Who fathered two kids before embarking on his All-American career. Who felt that he truly had no one after his grandfather died in 2002, his mother largely absent from his life. Whose life further deteriorated in part because he had always perceived himself as alone and struggled to ask for help. Who showed how easy it is to make mistakes along the contours of your circumstances, like water through a stream bed, when there’s nothing to divert your path.

Yet Rogers never publicly blamed anyone or anything more than himself. And he had seemed be turning the bend from football.

“I got some kids coming up, and I know how to handle the situation better,” Rogers said in an interview with Dave “Mad Dog” DeMarco in 2017. “And I wished someone had told me how to handle the situation better. But coming up through Saginaw, ain’t too many people who have been on that level to give you advice. And it is what it is.”

Rogers died from liver failure, and had been battling cancer. I didn’t know what the “latest with Charles Rogers” was since he cropped up as a Where Are They Now curiosity two years ago. But his last impression on the people who knew him was of a happy, gracious and gifted athlete who became a man desperate to improve. And if he died acknowledging that there was still work to be done, then he left the world with a greater sum than he was given. And in our final moment, we are all we’ll ever be.

[adventures-in-raverun]

Satarra’s Second dream

You enjoy an evening of watching Atarah make a fool of herself, disgustingly cute moments between     Osmund and Sonia, and several attempts from Zunkar to try and sleep with some of the waitresses/patrons. You actually don't know how successful he's been yet, but he seems to be having a good time.

Eventually, you decided to turn in for the night, your plans to leave and find a new city to head to for work fills your thoughts as you lay down and drift off.

 While you're asleep, you have a strange dream. It starts off pretty well, you're getting rid of an enemy and you're powerful. You glance at yourself, your clothes have changed, your scales shine brighter, and as you breathe a lightning breath, the bolts spark stronger than you remember. They flicker with power, and it sends chills of excitement down your spine. You look around you, and the first thing you see is Zunkar running past you and skewering an enemy with his horns. Is it you or has he gotten…..stronger?  

 A hand rests on your arm, and you see Toradin, with a calm expression, magic emulating from him as you realize he's placed a protective spell over you. He gives you a more confident smile before grabbing his hammer and rushing off to do Moradin's work.

You hear a crunch ahead as a familiar sight of an arrow closes in. You brace for impact, but it's deflected as Adora steps in, the little debutant looking far more mature as she nods at you and strikes back at the enemy. Fairuz catches your attention as she bravely conjures a storm, better for your lightning to strike at them in. She looks wiser, capable.

 A flash of orange distracts as you see Atarah dart into battle, daggers deep in the flesh of her enemy. She looks less annoying in your eyes, as she calculates her next attack carefully.

You feel a grin as your begin to power up your next spell, focusing on the storm cloud before you. White breaks through the storm clouds as a pair of eyes from and blink at you before growing brighter and brighter till it blinds you.

 When you have your vision next, the world is silent, and you're prone on the ground. As you get up, you catch yourself looking over yourself once more. You're weaker, even weaker than you are now. When was the last time you had eaten?

Self-Preservation grabs hold as you hear something in the distance. You try to brush it off as something small and harmless before gathering your things. Your coin purse seems lighter, work must be scarce again. You take a deep breath before venturing from the clearing into the forest beyond.

 Something doesn't seem right as you continue forward, but you can't spot what it is. Suddenly, you feel something sink into your shoulder blade, pain blooming immediately in that spot. You swirl around to spot a Dragonborn, arrow poised for another strike, hate, and intent in his eyes.

"Atone for your sins, murderer." you hear him growl as another arrow lets loose, sinking into your opposite shoulder.

Returning his growl you try and release a lightning breath, but the sparks are small and inefficient. Another arrow finds your arm, the pain now rising to almost unbearable levels.

You have more weapons at your disposal and cast a spell. You couldn't recall the powerful one you were using earlier, instead, a weaker version comes out and does some damage.

You're not a fan of the circumstance.

You're better than this.

You're going to be dead at this rate.

Your body suddenly seizes at the feel of poison surging through your veins. Your feel your knees collapse as you sink to them, glaring at your enemy. He approaches, an arrow aimed for your throat.

"It's easier to kill you when you're alone." The voice sounds distorted, and it almost sounds like a familiar traitorous voice from the past. The arrow flies from its bow towards you, and you awake from the impact.

Breathing heavily you glance around the room. You're still at the Greater Pint, and you can hear slight snoring from the room next door. Not quite sure who it is.

As you glance around, you spot a ravens feather on your bed and pick it up.

The moment it touches your hand, you remember the eyes within the cloud from your dream, and a voice echoes that you're not quite sure you remembered from then…

"Choose wisely."

[themomsandthecity]

I Lost My Husband 3 Days After Welcoming Our First Baby

There I sat, my 3-day-old infant in my arms, trembling in fear as chaos and horror played out in my living room. Muffled by my bedroom door were sirens, chattering voices, and screams that will forever haunt my dreams. Frozen and in a state of shock, all I could see in my mind was the lifeless face of the only man I ever intended to love, his lips white and his body lying on the floor in an unnatural state. "I couldn't feel a pulse, but he has to be alive," I told myself. A police officer slowly opened my door and disturbingly made his way to my bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the willing arms of family members reaching out for my infant son. As the words "He's deceased" came out of the officer's mouth, all went black. A stray bullet is how the news reported the story, but we will never know the whole truth. The bullet that killed Justin went against pure logic and had a statistical probability of one in infinity. In a drunken stupor, my backyard neighbor fired his 9mm semi-automatic handgun. The bullet managed to travel through his screen door (dodging dozens of trees) over 200 feet to our home. It crashed through our glass door and blinds, continued across our living room, and finally stopped when it hit Justin in the head at the very second he jumped up from our sofa. We tend to refer to the next day as "the day the music died." I had a 3-day old-baby and now a dead husband. It's been two years since that tragic day, and at 33 years old, I see myself a much sadder but wiser girl. Going through something so horrific and life-altering not only changes the way you see the world, it transforms it. Grief is a very personal thing, and while I would never claim to be an expert on coping, I do know firsthand how to live with it. I like to compare it to a scar. More specifically, an internal scar on your heart and in your mind that follows you everywhere. A dark cloud that hovers over everything good and beautiful for the rest of your life. For one to truly understand the full gravity of the situation, you have to know the story as a whole, not just the ending. Therefore, I must jump back 19 years. I was barely a teen, a 14-year-old girl in the eighth grade, when I first met and fell in love with Justin Ayers. He could play the guitar like Jimi Hendrix and crack a joke like Jerry Seinfeld. He was a smart, talented, adorable, funny, passionate boy, and I took notice. As I think back on our love story, a specific song lyric comes to mind: "Each night I ask the stars up above, why must I be a teenager in love?" I would sob, "Why can't we just get married today?" My friends and family (with the exception of my mom) would chuckle at the idea, dismissing us as kids who would grow up and realize it's just the hormones. But I never once doubted. In 2003 (one year after I graduated high school), we finally tied the knot. Over the next 10 years, Justin and I made our own rules in life. We had several goals we wanted to pursue, so we decided to wait to start a family, knowing we needed time to grow up. We formed multiple bands, traveled for leisure and work, and wrote and recorded an album together. It was definitely outside the norm, but it was our norm, and we savored it. Then one morning, I woke up and suddenly felt different. I wanted a baby! And Justin agreed. We'd been married for 10 years, and we both knew we were ready to become parents. We got busy between the sheets and in September 2013, I became pregnant with our son, Jax. On June 14, 2014, I remember looking at my infant son and realizing, "I finally understand!" His hair was thick and silky, his lips were bright red, and his eyes were captivating. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, bringing a child into this world has to be one of the most incredible feelings a woman can experience in life. A few minor birthing complications cost us an extra day in the hospital, but on the third evening, we were released and went home to be a family. We tend to refer to the next day as "the day the music died." I had a 3-day-old baby and now a dead husband. I was a brand-new mother and now a widow at only 31 years old. I never had a chance to tell Justin goodbye or tell him how much I loved him. I like to think he already knew. We buried Justin on a Saturday, exactly one week after Jax was born. The day after his funeral, the crowds were starting to disperse, and my support system was dwindling down to a much smaller group. It seems incomprehensible to try to portray the level of darkness I slipped into. A darkness that is so scary, I wasn't "allowed" to be left alone for one second. Not even to take a shower. Life is a series of choices, and this choice to live started with my decision to get up off the bathroom floor and feed my infant son. "Jess, you OK in there?" my friend Casey hollered as she banged on the bathroom door, "Jax is crying and needs to eat. Do we need to break the door down?" Time seemed frozen as I realized it had been two hours since I'd snuck away to the bathroom, granting my first chance to be alone since losing Justin. I took it as my only opportunity to bask in my own misery. The light from the hall shone brightly under the door as I lay in a pool of tears staring at everyone's feet pacing back and forth. With the chill of the bathroom tile on my cheek being my only comfort from the pain, I decided in that moment that I was ready to completely give up. I wanted to die. I could hear multiple voices in the hallway, all pleading for me to open the door. But in the distance I could hear a tiny voice that resonated in my heart. It was Jax, he was hungry, and I knew I was his source for food. "We are sending someone to the store for formula," my mom said to me. That was the defining moment when I had to make a choice, life or death. I realized that even though the life I'd worked so hard for was gone, I could try and start a new one. My son needed me to survive, and I needed him. It took me over 10 minutes to actually stand to my feet, but once I did, I felt a little hopeful. Life is a series of choices, and this choice to live started with my decision to get up off the bathroom floor and feed my infant son. Over the next year, I was like a chameleon. I became so many different versions of myself that I didn't know who I was anymore. Was I Justin's wife or his widow? Was I a stay-at-home mom who used to be a musician or would I sing again? Would I ever have the opportunity to have another child? I had always wanted three. The endless questions and constant wonder consumed me from the inside out. For close to 10 months, I disappeared from any social scene, social media, or social circle that didn't include a few select people. I was hiding from the world and wasting away to nothing, a shell of my former self. Then it happened again. I looked at my now-10-month-old baby and felt ashamed. That hungry infant, once crying for mommy's milk, was now starting to talk, walk, and think. Looking at my gorgeous baby boy, I once again realized that it was time for me to make another choice between life or death. Looking back on the last two years of my life, I realize how many choices and decisions I had to make to arrive where I'm at today. I needed to find "me" again, and that required throwing myself back into my biggest passion, which had ironically become my biggest fear: music. My love for performing and music was something I shared with Justin, and it was now something I was forced to explore on my own. By sheer circumstance, I reconnected with a former bandmate and was presented with the opportunity to fill in on a few gigs. With much hesitation, I accepted. Declining the opportunity and turning my back on what I used to love would have been the much safer bet. But I knew it would mean I would end up spending the rest of my life running away from the pain and the joy it would bring. The roller coaster of emotions I go through during a live show are endless. However, I choose to face them every night because in the end, the good outweighs the bad. I maintain the idea though that the happiness I experience day to day is by my own choosing. Every single day I wake up like everyone else and I'm faced with a choice. Some days I hate life and choose to be sad, angry, hurt, scared, resentful, and lonely. Other days I feel blessed and choose to be happy, optimistic, thankful, forgiving, and compassionate. Each day is a new decision, and with each decision brings a new outcome. I can only hope I'm making the right choices for my future, especially for Jax's. When I close my eyes at night, I like to tell myself three things: I will be eternally grateful for you, my mommy! I will forever worship you, my Justin! And I will always love you, my Jax! Some of the greatest quotes in life come to us in the form of song lyrics. So, I will leave you with these words from Aerosmith: "Life's a journey, not a destination. And I just can't tell just what tomorrow brings." Jessica Ayers recently founded a foundation for young widowed mothers. For more, visit her website, The Singing Widow, where she blogs about life, loss, and motherhood. http://bit.ly/2nLrAGj

[werewolves-are-real]

Uprising

This fic has bugged me awhile because I... don’t entirely know where it’s going? I have ideas but I have too many, incompatible ideas. It’s for Dragon Age and is I think a bigger AU than I’ve done before (in terms of just... the world, because all the characters are spread out and it’s tricky to make everything fit right).

Anyway, this is the intended first chapter +a bit more because I never properly post things on AO3 until they’re finished (I’ll never finish, otherwise).

Emprise du Lion, 9:40 Dragon

_____________________________

Solas wakes.

When he went to the trance it was spring, but white frost glitters over his cloak, his faded robes now only held together by webs of silver enchantment. Sitting up takes a few minutes; drifts of snow have flurried in, melted, frozen again, and he sticks to the floor. Finally he burns away these shards of ice with an impatient flare of magic, then immediately regrets it.

The temple's ceiling has caved in. Broad-leafed vines, viciously defying the weather, curl over the edges of the ruins and sprawl down above his head. Solas looks around the empty room and then paces it once, twice. The space is small. There can be no mistake, but he probes with another dear wisp of magic anyway.

Dark spots blossom in front of his eyes. Solas stops and grabs the wall for balance.

His power has been stolen.

The idea yawns in front of him, impossibly horrible, but Solas shakes it away. There are few who could use his power; none left, now, who could access it as it was contained. June, Felon'din, Sylaise – they are all gone. They cannot return.

(He has tried. He has tried.)

His staff is gone, too, but Solas has never needed tools for all his magic. Not even now, weakened as he is. With the slightest of sighs he steps forward, falling up into the body of a terrible black wolf, three-eyed, its stiff fur bristling with hard spines of pure magic.

This behemoth squeezes through the temple's door with his head low to the ground. Outside the statue of a wolf sits judging an empty courtyard. Statues of elvhen archers spot the distance, barely visible between the fragments of more crumbled stone and vines.

Solas starts to walk.

After resting, walking, hunting down a rabbit, fighting off a particularly stupid bear, and stopping for three more breaks, Solas is forced to admit that he is concerned. He should not be so exhausted, even without the powers left within his orb. He may have made a misjudgement before consigning himself to the deep sleep.

He had hoped to wake in a kinder world, his mistakes forgotten. But he cannot forget, and as he walks through the silent, snow-covered forest he wonders with rising horror if there is anyone else even alive to remember.

Finally, at last, he spots the town.

It's a pitiful little thing, a hodge-podge of little houses crammed together near a wall. The poorest of Mythal's slaves lived in better comfort. And, drawing near, he realizes with contempt that there are no people here after all. Small, squat shapes flicker between the houses, some slow, bent with age, others smaller and darting. Quicklings.

Solas paces at the trees' border. These short-lived things began appearing by the People's territory after his mistake. He has only heard rumors of their harshness, but he believes those tales; they cannot be natural. He crouches lower into the brush – a pitiful camouflage for his great, shadowy hulk of fur – and watches as two old women step out between a pair of houses and move toward the forests.

“Quit your sighing, now, I will not have it,” one sniffs. “There will be food even for you – I finally sold that old mine away, and what does it get me? I must provide for everyone else, of course. You should be grateful.”

“Yes, miss.”

The words are useless gibberish. The second woman carries a basket and trails behind the first. Solas gets a look at her and flinches. Short, small, weak – and pointed ears.

Old.

So the curse continues.

And so does the slavery of his brethren, somehow. She has Falon'din's markings. The two make more sounds, but some burning lure pulls him forward. He must know. After all these years – all this time -

The quickling sees him and cries out, jumping away. And the half-person screams, far louder, and says, “Fen'Harel!”

Good.

The half-person faints, and the quickling runs back into the town, leaving her behind.

Solas hesitates. He is accustomed to many reactions – awe and submission and scorn, all – but this is new. After some contemplation he resumes his elvhen form.

The women stirs slowly. She cringes away until she sees him, then quickly gasps out a string of useless sounds.

“I cannot understand you,” Solas says impatiently. “Can you not talk?”

The woman – Solas supposes she must be called some form of elf, or something like – hesitates. “You... see him?” She asks anxiously, in a garbled version of the proper language. “Fen'Harel?”

Solas ignores the question. “Are there People here?”

“No,” says the women. “ - Only me.” She looks over Solas anxiously. His appearance doesn't seem to have comforted her much. “...Magic,” she says suddenly.

Solas frowns.

“You,” a string of the sounds, “magic?” and she gestures at his long glimmering robes, the bands of silver around his arms he has all but forgotten. He looks down at himself.

“I suppose,” he dismisses.

The elf steps back. Before she can respond three men come rushing forward from the edge of the town. Only one is properly armed, but that man wears a fine coat of armor. Embossed on the front is the symbol of a sword wreathed in flames. It is not a symbol Solas recognizes.

The soldier yells something; the elven woman leaps away, and Solas finds himself staring indifferently at the end of a sword.

“Did you summon the beast here, apostate?” The man demands.

The words mean nothing.

“I have been dreaming,” he tells the woman who looks almost elvhen, the only one here who matters. “What is this place?”

The woman jabbers at the man with the sword.

The soldier raises his arms and starts to chant.

Glass and oil spread over Solas' skin, into his skin, constricting his heart and seizing his lungs. Flickers of lightning crackle from his fingers and then disappear – snuffed in an instant. It's like the veil, he thinks absurdly. A veil in his own body. What have these creatures accomplished?

But Solas can traverse his own veil; he can overcome this, too. He raises one hand and sweeps a sputtering line of fire at the soldier.

The woman screams. The soldier and the men jump away, gaping and yelling, like somehow they didn't expect him to respond to an assault on his very magic. But the effort makes him stumble.

When the soldier raises his sword again he takes the wiser part of valor and flees. He shifts as soon as he is hidden in the undergrowth, and for two more nights he runs with the memory of that frightened elf-like face and the red lines of Falon'din burning in his mind.

One of his own strongholds is toward the east, hidden by strong magics, but that safe-haven is a last resort which will probably be deserted in his absence; it will tell him nothing of the world. Solas makes his way west, after a fashion, and the land levels out into green valleys and thick groves of trees. Green vines and emerald leaves tangling over the old stones of temples fallen into disrepair.

Here, again, the old gods lay destroyed.

It is everything Solas once wanted, but he treads among these fallen testaments to the evanuris with unease. Stone wolf sentinels guard the plains, the clearest and most respectful remnants of the past. They might be a sign of respect, or even of worship. He never could convince some of his followers to treat him as anything but a god.

Offerings sit before some of the wolves in tiny platters. Someone, then, must live nearby, but he finds no trace of civilization.

After days of searching he treads deep into one of the more recognizable temples, a lonely bastion to Mythal. It is one of many and he does not recognize it. He sleeps in the shadows, and dreams, and crosses through the Fade.

Wisdom meets him.

You are back, says the spirit. You were here so long so where did you go?

“I woke,” Solas answers. “I returned to the physical world.”

But spirits have little understanding of this world, that world. Not even Wisdom. Why did you leave, Wisdom asks.

“Because I could not stay,” Solas responds, which seems to satisfy. “I would like your assistance. There is a language I do not know. I heard it several days ago; can you teach me?”

Why do you want to -

“I am asking about the People,” says Solas. “I must discover what became of them after my mistakes. I must know who escaped the evanuris.”

Wisdom grieves for him in flares of blue and gray-white. I will teach you, teach you, it says. And then, amending: I will try.

Solas discovers cooking fires and fresh pits – signs of recent camps – but moves on anyway after retrieving a staff from a derelict temple to Elgar'nan. The wolf-sentinels and dead shrines loom like hollow corpses.

He moves ever westward until the edge of the sea thins and fades and he comes across another group of quicklings. By now Solas feels more confident with the clumsy words of their unwieldy, blocky tongue. Wisdom teaches him the words in exchange for knowledge and glittering tricks, though he lacks the context to shape them with the right inflection, to understand hidden meanings, to smile or even frown when strange phrases fly past his ears.

There are some phrases he hears – May the Maker bless you, the Maker protect you the Maker guide you and Curse you and Hate you – that he cannot understand at all. But he checks his arms and fingers for the tell-tale signs of a miscast ice spell when he first sees the benevolent figure of a stone matron in the first city he enters, holding court like the second coming of Mythal herself. A brazier sits in her hand like a beacon to the world, but Solas does not recognize her. Her ears are blunt and dulled. Quicklings worship other quicklings, but he must believe that the farce is all the same.

Some things never change.

There are no elves in this city, but when he asks, the quicklings wave him out, out, talking about a people called the Dalish, wanderers and nomads. He finds a group of them in the north.

The Dalish village reminds him of a slave camp – one of those terrified, overwrought huddles of people on the outskirts of Arlathan. Refugees who live on the fringe of society after desperately fleeing from their masters. Such people must always be approached carefully.

He says, “My name is Solas.”

A hunter approaches him and responds, “Go away, shem. We do not want you here.”

Solas does not know the word. But it sounds elvhen, though they speak to him in the quickling tongue. The strange woman has the stern vallaslin of Andruil upon her cheeks and brow, but the other Dalish wear a scattering of random marks. The children are not marked at all, like they have been picked for sale instead of being established servants of the evanuris.

He does not understand.

“What gods do you serve,” Solas asks. But the hunter only scowls.

He ignores the warning of the hunter, and when the other Dalish notice him he is welcomed reluctantly. The Keeper, who wears the vallaslin of Sylaise, asks him to sit by the fire; it rests within a wide triangle of three of the camp's aravels, the rest of which are penned in a small square to confine a tiny herd of halla.

Solas repeats the question to the Keeper, who seems more tolerant despite the suspicious looks Solas begins to attract. “There are nine elvhen gods,” the Keeper explains patiently, as though he does not know this. “There is Mythal, the all-mother, to whom we pray for protection; Elgar'nan, who - “

“But who do you serve,” Solas interrupts.

The Keeper frowns. “We are Dalish,” the man says. “We serve all the gods.” And he explains what this means.

The thought is ludicrous; the evanuris quarrel too much to possibly share servants. As Solas listens he realizes all at once that this Keeper, these Dalish, are entirely deluded. They serve no one. They dedicate themselves to remnants of a religion and order that no longer exists. They waste their lives.

The Keeper finishes his recitation by saying that Fen'Harel is a trickster, a coward, and the enemy of all the gods. He is the bringer of death and destruction; he brings deliberate death to the Dalish whenever he can.

“So you understand nothing at all,” Solas concludes when the Keeper's explanation is finished. The old elf looks irritated.

“You cannot say that, shem,” says the young elvhen hunter from earlier. “Our gods are far older than your Maker.”

“I do not know of any Maker,” says Solas. “But your stories are ridiculous fabrications. You have completely misconstrued even the basic attributes of your own deities – and even those details were, themselves, nonsensical pieces of propaganda even at the time of Elvhenan.”

The hunter scoffs. She is not the only one to look angry. “Next you will tell me you know what Arlathan looked like, and perhaps the ancient elves were friends with qunari and they all fought the Imperium together. You don't know more about our history than anyone. Less, I should think. If you cannot bother to be polite to your hosts, shem, feel free to leave.”

“Sanaya,” the Keeper reproves mildly. But he does not seem to disagree.

But Solas just nods and does indeed his leave; he has learned enough. In any case he has a new goal, now, entirely unintended.

'Next you will tell me you know what Arlathan look like', the woman said. But whatever could have happened to that great city, the capital of the elvhen world, which was still standing proud even as Solas sunk into the deep dreams of uthenara?

II.

Orlais is like a pale reflection of the world he once knew, glittering on the surface and filled with subtle poison. It does not shine like Arlathan, but the cities are airy and have a quick beauty on the surface; one must look deep to see ugliness, poverty. One must wind into the deepest crags of the towns to find elves.

The elves and the humans live together, which is one more thing Solas cannot understand. Their lives are equal now, he supposes, short and terrible, but he cannot imagine what they might have in common. And the elves, for some reason, seem to be treated poorly. He understands this when he walks through Val Royeax and gets called knife ear three times for simply peering at shop displays.

He disposes of his useless silver ornaments, the ancient and priceless remnants of elvhenan that came with him through the sleep. He is paid a pittance. “Are you planning on selling that?” someone asks Solas when he steps under a low veranda. The young woman nods at his staff; this little shop holds a few magickal oddities.

“No, of course not,” Solas says. “Though it does not quite suit me; I really must find a better one.”

The human shopkeeper smiles fixedly. “ - Oh,” she says. “  - You're. Actually a mage?”

“Of course.”

“Are you from Tevinter?” The woman asks nervously, eyeing him.

“No.”

“Are you a warden?”

Solas doesn't know what that is. “No.”

The woman nods weakly. “I see,” she says.

It could be useful to purchase a runestone, but his funds must be saved; he will have to make his way to another of his safehouses and find some stored treasures sometime. He should have a better staff somewhere, too. Solas leaves quietly and wonders where he might find this town's elves; he has barely seen anyone worth talking to in this place.

Within a few minutes he has finished walking through the main square – oddly empty of people - and has just resolved to try the docks when half a dozen soldiers seem to step out from nowhere and surround him. Each of them bear polished swords and polished armor, all emblazoned with a strangely familiar sigil of flames. After a moment Solas recognizes the sign. It is the same symbol as that of the man who attack him when he first woke from Uthenara.

“You need to come with us, mage,” their leader says.

“Why?” Solas asks slowly. He shifts his staff to position it against the ground, noting that several of the soldiers shift in response.

“Are you from a local circle? Are you an apostate?”

“I do not understand what you think I have done.”

This only seems to make the commander angrier. “You're a magic user!” he accuses.

“And is that a crime?

The humans look at him like he's insane. Ah. Solas lifts his staff.

The commander lifts his sword.

A terrible, glassy feeling sweeps over Solas. He can't feel his staff at all for a moment – he can see it but it doesn't exist, and there is cold wood between his fingers but nothing, nothing. There is no substance and no magic. There is no magic anywhere. The world flatlines to lines, angles, grayscale colors that threaten to tip him back into the endless sleep.

An arrow spins down and sinks into the commander's shoulder.

[themomsandthecity]

I Lost My Husband 3 Days After Welcoming Our First Baby

There I sat, my 3-day-old infant in my arms, trembling in fear as chaos and horror played out in my living room. Muffled by my bedroom door were sirens, chattering voices, and screams that will forever haunt my dreams. Frozen and in a state of shock, all I could see in my mind was the lifeless face of the only man I ever intended to love, his lips white and his body lying on the floor in an unnatural state. "I couldn't feel a pulse, but he has to be alive," I told myself. A police officer slowly opened my door and disturbingly made his way to my bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the willing arms of family members reaching out for my infant son. As the words "He's deceased" came out of the officer's mouth, all went black. A stray bullet is how the news reported the story, but we will never know the whole truth. The bullet that killed Justin went against pure logic and had a statistical probability of one in infinity. In a drunken stupor, my backyard neighbor fired his 9mm semi-automatic handgun. The bullet managed to travel through his screen door (dodging dozens of trees) over 200 feet to our home. It crashed through our glass door and blinds, continued across our living room, and finally stopped when it hit Justin in the head at the very second he jumped up from our sofa. We tend to refer to the next day as "the day the music died." I had a 3-day old-baby and now a dead husband.It's been two years since that tragic day, and at 33 years old, I see myself a much sadder but wiser girl. Going through something so horrific and life-altering not only changes the way you see the world, it transforms it. Grief is a very personal thing, and while I would never claim to be an expert on coping, I do know firsthand how to live with it. I like to compare it to a scar. More specifically, an internal scar on your heart and in your mind that follows you everywhere. A dark cloud that hovers over everything good and beautiful for the rest of your life. For one to truly understand the full gravity of the situation, you have to know the story as a whole, not just the ending. Therefore, I must jump back 19 years. I was barely a teen, a 14-year-old girl in the eighth grade, when I first met and fell in love with Justin Ayers. He could play the guitar like Jimi Hendrix and crack a joke like Jerry Seinfeld. He was a smart, talented, adorable, funny, passionate boy, and I took notice. As I think back on our love story, a specific song lyric comes to mind: "Each night I ask the stars up above, why must I be a teenager in love?" I would sob, "Why can't we just get married today?" My friends and family (with the exception of my mom) would chuckle at the idea, dismissing us as kids who would grow up and realize it's just the hormones. But I never once doubted. In 2003 (one year after I graduated high school), we finally tied the knot. Over the next 10 years, Justin and I made our own rules in life. We had several goals we wanted to pursue, so we decided to wait to start a family, knowing we needed time to grow up. We formed multiple bands, traveled for leisure and work, and wrote and recorded an album together. It was definitely outside the norm, but it was our norm, and we savored it. Then one morning, I woke up and suddenly felt different. I wanted a baby! And Justin agreed. We'd been married for 10 years, and we both knew we were ready to become parents. We got busy between the sheets and in September 2013, I became pregnant with our son, Jax. On June 14, 2014, I remember looking at my infant son and realizing, "I finally understand!" His hair was thick and silky, his lips were bright red, and his eyes were captivating. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, bringing a child into this world has to be one of the most incredible feelings a woman can experience in life. A few minor birthing complications cost us an extra day in the hospital, but on the third evening, we were released and went home to be a family. We tend to refer to the next day as "the day the music died." I had a 3-day-old baby and now a dead husband. I was a brand-new mother and now a widow at only 31 years old. I never had a chance to tell Justin goodbye or tell him how much I loved him. I like to think he already knew. We buried Justin on a Saturday, exactly one week after Jax was born. The day after his funeral, the crowds were starting to disperse, and my support system was dwindling down to a much smaller group. It seems incomprehensible to try to portray the level of darkness I slipped into. A darkness that is so scary, I wasn't "allowed" to be left alone for one second. Not even to take a shower. Life is a series of choices, and this choice to live started with my decision to get up off the bathroom floor and feed my infant son."Jess, you OK in there?" my friend Casey hollered as she banged on the bathroom door, "Jax is crying and needs to eat. Do we need to break the door down?" Time seemed frozen as I realized it had been two hours since I'd snuck away to the bathroom, granting my first chance to be alone since losing Justin. I took it as my only opportunity to bask in my own misery. The light from the hall shone brightly under the door as I lay in a pool of tears staring at everyone's feet pacing back and forth. With the chill of the bathroom tile on my cheek being my only comfort from the pain, I decided in that moment that I was ready to completely give up. I wanted to die. I could hear multiple voices in the hallway, all pleading for me to open the door. But in the distance I could hear a tiny voice that resonated in my heart. It was Jax, he was hungry, and I knew I was his source for food. "We are sending someone to the store for formula," my mom said to me. That was the defining moment when I had to make a choice, life or death. I realized that even though the life I'd worked so hard for was gone, I could try and start a new one. My son needed me to survive, and I needed him. It took me over 10 minutes to actually stand to my feet, but once I did, I felt a little hopeful. Life is a series of choices, and this choice to live started with my decision to get up off the bathroom floor and feed my infant son. Over the next year, I was like a chameleon. I became so many different versions of myself that I didn't know who I was anymore. Was I Justin's wife or his widow? Was I a stay-at-home mom who used to be a musician or would I sing again? Would I ever have the opportunity to have another child? I had always wanted three. The endless questions and constant wonder consumed me from the inside out. For close to 10 months, I disappeared from any social scene, social media, or social circle that didn't include a few select people. I was hiding from the world and wasting away to nothing, a shell of my former self. Then it happened again. I looked at my now-10-month-old baby and felt ashamed. That hungry infant, once crying for mommy's milk, was now starting to talk, walk, and think. Looking at my gorgeous baby boy, I once again realized that it was time for me to make another choice between life or death. Looking back on the last two years of my life, I realize how many choices and decisions I had to make to arrive where I'm at today. I needed to find "me" again, and that required throwing myself back into my biggest passion, which had ironically become my biggest fear: music. My love for performing and music was something I shared with Justin, and it was now something I was forced to explore on my own. By sheer circumstance, I reconnected with a former bandmate and was presented with the opportunity to fill in on a few gigs. With much hesitation, I accepted. Declining the opportunity and turning my back on what I used to love would have been the much safer bet. But I knew it would mean I would end up spending the rest of my life running away from the pain and the joy it would bring. The roller coaster of emotions I go through during a live show are endless. However, I choose to face them every night because in the end, the good outweighs the bad. I maintain the idea though that the happiness I experience day to day is by my own choosing. Every single day I wake up like everyone else and I'm faced with a choice. Some days I hate life and choose to be sad, angry, hurt, scared, resentful, and lonely. Other days I feel blessed and choose to be happy, optimistic, thankful, forgiving, and compassionate. Each day is a new decision, and with each decision brings a new outcome. I can only hope I'm making the right choices for my future, especially for Jax's. When I close my eyes at night, I like to tell myself three things: I will be eternally grateful for you, my mommy! I will forever worship you, my Justin! And I will always love you, my Jax! Some of the greatest quotes in life come to us in the form of song lyrics. So, I will leave you with these words from Aerosmith: "Life's a journey, not a destination. And I just can't tell just what tomorrow brings." Jessica Ayers recently founded a foundation for young widowed mothers. For more, visit her website, The Singing Widow, where she blogs about life, loss, and motherhood. http://bit.ly/2fZmqjU