#celebrate World Wide Web Day

[manasastuff-blog]

"World Wide Web Day" #trending#viral

Celebrate World Wide Web Day by understanding its profound impact on our daily routines, communication, and access to information. This dives deep into why World Wide Web Day is celebrated globally, exploring how it has revolutionized how we live, work, and connect. From facilitating instant communication to providing a wealth of knowledge at our fingertips, the World Wide Web has become an indispensable part of modern life. Join us as we uncover surprising facts and historical milestones that highlight the significance of this pivotal innovation. Discover how the web has shaped various aspects of society, from education and commerce to entertainment and social interactions.

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#WorldWideWebDay#WebDayImportance#InternetRevolution#CelebrateWebDay#TechHistory#WebImpact#DigitalTransformation#WebMilestones#TechCelebration#GlobalConnectivity#trending#viral#manasadefenceacademy

[mediaheights]

International Mother Language Day is celebrated annually on 21 February worldwide to aware of the diversity of the language and its variety. Our Mother language Punjabi, the official language of the state, is the tenth most widely spoken language in the world. It is also the fourth most spoken language in Asia. It is the only living language among the Indo-European languages which is a fully tonal language. Punjabi is written in the Gurmukhi Script.

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[mostlysignssomeportents]

How lock-in hurts design

Berliners: Otherland has added a second date (Jan 28) for my book-talk after the first one sold out - book now!

If you've ever read about design, you've probably encountered the idea of "paving the desire path." A "desire path" is an erosion path created by people departing from the official walkway and taking their own route. The story goes that smart campus planners don't fight the desire paths laid down by students; they pave them, formalizing the route that their constituents have voted for with their feet.

Desire paths aren't always great (Wikipedia notes that "desire paths sometimes cut through sensitive habitats and exclusion zones, threatening wildlife and park security"), but in the context of design, a desire path is a way that users communicate with designers, creating a feedback loop between those two groups. The designers make a product, the users use it in ways that surprise the designer, and the designer integrates all that into a new revision of the product.

This method is widely heralded as a means of "co-innovating" between users and companies. Designers who practice the method are lauded for their humility, their willingness to learn from their users. Tech history is strewn with examples of successful paved desire-paths.

Take John Deere. While today the company is notorious for its war on its customers (via its opposition to right to repair), Deere was once a leader in co-innovation, dispatching roving field engineers to visit farms and learn how farmers had modified their tractors. The best of these modifications would then be worked into the next round of tractor designs, in a virtuous cycle:

https://securityledger.com/2019/03/opinion-my-grandfathers-john-deere-would-support-our-right-to-repair/

But this pattern is even more pronounced in the digital world, because it's much easier to update a digital service than it is to update all the tractors in the field, especially if that service is cloud-based, meaning you can modify the back-end everyone is instantly updated. The most celebrated example of this co-creation is Twitter, whose users created a host of its core features.

Retweets, for example, were a user creation. Users who saw something they liked on the service would type "RT" and paste the text and the link into a new tweet composition window. Same for quote-tweets: users copied the URL for a tweet and pasted it in below their own commentary. Twitter designers observed this user innovation and formalized it, turning it into part of Twitter's core feature-set.

Companies are obsessed with discovering digital desire paths. They pay fortunes for analytics software to produce maps of how their users interact with their services, run focus groups, even embed sneaky screen-recording software into their web-pages:

https://www.wired.com/story/the-dark-side-of-replay-sessions-that-record-your-every-move-online/

This relentless surveillance of users is pursued in the name of making things better for them: let us spy on you and we'll figure out where your pain-points and friction are coming from, and remove those. We all win!

But this impulse is a world apart from the humility and respect implied by co-innovation. The constant, nonconsensual observation of users has more to do with controlling users than learning from them.

That is, after all, the ethos of modern technology: the more control a company can exert over its users ,the more value it can transfer from those users to its shareholders. That's the key to enshittification, the ubiquitous platform decay that has degraded virtually all the technology we use, making it worse every day:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

When you are seeking to control users, the desire paths they create are all too frequently a means to wrestling control back from you. Take advertising: every time a service makes its ads more obnoxious and invasive, it creates an incentive for its users to search for "how do I install an ad-blocker":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

More than half of all web-users have installed ad-blockers. It's the largest consumer boycott in human history:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

But zero app users have installed ad-blockers, because reverse-engineering an app requires that you bypass its encryption, triggering liability under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. This law provides for a $500,000 fine and a 5-year prison sentence for "circumvention" of access controls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/12/youre-holding-it-wrong/#if-dishwashers-were-iphones

Beyond that, modifying an app creates liability under copyright, trademark, patent, trade secrets, noncompete, nondisclosure and so on. It's what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

This is why services are so horny to drive you to install their app rather using their websites: they are trying to get you to do something that, given your druthers, you would prefer not to do. They want to force you to exit through the gift shop, you want to carve a desire path straight to the parking lot. Apps let them mobilize the law to literally criminalize those desire paths.

An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to block ads in it (or do anything else that wrestles value back from a company). Apps are web-pages where everything not forbidden is mandatory.

Seen in this light, an app is a way to wage war on desire paths, to abandon the cooperative model for co-innovation in favor of the adversarial model of user control and extraction.

Corporate apologists like to claim that the proliferation of apps proves that users like them. Neoliberal economists love the idea that business as usual represents a "revealed preference." This is an intellectually unserious tautology: "you do this, so you must like it":

https://boingboing.net/2024/01/22/hp-ceo-says-customers-are-a-bad-investment-unless-they-can-be-made-to-buy-companys-drm-ink-cartridges.html

Calling an action where no alternatives are permissible a "preference" or a "choice" is a cheap trick – especially when considered against the "preferences" that reveal themselves when a real choice is possible. Take commercial surveillance: when Apple gave Ios users a choice about being spied on – a one-click opt of of app-based surveillance – 96% of users choice no spying:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/05/96-of-us-users-opt-out-of-app-tracking-in-ios-14-5-analytics-find/

But then Apple started spying on those very same users that had opted out of spying by Facebook and other Apple competitors:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Neoclassical economists aren't just obsessed with revealed preferences – they also love to bandy about the idea of "moral hazard": economic arrangements that tempt people to be dishonest. This is typically applied to the public ("consumers" in the contemptuous parlance of econospeak). But apps are pure moral hazard – for corporations. The ability to prohibit desire paths – and literally imprison rivals who help your users thwart those prohibitions – is too tempting for companies to resist.

The fact that the majority of web users block ads reveals a strong preference for not being spied on ("users just want relevant ads" is such an obvious lie that doesn't merit any serious discussion):

https://www.iccl.ie/news/82-of-the-irish-public-wants-big-techs-toxic-algorithms-switched-off/

Giant companies attained their scale by learning from their users, not by thwarting them. The person using technology always knows something about what they need to do and how they want to do it that the designers can never anticipate. This is especially true of people who are unlike those designers – people who live on the other side of the world, or the other side of the economic divide, or whose bodies don't work the way that the designers' bodies do:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/20/benevolent-dictators/#felony-contempt-of-business-model

Apps – and other technologies that are locked down so their users can be locked in – are the height of technological arrogance. They embody a belief that users are to be told, not heard. If a user wants to do something that the designer didn't anticipate, that's the user's fault:

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

Corporate enthusiasm for prohibiting you from reconfiguring the tools you use to suit your needs is a declaration of the end of history. "Sure," John Deere execs say, "we once learned from farmers by observing how they modified their tractors. But today's farmers are so much stupider and we are so much smarter that we have nothing to learn from them anymore."

Spying on your users to control them is a poor substitute asking your users their permission to learn from them. Without technological self-determination, preferences can't be revealed. Without the right to seize the means of computation, the desire paths never emerge, leaving designers in the dark about what users really want.

Our policymakers swear loyalty to "innovation" but when corporations ask for the right to decide who can innovate and how, they fall all over themselves to create laws that let companies punish users for the crime of contempt of business-model.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/24/everything-not-mandatory/#is-prohibited

Image: Belem (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Desire_path_%2819811581366%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[vrisrezis]

Love triangle?? With atsv characters

Basically a love triangle between them, their spider alter ego and you … ?

Gwen has been longtime best friends with you and Peter for what feels like forever. Even after peters passing, you and Gwen remained close. Throughout the years, it was only natural for gwen to fall for you, her best friend. Peter had often encouraged her to try and go for it, but she never gave in to the temptation. Not when she has been lying to you for so long about who she really was. While her dad did often speak his mind on the mysterious spiderwoman and his doubts, you always seemed excited talking about her. It didn’t take long for her to find out you were not only a huge fan, but definitely had a bit of a crush.

This was amusing to her, obviously. But it also made her wonder if you felt nothing for the real her, and you just liked some alter ego of hers because she was cool and saved the day or whatever.

How you and spiderwoman met, was not under the best of circumstances. As you can imagine.

Growing up, you were always pretty tough. Fighting for and defending Peter against bullies, it was what drawn gwen to you right away. You always stood up for others, and perhaps in the real world it’d get you in more trouble, trying to help a defenses old man against some mugger, you nearly got real hurt in the process. Thankfully, your celebrity crush was there to web him up.

She remembers the look you gave her, you were so.. awestruck.

You never looked at her like that. Not the real her, anyway.

“Thank you spiderwoman!” you say with glee, a word she would almost never use to describe you.

She clears her throat, seeming off guard by the way you greeted her. Or perhaps she was caught off guard by how beautiful you looked in the moonlight. Is it hot outside or is it just her suit?

“Uh… uh…” she hesitates for a moment, before displaying faux confidence. She nods in understanding, “anytime, hopefully next time I’ll see you under better circumstances, cutie.” she says with a wink, before swinging away.

There’s practically hearts in your eyes, did spider woman… just flirt with you?!

Meanwhile, gwen is freaking the hell out over the fact she just said that. It’s certainly easier to flirt under the mask, she supposes.

You didn’t shut up about spiderwoman for the next week.

Miles was one of your best friends, had been for over a year now. Although this friendship, to many seemed newly found, to you both it felt like you knew eachother forever. You often ignored how Ganke never failed to mention that’s something people in love say about eachother.

Ganke was a close friend to the both of you. He was also very much aware of how miles was keeping this huge secret from you, and he often relayed to miles how he should just tell you already. Miles said no, everytime. So ganke had to resort to desperate measures, on one of your many hangouts with the two males.

“Hey, I’m curious.” Ganke starts, “what do you think of Spiderman?”

Miles nearly chokes, he looks wide eyed at ganke, as if ganke just killed a cat. Honestly, ganke is surprised miles hadn’t brought up Spiderman to you himself before, but honestly miles was terrified of what you actually thought, to the point he didn’t want it mentioned at all in front of you.

But your immediate grin makes miles almost audibly sigh.

“I think he’s awesome! Way cooler than the other one to be honest like wow have you seen that suit? Nice color.” Miles couldn’t help but notice the way your eyes lit up in excitement. How come he hasn’t heard you talk about spiderman before if you liked him so much?

“Hey, miles?”

“Huh?!” he yells, his voice becoming so high pitched it sounded like he was just hitting puberty, making you laugh.

“I- I mean.. yeah… what’s up?”

“Do you think he’s … cute?” you ask, rather curious what miles thinks of spiderman.

Ganke almost laughs at how wide miles eyes are, somehow even wider than before.

You would eventually have the chance to meet spiderman, which was not something miles would be happy about. A fight with a particularly … tough villain had caused much damage to the city. Miles swears, today he had to pull up at least 3 buses by his webs.

However, the bus you were in, as plain as day. He couldn’t see anyone but you, the other people in the bus being a blur to him.

He was scared, so so so scared. The moment you’re out and safe, he wants to hug you. He almost does, but he’s able to restrain himself once he feels gwen tug his arm, warning him of how weird that’d be.

He sighs, but he sees you smile at him, grateful. He’s blissfully unaware of how hot your cheeks are, seeing him in the flesh, in person.

You wonder if he’d be okay with signing an autograph.

Hobie was never the type for being subtle. He was blunt, but because of his casualness about it people do not take what he says seriously. He didn’t plan on making a strong effort to hide being spiderman from you. Because he trusts you, with his life in fact.

You two have fought together on many different occasions, way before he became spiderman. People didn’t like either of you, when you were young at least. Strong and unafraid, and like him, you often spoke your mind about things. Granted, you were a lot nicer about it but still. It’s something he definitely likes about you. To him, falling for you just felt natural. Like it was meant to happen. Like falling for you was second nature.

But over his time of becoming spiderman, he had … well… found out you had a major crush on his alter ego. You did not shut up about how “babygirl” he was. And while this was amusing at first, it annoyed him a little. Did that mean you weren’t interested in him, as hobie, romantically? And if you did find out who he really was, would you still like spiderman? Or would it ruin the imagination for you? And if you did, would it only be because he’s spiderman?

A lot of questions circle his mind, a lot of worry and it isn’t like him. He really hates it. Only you can manage to do that to him.

Eventually, the two of you do end up meeting.

You were known for being a fighter, laws or not, you didn’t care, maybe a bit headstrong in your beliefs. Maybe you got too caught up in things, as you often did. Difference was, hobie was not there to back you up. As he often was.

Not this time though, as apparently Hobie had some unfinished business to deal with. You had no idea what that meant, but you trusted hobie enough that he wouldn’t go off doing something stupid without you.

You were not hobie however, and did something stupid without him.

While yes, the guy had harassed you first and you had every right to be angry with him, you probably shouldn’t have provoked such a big and muscular looking guy. There’s no way you could take him in a fight, but you could always try.

Before you even had the gall to fight this guy, before he can even pull the first punch, webs are shot his way. You gasp in surprise, turning behind you to see the one and only.

His movements are quick, and honestly, spiderman struggles for a little.

If even he struggled during that fight, you didn’t stand a chance. But you’re too busy absolutely fangirl/boy/theythem’ing to even care.

Once everything was said and done, Spiderman turned around to take a look at you. He was relieved you weren’t banged up or anything, though you couldn’t tell. “You aight?” he asked, and typically he was so cool and collected, but around you he had no idea how he should be acting. Thoughts from before still clouding his mind:

He lets them go for a moment upon your excited squeal and has to hold himself back from laughing.

Pavitr mentioned spiderman quite a bit, and very early on when he first became the masked vigilante. He was quick to gauge your opinions, because in his mind you’re thoughts and feelings matter the most to him.

He would quickly learn you loved the guy, so he proudly continued doing the whole superhero thing. However, as time went by he had seen your admiration for Spiderman develop into a crush. Only upon your first meeting with him, though. He couldn’t blame you, he supposed that in your eyes this guy saved your life from imminent peril. In his eyes, he was just doing something that was common sense. Saving you while you were trapped in that bus was not something he needed to think twice about.

And he certainly didn’t think twice about hugging you, either. Despite you two not really being acquainted with one another. He was quick to come to his senses, about to pull away, but you held on. And he realized you needed this hug as much as he did. He combs his fingers through your hair, as if second nature. Just like he normally did, and he was the only one that ever did that. You didn’t seem to catch on in that state, but little did he know how grateful you were towards him. He could only imagine, but it was a fraction to how you truly felt.

“Thank you, spiderman.” You say with such softness in your voice, he’s never heard it from you before.

And from that point on, he did not stop hearing you gush about the arachnid. While he often laughed this off, he wondered if that meant things would be weird between you two if he told you the truth.

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 1

NEXT >

pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 14K (i am so sorry)

warnings: descriptions of war, suggestive themes, slow burn so it's only sensual for now, religious shame and guilt

disclaimer: this work contains Catholic imagery that is a part of rofan manhwa worldbuilding tropes. "the saintess" trope itself isn't a saint in accordance with Catholic traditions, it's just a character archetype that developed over time in the isekai genre and means more of a "holy maiden chosen by god" and "healer" with "divine powers" protected by the "church" of that specific fictional world. however, i did my best to do my research. this work has nothing to do with Christianity or any other religions and is totally fictional. please keep that in mind as you proceed!

author's note: mandalhoerian goes back to her reader era! please say thank you to @chesue00 for allowing me to use her artwork in this fic, I wrote a whole scene that depicts the art piece which was the whole inspiration for this 3-day frothing at the mouth frenzy!!!!

now, Sacrosanct is a blend of tropes i love in rofan manhwa/webtoon/mangas that are my favorite, so prepare for misunderstandings galore in the future 😭 but leon specifically is inspired by malthus from hilda furacao. which just means yearning and sexual repression. re2!leon to re4!leon pipeline is just the sweet commoner knight to cold duke of the north pipeline in manhwa, and if you understand what that means, im personally sending you a virtual kiss LMAO Happy reading, I hope yall like it!

don't forget this is the first part only.... heh. the template credit

🌀READ ON AO3 !

The first blush of dawn trickles through the gaps in heavy drapes, bathing your chambers in apricot hues. Crisp echoes of rustling silk resonate as you delicately lift the mask from its velvet perch. Bathed in daybreak's golden light, coloured glass chips embedded into the mask shimmer in lost constellations. The caress of velvety smooth fabric against your skin sends shivers dancing down your spine as you tie on, freshly laundered linen smell intertwining with lingering scent of last night’s incense used in nightly prayers, hints of lavender meet smoky frankincense.

Your gaze shifts to the mirror, the mask now concealing your mortal features, intricate filigree swirling across your face in an ethereal web and tiny crystals dotted along the lines sparking like stars. Taking a deep breath to stand a little taller and square your shoulders, you reach up to adjust your veil, ensuring no errant strands of hair are visible. The gauzy fabric falls in diaphanous folds around you, the whispers arising with your every movement the only sounds in the stillness of dawn.

Though the sacred mask and veil hide your earthly form, they cannot conceal the weakness of the human soul in your eyes.

The gateway to your wishes is wide open, one closer look is all one needs to see how you yearn to walk unencumbered through the gardens, to feel the caress of sunlight on your bare skin.

But the edicts are clear - when you leave these chambers, the Saintess must be fully shrouded, an exalted vessel and naught else.

You amble down to the sacred chapel for morning prayers before breaking your fast - a custom enacted in hushed reverence. As you descend stone steps weathered by time, you're swaddled in the scent of smoldering incense permeating from open timber doors, trailing invisible veins into the invigorating morning air. Inside, familiar faces of fellow sisters and brothers offer gentle nods of greeting as you find solace before the altar, sinking onto the cushioned bench tailored specifically for you, in the name of quiet contemplation and prayerful kneeling.

In honor of Ethelion, your one true Lord, silence descends—a pause amplified by its gravitas. Then with an authority that makes everything else seem trivial in comparison, there's the priest: his directing is ripples on still water reaching out towards infinity—sound molded into sacred words known only too well to heart.

The humming drone of faith-soaked chants serves as a welcome breather from the constant ponderings on war and sacrifice that’s been plaguing you for weeks. Those gnawing realities always sneak up and nibble away at your moments of peace, but here in this church, Ethelion’s mercy reigns supreme—the refuge is heard in the choruses belted out emphatically, slicing through any weighty thoughts, their lyrics loftier than any worldly worry.

As the sun stands at its zenith above and sends shards of golden light filtering through the stained glass canvases, the ceremony unwinds. It feels like saying goodbye too soon amidst vibrant echoes of hymns that grip onto ancient brick walls built upon stories spanning centuries, currents of history carrying their inevitable fade. Here, they stand still—if only for a while—pinned by lingering notes lost in air rich with incense burn and oakwood musk coupled with memories tasting of sacramental wine still clinging to tongues.

Stepping into the courtyard, you're swathed in a prism of pastel hues—blossoms unveiling their sugared whispers to the inviting warmth of a lingering breeze. You catch wind of their fragrance; it hooks you, a blend of sweet floral undertones and spring's renewed vigor carrying history within its essence, and you cannot wait to check on your lily garden.

Children dart amongst looming pews, mischief gleaming in their eyes as they engage in hushed games, shards of laughter echoing softly around the otherwise hallowed space. The sight tugs at a wisp of nostalgia, memories when life was simpler, less layered with expectations and daunting futures.

The youngest ones eyeing your departure don't miss a beat. Like mini warriors possessed by unruly spirits, they break rank from the congregation to run after you—a whirlwind of giggles and shouts lacing the air. Their excitement thrums against your skin, buzzing like electricity—an unexpected surge that leaves behind a ghostly imprint.

Yet before they can reach you or even conflict with stone-faced paladins on guard duty, an adult hand restrains them. Respectful bows font towards you as if to acknowledge an unspoken understanding—a solemn line between what is allowed and what isn't negotiated under sacred roofs and watchful gazes.

The breaking of your fast happens solely in the intimacy of your chambers, where you can abandon the weariness of your mask.

Fresh fruits and bread baked by the monks in the kitchens await you on a simple wooden table, their colors vibrant against the muted tones of your chamber. The apples gleam like polished rubies, their skins taut and inviting, while clusters of plump grapes spill over from the plate. The bread, golden and crusty, emits a warm aroma that fills the air with comfort; its texture promises a satisfying chew that will sustain you through the day’s trials.

You pour yourself a glass of tea, steam curling up like ethereal wisps as you set it beside the fruits, its sweetness rendered by generous dollops of honey that transform each sip into liquid amber. As you bite into a slice of bread, the crust crackles under your teeth, giving way to a soft and airy interior that melts on your tongue. It’s simple fare—yet it nourishes not just your body but also stirs echoes of childhood memories spent in the kitchens, where laughter mingled with the scent of baked goods.

The weight of your impending sacred duty hangs over you like storm clouds heavy with rain.

It's not just a responsibility; it's an anchor dragging you into the depths of despair, each step forward to navigate it is like wading through molten lead.

You peer through the frost-kissed window, and the courtyard below unfolds like a battlefield before a decisive clash. Figures clad in armor move with the grace of dancers and the determination of warriors bound for glory or doom. The pieces of gleaming plate mail reflects the pale light, casting fractured rainbows on the cobbled ground.

The gleam of virgin armor, polished to a high sheen, is nothing more than a facade.

It's an ornament, untouched by the brutality of combat—it’s their holy calling that these paladins embrace, not the bloody stain of war. And yet, you sit there on your throne and hesitate to send even one amongst them into the fray for your crown's sake.

How easy would it be to fool yourself into believing that time has frozen, and these young knights in training are simply rehearsing under the guise of some distant uncertainty. But your eyes have skimmed those sealed parchment letters, their inky truths seeping more dread into an already strained air; you're not as naive as all that. The chilling certainty of the Holy War lurks just on the other side of these weathered stone walls—it's only a matter of moments before a gasping messenger dispatches reality like storm clouds breaking open.

Regardless of how fervently you pray or how deep your self-sacrifice runs, it won’t alter this predetermined destiny.

Even as you grip your blessed rosary so tightly it leaves hardened impressions in your palm's soft flesh. Even when unshed tears blur your vision, scalding hot yet stubbornly refusing to fall free, and a knot of shame twists low within your stomach like vile poison—an uncomfortable squirming inside that is almost visceral. Your journey forward leaves much to be desired–mired with dark ambiguities, where faith resembles something more akin to a clumsy blind groping in the vast unknown.

Your heart twinges—a raw ache—at the sight of blond hair all too familiar.

"Leon," escapes in a murmur from between your chapped lips against the icy window pane—the cold seeping into your skin; tiny tendrils numbing any sensation away.

The young paladin has blossomed into a towering figure since his personal guard duty by your side the last month, his frame enveloped in the armor that’s bigger than his still-growing form. The sight of him clad in battle gear is a poignant one, for the metal plates seem to engulf him rather than adorn him. He looks anything but menacing, sweet consideration towards those he’s sparring with, despite clad head-to-toe in battle gear, with such carefree confidence that threatens to split your aching chest.

In a split second, on the other side of that cold glass wall; Leon’s focus latches onto your unveiled and unmasked presence like a sunflower bending towards light.

It's as if you've breathed some forbidden word into the wind - an inaudible gasp tingles the silence and ripples off his lips. He stammers mid-battle stance, frozen under some unseen celestial hammer, scorched into oblivion.

You step back hurriedly, yanking your veil down over your face once more; it's rough underneath your fingertips, but nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside you. His own stunned gaze falters, tugs itself away as if burned - damn those beautiful eyes! But that moment costs him dearly as his rival lunges and he crumbles under the assault, and your heart won’t stop racing, undeniable fondness with a foreign heat creeping up your neck.

Leon bounces back from the blow almost instantly, staggering back to his feet like it's second nature; like he hasn't just had the wind knocked out of him and seems more rattled than before.

His opponent’s moves are unforgiving, one after another until Leon's guard slips. With a resounding thud that sends shudders up your spine, Leon gets slammed into the dirt floor.

His helmet soars through the air with an eerie ring that echoes around the courtyard, tumbling to rest at the boots of a nearby Paladin whose gaze is stuck on Leon’s prone form - filled with something close to pity but still masked by pride. A comrade extends a roughened hand, helping Leon upright, his comforting pat lingering just a moment too long on his shoulder blade as if unsure whether to leave or stay for strength. Jovially yet sternly, the older knight cuffs Leon on his arm, gauntlet striking armor with a dull clang.

As you retreat from your voyeuristic post at the window when reverberating tolls from the grand temple's bells signal practice time has run its course, there's an adrenaline rush buzzing under your skin even though you were merely watching. The upcoming blessing ceremony casts its shadow over you – all consuming and much larger than life; leaves no space for silly fancies.

Sunset paints the temple grounds in a bronzed hue as Leon treks alone back to the barracks, his mind adrift. Training bruises throb under his armor, though it's the sting of his fractured pride that truly wounds him.

None of it matters in the face of the glimpse of divinity he accidentally caught.

He nearly bends with the weight of it, an abyss of greed that he fears his brothers-in-arms can sense infecting his spirit. It maligns his growth as a paladin; he's sure Ethelion sees the invasive avarice lurking beneath skin and bone, an illicit truth residing within him nipping at him from the inside like a woodworm.

The seed of which had been planted over a decade ago, in these lily gardens, in the healing hands of a young Saintess whose presence and unmasked face lingered in his heart and grew into an infatuation with her holy touch.

He was but a boy back then, brittle and broken in body, his fragile skin stretched thin over bony limbs, rife with illness that stole the color from his cheeks and the air from his lungs. His very life seemed held together by prayers of his parents alone, fluttering like leaves in the wind. He'd stumbled into the garden by accident, chasing a stray cat with his siblings, not realizing he was lost.

Yet fate cast her sanguine smile and Ethelion himself turned an eye on him, sending the Saintess his way.

A warm glow drew him further through the bushes, and there you stood, cloaked in a robe that made your radiance seem as if it were born from moonlight. His eyes should have burned upon landing on you unmasked, youthful face that unmistakably belonged to a human girl of his age and not that of Ethelion in the flesh, but instead, his lungs expanded with an unknowable strength because of the divine power around you, an easiness that made it feel like he was breathing for the first time.

Not met with punishment for such audacity—he was instead gifted healing through your sacred touch–and got left laced with a perpetual yearning, sickness eradicated from his being and infused life onto starved limbs.

A lesson was disclosed to him later on when he’d become aware of himself, about why the Saintess had to be veiled.

His desires knew no end. It was for her spiritual purity that the Saintess could not be seen unmasked or reveal herself to mortals. Could one imagine the consequences of men akin to him lying eyes upon such magnificence, gracing skin intended only for Ethelion's touch? The impressionable child that he was had bloomed into an adult consumed by her divinity, hell-bent on basking in it all life long. Surely kingdoms would fold, as mortals were bound to disrupt natural balance attempting to seize the maiden of god.

So, when you appeared in the tower window today, he was overcome with a sensation so powerful it felt like angelic apparitions traced their wings down his back.

Divine grace embodied, shining forth in ways he couldn't articulate.

An inexplicable need arose from his bones for him to go to you, throw himself down in worship, confess sins one by one and receive penance:

In the hush of many nights when the temple halls were empty, he would wander like a ghost and always come back to kneel at the feet of Ethelion, daring to touch the cushions before the altar where you prayed, his fingers lingering where only your robes should caress. The audacity of his gaze tracing the delicate embroidery of your veil when he stood guard by your side, seeking to unveil something meant solely for Ethelion’s eyes, was but one of his many transgressions against the sanctity that cloaked you…

His form of worship seemed askew, borne more out of desire than devoutness; staining the starkly white fabric of his duty with its off-colour ardour.

He could never allow you, the revered Saintess, to know about this sinful sentiment dwelling within him; tarnishing every sweet memory associated with you.

The fantasy he harbored diminished his image, trendlessly etched as an obedient paladin's plight – but for him, you represented something significantly more profound. To even admit how dreams featuring you bewitchingly bathed in grace tainted his oath of celibacy would risk jeopardizing the hope invested in recognizing his service towards Ethelion.

The desire to earn the highest recognition, a Paladin's title and acceptance of his fealty to protect you as such – got increasingly tangled in a visceral wanting lost somewhere between sacrilege and worship that left a devout hunger echoing within him for your sake.

To satisfy this, he threw himself fiercely into arduous training channels to strengthen both his body and mind with every challenging day that went by - striving ceaselessly with dreams of deserving a place by your side.

Now, he stands precipitously on the verge; holding on desperately to this undisclosed confession – harboring a stolen glance of you from earlier as a secret talisman.

How could he go into the Holy War with his brothers now, knowing he'd seen beneath your veil and… Felt.

“You seem troubled, Sir Leon.”

Leon doesn’t dare turn; a jagged lick of dread splinters down his spine. He recognizes that voice—how could he not when it haunts his dreams night after night? Instead, he stares into nothingness, rooted to the ground, his mind unable to process that you're speaking to him.

But he does turn, finding you standing serenely beneath an archway covered with tangled fragrant vines in the Temple's back garden.

Your presence fills Leon with equal parts awe and unease, as if Ethelion himself is shaming him from above for desiring what should be beyond mortal reach.

Yet your countenance remains unchanged, unmarred by his inner turmoil. The mask stays in place, an extension of your divinity—only now, Leon swears that beneath it, your eyes are smiling at him.

Leon stands within the cool shadow of the ancient temple, its weathered stones holding an age-old embrace that wraps around him like a cloak. The air is thin with the delicate scent of lilies that’s wafting towards him from the garden—from you, and outside, where sunlight filters through the leafy canopy, you stand amidst color. Your garments catch the sunset, casting a shimmer that mirrors the beauty of your surroundings.

The difference between his shadowed presence and your radiant figure is a shaming from above, showing Leon your place in His divine light while he remains shrouded in sin.

The clinking of Leon's loose armor rings as he lowers himself to one knee before you, “Forgive me, Saintess. I did not mean to disturb your meditations.”

The rustle of silk heralded your approach, brushing against the cool stone floor like a gentle breeze stirring a field of wildflowers. He inhales sharply, his breath hitching in his throat as the fragrance of lilies envelops him.

You stop before him, your robes cascading around you like a mirage of opal waves, he is captivated by an urge so primal that it sends a flush of heat to his cheeks and makes his palms sticky; he longs to press his lips to the delicate fabric that seems to breathe with divine grace.

“Please rise, Sir Leon. I saw you training today. Your skills are formidable.”

His pride swelled silent and strong within his chest – a sudden weight that could unbalance him more than any physical blow ever could.

"Your words honor me greatly," he manages to speak to the stones at his feet, even after he is back up at his feet.

"Yet you seem to have much on your mind."

He cannot meet your eyes; it feels overwhelming to face such beauty and concern directed solely at him.

"Pardon me, that was a silly question, wasn't it? Of course you have much on your mind. You're about to ride into battle. Such thoughts are not easy to bear. Do you wish to talk about it?"

"It's not my place to trouble you with such things, Saintess. They will soon be far from here, and you will be safe in the Temple.”

He glances at you, and the look in your eyes is enough to make him forget how to breathe. It’s a blend of curiosity and tenderness; an innocence that nearly pierces through his mask and grazes the wicked depths of his heart.

You tilt your head, much like a bird contemplating a worm, and gently ask, "Would you indulge my curiosity and share one worry with me?"

It's an impossibly generous gesture, for you to extend this small piece of yourself to him in the middle of your meditations. Leon's teeth ache at the sweetness of it, at your kindness that extends even to him.

“I’m doubting my worthiness to serve,” he confesses unceremoniously. “I train relentlessly, but I lack the innate spark my brothers were born with. It's as if... as if I'm play-acting at being a Paladin.”

Those aren't the only doubts that torment him—but the ones he can actually say out loud without burning at the stake for.

"Do you remember the day we met, Sir Leon?" you begin, clasping your hands and turning around to face the gardens, the gentle breeze is making your veil flutter.

Leon nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Even so many years later, the memory still has the power to stir his soul, churning something in his chest that makes it hard to think straight.

"It seems like it was yesterday that a young boy came stumbling into the garden, barely able to stand up, and looked me dead in the face. What do you think I saw in him?"

He always assumed the Saintess would have forgotten such a brief encounter, yet it was etched firmly into his memory and to hear it spoken aloud has his pulse miss a couple beats.

"Do you think I saw weakness as he lay gasping in the dirt? Or did I perhaps see an innocent curiosity that was easily swept up by the cruelty of this world and tamed into obedience? Or maybe I saw something else entirely.”

He shakes his head, trying to make sense of your words. It sounds like you're making a statement, but it's not clear which part you agree with.

"Tell me, Sir Leon. What is a spark? Does it come to life, or can it be nurtured from the smallest ember of resolve?" you whisper, fingers trembling as they ascend, tracing a path as delicate as a petal's fall, nearing his cheek with hesitant affection.

He’s paralyzed when your touch indeed lands instead of drifting away.

Your fingers linger, tracing the curve of his jawline with such gentleness, demure and awkward; and the pressure of it makes his skin sing, sparks dancing along every inch.

It's barely a caress, but he feels it in his bones—this ache—that swells and burns, a fire set alight inside his chest that’s on the precipice of consuming him whole.

A whole-body shiver breaks free, but you remain unfazed—your hand is still there, stroking his flesh with such tenderness; soft against the corner of his jaw.

"One is not born to greatness, one achieves it." You're calm, yet firm, a voice that commands respect. He's reminded of the many times he heard you deliver blessings on high ceremonies. There's something about the cadence of your words that pulls at the strings of his soul, drawing him in closer—deeper. "What truly matters is the conviction behind your actions. And, Sir Leon, you may not see it yet. But there's a spark inside your chest that burns brighter than any candle. Don't let anyone dampen it, for it shall shine a path forward unto others and bring glory to our land."

You pull away, leaving a void in your wake. Leon finds himself wanting to reach after you, wanting nothing more than for your skin to keep pressing against his, for your warmth to bleed through his own and ease the burden that's crushing him.

He wants to kiss those fingers that have—

Red hot shame enough to set firewoods aflame shoots straight to settle on his cheeks, flushing them as a wicked feeling sinks in his stomach, a heavy sinking pit. The meaning of your words resounds in his heart like a thunderclap after the lightning that was your touch, your holy words washing over him like a balm—or a warning.

He's brought back to reality abruptly with the harsh cackle of metal against stone as a group of paladins walk by and salute him and bow for the Saintess, pulling him out of a daze as he greets them. Their voices seem distant, faces a blur. It's a miracle Leon manages a nod at them in acknowledgment.

He finds his tongue eventually, his face still aflame with embarrassment at the realization of being in front of the Saintess, an idol of the Church, a woman he thinks of during his late-night ruminations, and still feels guilty for.

"T-thank you, Saintess,” his voice wavers, trembling even with those two simple words that leave him shaking, stirred to the core as if a sudden storm just swept him away to sea, and you are the shore he longs to return to. He fears he might drown in the depths of those beautiful eyes, pulled under by the current.

"It is I who should be thanking you, Sir Leon. You're risking everything to ensure peace for our realm."

Your words wrap around him like a hug, holding him in place while also offering a moment of comfort, like coming home from a long trip away. He treasures those precious few seconds, committing them to memory. But you are a Saintess, not a fellow knight, and there are no hugs or handshakes in his world.

"I'll see you in the ceremony," you continue, before leaving Leon with his heaving chest and a pressure knotting deep in his stomach, walking back to the serenity of the Temple, robes fluttering around your feet like snow settling over frozen earth.

Once you have disappeared into the confines of the temple, he lets out a deep breath. His heart is still beating wildly; the memory of your fingertips brushing his skin is seared into his flesh, an indelible mark that cannot be scrubbed away. He is unable to shake the feeling that he has committed some unspeakable sin; his body a living, breathing violation of his vows.

Leon washes himself in the barracks' bathing chambers, and as he stares at the naked flesh beneath steaming water, his thoughts turn to the ritual that awaits him. In the heat and sweat of it, he wonders if you can wash him clean, baptize his tainted heart.

His sweat trickles down his back, leaving shimmering beads of perspiration in its wake, he can feel each droplet sliding down like a ghostly caress overheated skin glistening under the light of flickering candles; his head is thrown back, and wet hair is slicked away from his face as he reclines in the wooden bathtub. He reaches up to trace the lines of his jaw with trembling fingers that hover just above his skin, remembering what it felt like to have your touch there. He closes his eyes and lets the steam envelop him; he feels the heaviness in his groin, thick and full between his thighs.

In this moment, he is alone with his guilt and shame; but underneath all that self-recrimination there lies a deeper emotion he dares not acknowledge: hope.

The blessing ceremony unfolds with the break of dawn the next day.

Rows of paladins stand at attention, forming a formidable barrier outside the towering chapel. You make your way up the marble steps, flanked by your retinue, and lift your veiled face to behold the regimented paladins before you. Their armor catches the sunlight in a dazzling display, swords resting peacefully in their scabbards. Every single one of them is an anonymous guardian, faces obscured by identical helmets and billowing white capes adorned with a shimmering blue starburst emblem emblazoned on their chest plates.

Upon reaching the summit of the staircase, the massive oak doors swing wide open, revealing an expanse filled with devout worshippers immersed in fervent prayer. Bathed in hues of multicolored light filtering through intricate stained-glass windows, their worshiping forms kneel upon the cool marble floor. Sunbeams caress their bowed heads like a halo, creating a mosaic of ethereal radiance that plays upon their serene features.

The hush that descends as you cross the threshold is whispered benedictions through the hall, enshrouding all present in a solemn embrace as you draw nearer to the altar at its heart.

At the altar stands the head priest, garbed in ceremonial robes—the deep hues of white and gold intertwining with ancient symbols. His palms are raised towards the statue of Ethelion, supplication etched into every line of his face. Before him sits an empty altar table covered in rich crimson velvet trimmed with gold brocade, and at its center rests a silver bowl filled with holy water, reflecting shards of light like fragments of a broken mirror.

Beside the basin stands a golden chalice and a sharp blade gleaming ominously.

You sink into a curtsy before the priest—your knees grazing the cool stone floor—as he intones your full title: "I salute the Beloved of Ethelion, Avatar of Eternity and Renewal,” before he gently beckons you to rise.

Taking your place before the altar, you feel the weight of an entire kingdom resting upon your shoulders. This ritual isn't mere superstition; it's a tangible link between mortal and divine—a celestial promise that Ethelia is indeed favored by the gods.

Yet beneath this grandeur lies urgency cloaked in ceremony: you're chosen by Ethelion to channel his blessing—a gift that comes with strings attached. It promises good health and protection from injury but depletes as quickly as candles flicker out in gusty winds.

You've done this countless times, yet it never becomes easier. You can only hope that the god residing within you answers earnestly today—gracing the paladins with divine strength and healing their wounds as you pour every ounce of yourself into them.

A hushed silence envelops the chamber as the priest lifts up the basin and blesses its water. He then raises it above your head, pouring its contents slowly over your body. The liquid cascades down your shoulders like molten gold—cool initially but warming as it mingles with your skin—and pools at your feet like melted sunlight. It seeps into the hem of your flowing robe which now shimmers like saffron touched by daylight's first rays.

The priest murmurs prayers of consecration while taking up the gleaming blade from beside chalice's stem. Gesturing for everyone gathered to join hands, he swiftly cuts into your wrist without warning—precise and unyielding. Blood oozes forth; dark as ink with whiffs reminiscent faint iron scent permeating air around tendrils curling upward almost ethereal fashion dripping fingers’ tips.

"May Ethelion guide thy swords on this path forward!" you invoke in a solemn tone. The words carry an authority that rings throughout the entire Temple, sending vibrations through the gathered crowd as they repeat your verse.

With a sharp exhale, you approach the priest and rest your open wound over the golden goblet, watching your blood drip into the vessel, drop by painstaking drop. All the while, the attendees recite their blessings in a swelling crescendo, their voices echoing back from the domed roof like an urgent prayer caught between earth and sky.

Your arm throbs incessantly—a dull ache blossoming into searing pain, but you press on, undeterred. Despite how difficult it becomes, there's solace in sharing this burden with others, knowing that they too have a part to play.

Finally, when enough blood has been collected, the priest holds the chalice high and exclaims, "For the kingdom! For Ethelion!"

On command, the paladins march forward with military precision, lining up in single file before the altar, the line extending out of the doors. With measured steps, they kneel in succession, resting their forearms atop the surface in a gesture of humility. You are handed the holy sword, its blade shimmering beneath the lights, its hilt ornately decorated with rubies and diamonds.

Placing your bleeding wrist atop the hilt's cool metal surface, you hold it above the first kneeling paladin's helmeted head. Slowly and carefully, you dip your finger into the cup of crimson liquid and anoint him with your blood by marking his crested forehead—a tangible sign of his sworn loyalty. Whispering a blessing so only he can hear it feels almost intimate—the sword becoming a conduit for divine power. The tip of the blade descends upon his crown; his shoulders instantly stiffen under this sacred touch—they tremble when it grazes one shoulder then moves to deliver an ethereal blow to the other.

The process repeats itself, endless and exhausting, as you move down the line.

Each anointment saps more of your energy reserves until you're left weak and nearly hollowed out from within. Yet pouring every bit of life force into each paladin so they may be shielded on battlefields ahead brings bittersweet satisfaction mixed with aching relief—you find strength anew just enough to persevere.

By the time you reach the end of the rows, your skin feels as paper-thin as the gauzy fabric covering your body. The edges of your vision have started to blur, and it takes considerable effort to stay upright, gripping the edge of the altar to steady yourself. Your heart is fluttering beneath your ribs like a frantic bird, wanting to burst free from its cage of bone and muscle and escape this agony. Your palms are clammy; you're sweating profusely beneath your robes, but despite this, you must see this rite through till its completion.

The ancient wooden door of the chapel creaks open, its mournful groan deafening in the silent night. A thin beam of moonlight slices through the gap, illuminating the dusty air. Inside, flickering candle flames cast warm, trembling light on Ethelion’s marble statue, which gazes down at you with unblinking, expressionless eyes.

You place your mask at the base of His effigy; unveiling yourself like this is a crucial part of the ritual—a moment of communion with the deity. You stand exposed before Him in every way—physically, spiritually, and emotionally. He serves as a mirror reflecting your deepest essence—a piece of you laid bare without fear or shame. Hiding from Him would be like refusing to acknowledge your own existence.

Summoning all your bravery, you remove the fragile veil that acts as your last shield against the world’s curious eyes, letting it rest gently next to your discarded mask. With both face and hair now revealed, you kneel before His statue. Your head bows low in penance, hands squeezed together in a gesture of deep devotion.

"Blessed Ethelion, forgive your servant," you plead with a tremor. "I have doubt in my heart. I'm afraid."

The statue remains silent; only overpowering stillness fills the air as seconds stretch into eternity. Then warmth radiates through you—starting from your chest and unfurling into your limbs—like sunshine poured into your veins, igniting every fiber with radiant energy.

"I don’t want any of them to die," you confess quietly, tears spilling free to splash against the cold flagstone floor. "They’re innocents caught in a war not their own."

There are no words in response, yet you feel an undeniable answer; Ethelion’s reassuring presence envelops you like a warm embrace. He is there to listen to you in silence.

This ritual is a moment of weakness—where fear manifests openly for release. These men are about to step into hell itself beyond the walls. Though they fight for honor and glory, deep down you know it will become a bloodbath—a massacre that will rend this kingdom apart.

"There's nothing sacred about this; yet here I stand sentencing Your children to death," you lament as tears trickle down your cheeks, mingling salty bitterness against trembling lips. No further sign comes; Ethelion appears content merely to observe from His heavenly perch—perhaps reminding you gently of your divine duty—the role He has ordained for you. "I beg forgiveness, O Lord. I could not change the minds blinded by ignorance. My heart bleeds for those suffering because of this conflict. Please protect them so they may come back to bask once more in Your radiant light."

You bow deeply before Him; rising again is a struggle as your knees quake beneath you.

"Saintess."

You jump at the familiar voice that slices through the sanctity of silence, eyes widening in recognition and trepidation.

This is the third time Leon has witnessed you this vulnerable without the holy artifacts shielding the flesh beneath, yet he remains unassuming and gentle; shock absent from his spirit this time. He stands close behind you in this hallowed space belonging solely to Ethelion's infinite wisdom, and you dare not breathe—afraid of shattering this ethereal moment.

"Avert your eyes, Sir Leon.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, standing erect. You remain there unmoving, save for the tiny droplets of sweat gathering on your hairline as he moves with the grace of a shadow, his steps measured and deliberate, until he stands by your side, his eyes unwaveringly fixed upon the towering statue of Ethelion that looms before you both, as if seeking solace in the stone divinity rather against the evil of your human form.

He drops down onto both knees, bowing so low that his forehead nearly kisses the cold stone floor.

A subtle movement draws your attention, and you steal a glance from beneath your lashes. The moonlight caresses strands of golden hair and spins them into threads of silver. His attire deviates from the usual paladin's armor; instead, he wears a simple cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veiny forearms sculpted by hard practice. The fabric clings to his form, hinting at the sinewy strength that lies beneath. Riding breeches embrace his legs snugly, tucked into worn boots that have weathered countless journeys.

The collar of his shirt is notched open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the base of his throat and the expanse of his upper chest. Your gaze traces the contours of muscle defined beneath the sheer material, and traitorously ventures lower, lingering on the curve of his bent knees before daring to explore further down to where his knuckles rest—taut and unyielding atop thighs etched with power. It leaves your mouth dry.

The intensity with which he shuts his eyes mirrors that boy from years past—the one who clenched his fists tightly against pain, refusing to cry as he battled an illness that should have claimed his life but didn't.

You yield to an impulse, enveloping him in the ethereal embrace of your veil, a shield against the world's gaze and your own. His body tenses beneath the delicate fabric as you glide it over his features, a soft gasp escaping from deep within him. With a trembling exhale, he quivers imperceptibly, fingers pressing into the cloth with a fervor that leaves faint dents on his skin, hands strained from the intensity.

"Open your eyes," you murmur tenderly, reluctant to disrupt the fragile moment.

Gleaming blue flickers into view through the white, translucent shroud, their clarity distorted by the gossamer material. You observe his swallow, the rhythmic rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he tentatively reaches to draw it down over his face.

Through the veil's prism, you must appear as a kaleidoscope of hues and forms to him; a phantom of your true essence, an elusive apparition hovering at the edge of reality.

"The… The blessing went well today," Leon sputters, cracking at the end like glass under pressure.

"Why did you come here, Sir Leon?" you ask gently, sensing that beneath his stiff formality lies a multitude of untold emotions.

"Are you alright?" The genuine concern for your person sends shivers cascading over your skin; fine hairs on your arms lift as he touches his wrist—mirroring right where your blood had been drawn. "Does it hurt every time the blessing is performed? I've never watched it before. It's..."

He falters, mouth opening and closing, and you notice how the fractured light from the windows bathes the swell of his cheeks in a tender luminescence. His words hang between you both, delicate strands of silk trying to knit themselves into coherence.

"It's awful, Saintess. To see your suffering laid bare before everyone."

"I would drain my whole body if it meant those brave men will go out knowing they are protected," you say with resolute calmness, though deep down, you're curious about how he truly perceives you now.

A barely audible "I know," escapes him. It feels like a confession—an unpleasant truth he doesn’t like being faced with. Whatever it holds makes warmth surge through you, igniting your skin and causing another involuntary shiver as he moistens his lower lip with a slow sweep of his tongue. "I know."

"Don't worry about me, Sir Leon. Your job is out there defending these lands, while mine is to ease your burdens. Think only of protecting those who need your shield.”

“Is it wrong to care for those I serve?” His wholehearted question tightens something within you—stirs an undefined yet potent emotion ready to bloom.

"Not at all," you reply almost breathlessly as he gazes intently at the curve of your jawline—your face blurred but memorized by him with stunning accuracy. "Remember whom your sword serves; we live only to honor Ethelion."

"I wish the world were different," his words seem hollowed out, lacking meaning, and yet there's an unmistakable conviction there, a resolve that drives him.

"As do I."

You glide your fingertips over the altar's slick surface, taking in a deep breath that fills your lungs fully with the sanctity of this space.

Then he straightens up suddenly; determination shines in his posture. He doesn’t rise from his kneeling position, yet it frightens you in the same way it would if he had shot up to stand.

"If you'll allow it, Saintess," he says, venerating, and the delicate fabric of his veil brushes against the embroidered sleeve of your robe. That fleeting contact sends a jolt through you, reverberating like a soft, whispered promise. His simple gesture, his proximity—it shouldn’t mean anything. But you feel he might as well have taken your hand in his. "I would pledge an oath to you as well."

There’s a deliberate slowness in how he pulls back, the motion of a man lingering at a threshold he has no right to cross.

Your chest tightens, your breath coming slower as you try to compose yourself. “Of course, Sir Leon,” you manage, though the stillness between you is filled with your uncertainty. What if you're not worthy of his devotion? Of his sacrifice? If he saw what lay beneath the veil, beyond the role of saintess, would he still look at you this way? Or would he recoil, realizing the truth of what you are: flesh and blood, no more divine than the earth beneath your feet?

You feel his stare. It’s as though they’re tracing the length of your body, reaching you through the barrier of the veil, and somehow, that makes the sensation more intimate than if he were standing before you fully revealed.

His breath catches, just slightly. You hear it, feel it, even though the veil between you muffles the sound. "It’s not about whether you’ll accept it," he continues, and there’s a shift in his stance. You can’t see his face, but the way he holds himself, the slight movement of his shoulders beneath the fabric, tells you that he’s grounding himself. "I give this vow because it is mine to give. For you, not for recognition or reward. It’s my choice, my will. No one needs to know."

His spine is ramrod straight now, but there’s a softness in his words, a slight tilt of his head as his eyes search yours. “My loyalty belongs to you alone.”

You swallow hard, the meaning of his words sinking deep into your soul. A lowly servant of Ethelion, that’s all you are. A vessel. No name, no family, no identity beyond the veil. His words... they speak of individual loyalty, devotion to you, not to Ethelion, not to the divine purpose you embody. You are no one. You have no right to such things. How could you take from him what rightly belongs to the god you serve? Wouldn’t you be struck down for such hubris? For leading a paladin astray, pulling him from the only true master he should follow? You tremble at the thought.

"Sir Leon, I cannot accept this." Your fingers curl around the skirt of your robe, the fabric twisting beneath your grip. “It’s—”

His chin lifts, eyes steady on you. "—wrong?"

You start at his interruption. Your voice sounds so feeble as you finish the sentence with a meek, "Yes."

He stays rooted, motionless, but something in the atmosphere shifts again. His breathing, though controlled, seems deeper, and you sense the quiet resolve in the silence that stretches between you.

"Then let me be the one who wrongs Ethelion." His tone carries a weight that presses against you, not through sound but through the way his body holds firm, unwavering. His movements are subtle, restrained, yet the soft brush of his hand grazing his side signals something deeper, a release of tension. "I pledge myself to you, Saintess. To your will, your desires. You are my strength."

The air feels dense, thick with the weight of what he’s offering.

These words flow from him like water spilling over stones, filling up spaces where it couldn't previously reach. The warmth in your chest expands, spreading outward until it seeps into every fiber of your being. Your fingers twitch, the edge of your sleeve twisting between them as you try to ground yourself.

"Please grant me a token of your favor."

Your hands tremble at your sides, your pulse quickening as you fidget with the fabric between your fingers.

What can you possibly offer him?

You glance down, but everything feels out of reach, the world reduced to this one moment.

"But I..." you begin, unsure, your fingers tugging nervously at your sleeve, "I am not a Lady."

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches, and though you can’t see his expression, it feels charged. He shifts ever so slightly, enough that you catch the faint rustle of fabric as he moves.

"All the more reason," he says, a shy smile in his words. "An unworthy paladin asking for a favor from the Saintess—what could be more fitting?"

"Then you may pick whichever object from the temple you desire—"

"I want something of yours, not an icon, nor some relic," he replies immediately, cutting you short, the butteriness sending shivers running down your back. "What do I lack that you have plenty of, that you won't miss, even if it's just a small trinket?"

Your heart stumbles in your chest, the weight of his request crashing into you like a wave. Real? What could you give him? What is yours to offer?

"A lock of hair?" you whisper, feeling your pulse quicken as you say it. The words feel small, vulnerable, but they tumble out before you can stop them. "Would that… suffice?"

Silence follows, his breathing seems to stop.

A lock of hair would belong to you, not the Saintess. A proof of your worldliness, beyond the connection to Ethelion's divine essence. Something that is of the girl and not the holy maiden. Is that what he seeks?

"Your hair," he breathes out in an exhale, as if tasting the words. He appears completely entranced and you become conscious of yourself, the inappropriate nature of just what you brought up.

You draw a slow, shaky breath, the idea settling uneasily in your chest. There’s something intensely personal, too intimate about the exchange. "No, you misunderstand—"

"Your hair, Saintess," he repeats it again, this time more forceful than you've ever seen him; you'd never dare refuse this request and it steals your breath, silencing every protest rising in your throat. "I will accept no less."

Leon rises to his feet, dwarfing you with his broad frame. For the very first time, in Ethelion's presence, you feel small and helpless, like a child who's wandered into his garden. There's something overwhelmingly disarming about sharing this space with him. A foreign sensation blooms within you— a spark that threatens to ignite your world into flames—but you dare not give it voice.

Leon had once worn his armor with pride, each plate fastened like a second skin, the weight of his sword as natural as the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every step forward felt as if he marched hand in hand with something divine, a force greater than himself guiding his every move. The blessing of the saintess had lingered on his skin, a quiet touch that had etched itself into his soul, fortifying his resolve. He had believed, back then, that he was a vessel of the god’s will.

That was years ago.

Now, standing at the edge of the battlefield, the familiar weight of his armor feels heavier, pressing down like an unbearable burden. The bitter taste of dried sweat clings to his lips, and a dull ache pulses beneath his ribs where his armor had done little to stop the last blow. The sun glares down on the blood-soaked earth, the cries of the wounded melding with the clash of steel and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.

This was not what he envisioned. There was nothing divine here.

A shout rises above the noise, sharp and commanding, drawing his gaze toward the horizon. The enemy soldiers draped in black, surge over the hill like a wave of shadow. His grip tightens around his sword, the hilt slick with a mixture of blood and sweat, fingers straining against the leather-bound grip.

“Leon!” A voice, rough and worn from years of battle, cuts through the din. Leon turns, his eyes locking onto Captain Krauser, a veteran whose gaze is as sharp as a hawk’s. His expression is hard, impatient. “Orders from the Temple: we flank their left side!”

Leon’s heart clenches at the mention of the Temple.

It had been a long time since the orders felt pure, righteous. The Church’s demands had grown more questionable with each passing day. What had once been a campaign to protect the kingdom and its people now reeked of ambition—land grabs disguised as divine conquest. Territories seized, villages razed under the pretense of holy duty.

But Leon doesn’t question. He never has. He is a soldier, a paladin. A servant of Ethelion.

The memory of you—serene, always hidden beneath the mask you wore as the Saintess—surfaces in his mind, unbidden, his anchor to the divine, the blessing you placed on him sacred. You believed in him, blessed him with your blood, and for that, he would fight. For that, he would fulfill his duty.

He moves after Krauser, silent as a ghost, maneuvering through the throng of soldiers until they reach the flank. The enemy’s forces are spread thin, their attempt to push the kingdom’s army back leaving them exposed. It should be an easy victory. A victory that would tighten their grip on the region, crush the enemy’s morale.

The order comes swiftly, brutal and final: Leave no one alive.

Leon hesitates, his sword held in a grip that tightens until his knuckles ache. Leave no one alive. The same command they’d been given in the last village. And the one before that. What once felt justifiable—crushing the enemy for the kingdom’s safety—now sits like lead in his bones.

Those they slaughtered hadn’t been soldiers. They were farmers, villagers. Innocents. Women and children.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and the memory of the last village rises unbidden, a flash behind his eyelids. He can still smell the smoke, hear the anguished cries of mothers shielding their children. His punishment for hesitating, for not cutting through them as he did the soldiers, feels lighter than the weight of that memory.

“Are you deaf, shiny?” Krauser says with a low growl, dragging him back to the present. “I said move.”

Leon’s jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck pulling taut. His body moves automatically, his sword rising as he steps forward, following the rest of the paladins into the fray. Steel clashes with steel, bodies crash against one another, but the noise fades, swallowed by the gnawing doubt lodged deep in his chest. He strikes down another soldier, their blood splattering across his already stained armor, but the pit in his stomach only deepens.

He had been blessed to protect the kingdom, to serve the saintess. How did it come to this? When did righteousness turn into this—bloodlust veiled by holy orders?

Each swing of his sword feels heavier, as though the weight of every soul he cuts down drags him closer to the earth. He fells another enemy, watching as the light drains from their eyes, but it’s not just the life that drains from them—it’s something in him too.

This war, it’s nothing like he’d imagined. In the temple, they had spoken of glory, of righteousness, of battles fought in the name of Ethelion. His fellow soldiers had whispered about the honor of dying for the Temple, the promise of eternal life in the afterworld. They had made war sound like a divine calling, a sacred rite of passage where every death was sanctified, every act of violence blessed.

Out here, there is no glory.

Only blood.

The blood of his brothers, mingled with the enemy’s, staining the dirt beneath their feet. The screams of dying men linger in his ears long after the fighting stops. He’s seen cities burn, watched women and children scramble through the streets, faces twisted in terror, only to fall under a volley of arrows or be trampled beneath the horses of his comrades.

Leon had thought he could stomach it. He’d steeled himself for the brutal reality of war. But nothing prepared him for the guilt, the crushing weight of it, as each atrocity committed in Ethelion’s name piles higher on his soul.

At first, he’d believed the bloodshed was necessary, part of the divine plan. But with every passing day, that belief crumbles a little more, cracking like fragile glass.

Now, standing over the bodies of men who’d once fought to protect their own, Leon can barely remember why he’s here. He can’t recall the saintess’s face anymore—only a faint echo of your eyes, the memory fading like a forgotten dream.

How did the lines blur so completely?

He tightens his grip on his sword, but the weight of it feels foreign, like a weapon forged for someone else.

Facing the fire, Leon watches the flames dance, their orange glow casting restless light over the camp. The logs hiss and crackle as they blacken, edges curling inward with each passing flicker. Every so often, flares shoot out from the heart of the fire, sending sparks spiraling up into the night before falling back down into the pyre. Heat washes over his face, warm yet uncomfortable, the kind that burns if stared at for too long. Leon turns away, unable to face his own reflection in the fire’s glow.

Around him, shadows shift across the ground as torchlight flickers over tents and hastily constructed barriers. Laughter rises from nearby campfires, men gathered in groups, boasting about their conquests in battle, their stories of women left behind growing hazy with time. The smell of roasting meat mingles with the sharp bite of smoke as soldiers cheerfully drink from their ale rations. Some play cards or dice, animated, full of hope for victories yet to come. Others simply bask in the temporary lull, telling tales of their glory to fill the silence.

Leon keeps his distance, seeking refuge near a cluster of trees where the light barely reaches, and the noise fades to a murmur. His back rests against a sturdy trunk, sword and shield propped beside him, the armor around him a forgotten weight. He has no desire to join in the revelry. Solitude feels more fitting—more honest. He closes his eyes, trying to relish the brief respite, though the chance of true rest feels distant, as elusive as peace itself.

"If you don’t eat, you’ll lose your strength." A gruff scoff breaks the silence, drawing Leon from his thoughts. He glances sideways to find Captain Krauser standing above him, holding out a steaming bowl of stew. The smell of the meat, thick with gravy, rises into the cool night air, but Leon’s stomach churns at the sight of it.

"Captain Krauser," Leon mutters, accepting the bowl out of obligation more than hunger, balancing it on one knee. "Didn’t feel like celebrating with the others."

Krauser doesn’t move. He stands there, arms crossed, his bulk casting a shadow that blocks the faint moonlight. His scarred face is half-illuminated by the fire’s glow, the deep lines etched into his skin more pronounced in the flickering light.

Leon stirs the stew absently, blowing on it before taking a small bite. It’s warm, but tasteless. Each mouthful feels like ash, though he forces himself to swallow.

Krauser lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. He lowers himself to the ground beside Leon with a heavy sigh, the earth shifting beneath his weight. "Is that guilt weighing you down, shiny?" His voice is rough, edged with a mockery that barely conceals his weariness. "Because that’s a damn waste of time."

Shiny. The word used to grate on Leon—an insult for paladins whose armor hasn’t yet been sullied by enough blood and battle. His once-polished metal has long since dulled, but the name lingers. Now, he doesn’t care what anyone calls him. It’s just another word.

"Just a bad feeling," Leon replies with a shrug, forcing another spoonful down. The broth is bland, lukewarm at best, but he eats slowly anyway, chewing as if it will somehow ground him in the present.

Krauser grunts, his large frame shifting uncomfortably as he leans back against the tree. "You’re learning." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he glances toward the distant glow of campfires. "New orders came in. We move south at first light to intercept a convoy carrying supplies."

Leon keeps eating, though his grip tightens slightly on the spoon. He waits. There’s always more.

"Intelligence says there may be hostages," Krauser adds, his voice turning grim. Leon notices how the lines around his eyes seem deeper, more etched than before. There’s exhaustion in them, though it’s well hidden behind his hardened exterior. "Our task is to eliminate the threat to the kingdom."

"Kill the hostages?" Leon’s response is flat, more a statement than a question.

A heavy silence falls between them, stretching like a weight neither of them wants to bear. The fire crackles on, sending occasional sparks into the air, while the distant hum of soldiers' voices fades into the background. The smell of burning wood fills the space between them, thick and stifling.

Krauser doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenches, the scar on his face pulling tight as he looks ahead, not meeting Leon’s gaze. "You know the orders," he says finally, the words dropping like stones into the quiet. "We do what we’re told."

Leon lowers the spoon, the taste of the stew forgotten as his stomach twists. He’s not surprised, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. He stares into the fire again, watching as the flames curl around the blackened logs, reducing them to nothing but ash.

The sword feels heavier today.

Leon rides ahead of the troops, the rhythmic clop of horseshoes striking the stone path echoing across the endless stretch of open land before him. The morning sun climbs lazily in the sky, casting pale light that stretches the shadows of soldiers and horses over fields soon to be stained with blood.

His breath puffs in the crisp air, small clouds that vanish as quickly as they form. His fingers tighten around the sword’s hilt, knuckles whitening under the strain, even though there’s no immediate need to wield it. Sweat runs in a thin line down his spine, sticking his shirt to his skin beneath the armor.

Behind him, the sounds of the army in preparation are a constant hum—swords being drawn from scabbards, armor buckled into place, horses snorting in nervous agitation. Soldiers march in disciplined ranks, though their faces carry the tension of men too aware of what’s to come. Some are barely more than boys, fresh to the battlefield, eyes wide with fear they think they can hide. The village lies beyond the next ridge, nestled in the hills. The command had been clear: leave none alive.

Leon shifts uncomfortably in the saddle. His throat tightens with the weight of it, as if each breath is a struggle to swallow the bitter taste of what they’re about to do. He glances to the soldiers beside him, seeing faces too young, too eager to kill or die, all in the name of a god who remains as distant as the stars.

There was a time when Ethelion’s will felt as close as his own heartbeat. When the saintess’s blessings had filled him with purpose, your touch a reminder of the grace he fought to protect. What would you think of him now? Would you still offer him your blessing, knowing the blood that stains his hands? The lives he’s taken, the innocents who died beneath his blade?

As they near the village, Leon pulls back on the reins, slowing his horse. The captain riding beside him narrows his gaze, a sharp glance cast his way, but Leon doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Captain,” Leon’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “What if we’re wrong?”

The captain scoffs, not even turning his head. “Wrong? These people are traitors. They must be dealt with.”

Leon’s grip tightens around the reins, the leather biting into his palms. “But we have no proof. No confirmation that they’ve—”

“There is no what if, shiny,” the captain cuts him off, his tone as cold and unyielding as iron. “Our orders are clear. Or have you forgotten your place?”

Leon swallows hard, his throat dry. His place. To serve, to obey, to carry out the will of Ethelion without question.

But his place has never felt so wrong.

They crest the final hill, the village coming into view below. Smoke rises lazily from chimneys, the scent of cooking fires carried on the wind. From a distance, it looks serene. Peaceful. The villagers go about their day, unaware of the army bearing down on them, unaware that in moments, their world will be torn apart.

Leon’s stomach churns. His horse shifts beneath him, sensing his unease, and he forces a slow breath, trying to calm the storm of doubt swirling inside him. His brothers-in-arms march forward, steady and resolute, their swords ready, their minds set on the task ahead.

But Leon’s horse won’t move. It stands rooted, mirroring the weight in his soul.

The captain urges his own horse forward, barking orders to the soldiers to fan out and surround the village. Leon watches as they obey without hesitation, without question. Their faces remain emotionless, minds focused on the task at hand.

How can they not feel it? How can they not sense the wrongness of what they’re about to do?

As the soldiers advance, the first shouts of alarm rise from the village below. Leon can hear it—the panic in their voices, see the sudden fear on their faces. Mothers pulling children close, men scrambling to gather their families. Chaos erupts as arrows fly and swords are raised, and yet, Leon remains frozen in place, his hand trembling on the reins.

The first bodies fall, the clash of steel and screams blending into a cacophony that drowns everything else. The world tilts beneath him, the ground shifting as the sickening sound of death fills his ears, louder than the wind, louder than anything.

I can’t do this.

The thought slices through the haze like a knife.

I can’t.

His grip tightens further on the reins, every muscle in his body tensing, ready to move, ready to do something. Anything.

A shout from behind jerks him from his paralysis. “Sir!”

Leon turns sharply, his pulse racing. A young messenger rides toward him, his face pale, fear etched into every line as he pulls his horse to a stop, barely managing to speak through gasps for air. “Urgent orders from the capital! Princess Ashley has been taken by the enemy. We must mobilize immediately to retrieve her.”

Leon’s heart slams against his ribs.

The princess. The heir to the throne.

For a brief, blessed moment, the chaos of the battlefield fades away, replaced by the only thing that matters. He can save her. He can stop this madness and do something that truly matters.

But the church has other orders.

The captain rides over, his brow furrowed as he tears the sealed letter from the messenger’s hand, the royal crest glinting in the sunlight. He scans it quickly, his expression hardening with each passing second before crumpling the parchment and tossing it to the ground.

“We proceed as planned,” the captain snaps, his tone cold, final.

Leon’s blood runs cold. “But the princess—”

“The orders stand,” the captain repeats, not even glancing at him. “We were sent here to purge this village of traitors, and that’s what we’ll do.”

The sound fades from Leon’s ears, replaced by a sharp ringing that drowns out the Captain ordering the messenger away and trying to direct him to the nearest base.

His pulse pounds in his temples, each beat like a hammer driving nails into his resolve. This isn’t just another village. This isn’t just another order. It’s the future of the kingdom hanging in the balance, and they’re about to throw it all away for what? For bloodshed masquerading as faith?

The bile rises in Leon’s throat, bitter and burning.

He thought he could stomach war. He thought he could follow orders, no matter how brutal. But this?

The last thread of the leash holding him snaps.

Leon’s hands shake on the reins as the captain’s sharp gaze lands on him. “Leon,” the captain growls, noticing his hesitation, “Remember yourself.”

An oath. To serve, to obey, to protect.

But as he looks out over the village, sees the smoke rising, the screams tearing through the air, Leon knows the truth.

This isn’t the will of Ethelion.

This is the will of men.

Men who’ve twisted the divine into something grotesque, something that demands blood for power. Men who’ve forgotten what they were supposed to protect.

Your face flashes before him—soft, kind, with that quiet strength. The words you once spoke come back to him, clear in the chaos.

One is not born to greatness. One achieves it.

“I can’t do this,” Leon whispers, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His voice is barely a breath, but the weight of the truth in them rings louder in his mind than any shout of command.

The captain’s gaze sharpens. “What did you say?”

Leon meets his eyes, feeling the fire build inside him. “I won’t do this,” he repeats, stronger now. “I won’t sit by and watch us slaughter innocents while the kingdom’s heir is in danger.”

“You swore an oath.”

“I swore an oath to protect,” Leon retorts, his breath catching as conviction tightens his chest. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

For a long, tense moment, silence stretches between them. The captain’s face twists in fury, his hand hovering near his sword. “You defy the Temple, and you defy Ethelion himself. You’ll be branded an oathbreaker. You’ll never be able to return.”

An oathbreaker. Cast out from the temple, from the faith, from you.

But Leon knows, deep down, that this decision was made long before he spoke the words.

“If following the Temple means abandoning the kingdom, then I’ll bear that title gladly.”

The captain’s jaw tightens, fury flashing in his eyes, but Leon doesn’t wait for the response. He turns his horse with a sharp tug, spurring it forward. The wind rushes against his face as he rides, faster and faster, leaving behind the chaos, the orders, the lies.

He knows what this means. He knows what’s waiting for him at the end of this path. There will be no place for him in the temple, no return to the saintess’s grace.

But as the wind cuts through him, sharp and freeing, he knows one thing for certain:

He’s made his choice.

And now, he’ll live with it.

The streets of the capital are thick with people, their cheers rising in waves that echoed off the towering stone walls of the city, the air alive with the sounds of celebration—laughter, music, the rhythmic beat of drums that thrummed through the cobblestone streets like a heartbeat. Banners of blue and gold flutter in the breeze, catching the midday sun and casting fractured patterns of light across the throngs of spectators who lined the streets.

And there, at the center of it all, rides Leon, astride a massive warhorse clad in gleaming black barding, the royal crest of Ethelion emblazoned on its chest. The horse’s hooves clatter against the stones, a steady, rhythmic sound that matches the beat of the drums, though Leon barely hears it. His focus is elsewhere—distant, cold, fixed on a point far beyond the horizon as the cheers of the people wash over him like distant waves.

He sits tall in the saddle, his body encased in full black armor that gleams like polished obsidian despite the streaks of dried blood splattered across the metal. His cape, once a regal white, fluttered in the breeze, its edges torn and frayed from the brutal campaign that had crowned him victor. Though battered, the helmet is tucked under his arm, leaving his face exposed to the cool autumn air.

The cheers from the crowd echo off the stone buildings, filling the air with a roar of excitement and adoration. Cries of “Long live Sir Leon!” and “Hail the hero!” ring out from every direction, the people pushing and jostling to catch sight of him as he rode by.

It all means little to him.

They shout his name, faces alight with joy, hailing him as their hero, their savior. He has returned from the war triumphant, Princess Ashley safe at his side, the enemy defeated and the kingdom secured. To them, he is a figure of legend, a warrior draped in glory and victory.

But to Leon, the glory feels hollow, like fool’s gold.

He fought for close to a decade, driven by a purpose that no longer existed. The blood on his armor, the lives lost in his name—it all seems to blur together in his mind, a swirling mass of faces and screams that he can’t escape. Even here, amidst the fanfare and celebration, the battlefield clings to him, its shadow cast long and dark over his soul.

The people can’t see it. They see only the armor, the crown of laurels resting atop his head, the bloodied sword at his side. They don’t see the burden of it, the way it presses down on him like a sin he could never lay down.

He glances to the side as the parade moved forward, the crowds pressing in closer as they strained to catch a glimpse of the soldiers coming home. Children are perched on their parents’ shoulders, waving small flags, their faces painted in the colors of the kingdom. Women throw flowers from their balconies, petals raining down like confetti, their bright colors almost a mockery to the dark steel of his armor.

And then, through the sea of faces, something catches his eye.

A small blur, darting between the legs of the adults, weaving through the crowd with surprising speed and determination. Leon’s gaze sharpens, his body tensing instinctively as he tracks the movement, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword.

It’s a child.

A little girl, no more than seven or eight years old, her hair tied in messy braids, face flushed with excitement. She breaks free from the crowd, slipping past the guards who stood watch along the edges of the street, and before anyone can stop her, she runs toward Leon, her small hands clutching something tightly to her chest.

The crowd gasps, a murmur rippling through as the girl reaches Leon’s horse. The guards move forward, ready to intervene, but Leon holds up a hand, signaling for them to stop.

He looks down at the child, eyes dark and tired. The little girl stares up at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, wide eyes filled with awe and something else—something Leon hasn’t seen in a long time.

Hope.

For a moment, the world slows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as Leon and the girl lock eyes. She is so small, so fragile, standing there in front of him, her little hands trembling as she holds something out to him on her tiptoes.

A flower.

A single white lily, its petals slightly crumpled from her tight grip, but still intact, still whole. She raises it up to him, her hands shaking, lips parting in a shy, nervous smile.

“For you, sir,” she yells, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of the crowd. “Thank you for saving us!”

Leon stares down at the flower, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. The blood on his armor, the dirt caked beneath his fingernails, the weight of the sword at his side—all of it feels wrong in the presence of such innocence. He’s a soldier who threw away his oath, a killer, a man forged in the fires of war, and yet here stands this child, offering him a flower as if he were something more than just the weapon the kingdom had wielded.

His hand, still encased in the cold metal of his gauntlet, moves slowly, hesitantly, as if it doesn’t belong to him. He reaches down, the armor creaking with the motion, and gently takes the flower from the girl’s outstretched hands. The petals brush against the bloodstained metal of his gloves, stark and bright against the darkness of his armor.

“Thank you,” Leon mumbles, rough and strained, the words catching in his throat. His grip tightens around the delicate stem of the flower, careful not to crush it. For a brief moment, the warmth of the child’s gesture pierces through the fog of guilt and weariness that’s permanently settled over him, a glimmer of light in the darkness.

The little girl’s face lights up with a smile, her eyes shining with pure, untainted joy. She stands there and jumps up and down with excitement, beaming up at him as if he were the sun itself, as if his presence alone could banish the shadows that lingered at the edges of her world.

But Leon knows better. He feels the lock of hair curled inside the locket above his heart burn his skin.

The grand doors of the royal palace groan open with an echoing creak, revealing the hall beyond—a glittering display of prosperity and flamboyance that seems to scorn the simple austerity of the life Leon has known. Polished marble floors gleam beneath chandeliers of wrought gold, their light refracting off mirrors that line the walls. The air here is crisp, almost sharp with nose-breaking blends of perfumes, with none of the heavy warmth of the temple's incense.

Leon’s boots click sharply against the marble as he enters, each step ringing out in the cavernous hall, a sound swallowed by the murmurs of the courtiers who line the edges of the room. The steady hum of muted conversations fills his ears, escorted by the occasional clink of glasses. They watch him with calculating eyes, the nobles dressed in silks and velvets of every hue, faces painted with smiles too precise to be genuine, as suffocating as the armor that once bore him through battle.

He feels naked without it now, standing here in formal garb, his sword sheathed and distant at his side, a mere symbol of his victory rather than a tool of survival. The dark fabric of his tunic hangs heavy on his shoulders, trimmed with the royal blue of the kingdom.

Ahead, at the far end of the hall, the king sits on his throne. The high-backed chair is a towering edifice of dark wood, inlaid with gold and precious stones that sparkle under the dazzling chandeliers. The king himself is an imposing figure, draped in royal blues and deep purples, a crown resting atop his graying hair. He watches Leon’s approach with the same detachment as the nobles—his gaze that of a man weighing the worth of a tool rather than acknowledging the triumph of a soldier.

As Leon reaches the dais, he stops, kneeling—an action that should feel natural after years of service, but here, it is different.

The king rises slowly, the robes trailing around his feet like the velvet shadows of dusk, and approaches with the same calculated precision that governs the court. A ceremonial scepter gleams in his hand, more ornament than authority, but its significance is clear.

“Sir Leon,” the king’s words cut through the room like the edge of a blade, each syllable crisp, measured. “You stand before this court as a hero of our realm. For your valor in battle, for your unwavering loyalty to the crown, and for the rescue of Princess Ashley, I bestow upon you the title of Margrave.”

The tap of the scepter on Leon’s shoulder is light, almost delicate, but it might as well have been a hammer.

The king returns to his throne, settling back with a rustle of silk, and gestures for Leon to rise. “Rise, Margrave.”

Leon pushes to his feet, the formality of the moment bearing down upon him as the court claps in practiced politeness. Their applause is soft, a murmur of sound that fades almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving the room in an expectant silence.

It is time.

A low ripple of movement stirs at the far end of the hall as the clergy step forward. Robes of pristine white trail across the floor as the procession approaches, a stark contrast to the vivid blues and purples of the nobility. At the head of the clergy is the Archbishop, his ceremonial staff clicking rhythmically against the floor with each step. And beside him—veiled, serene, and radiant in her holy robes—is the saintess. The mask is a pure white, veil milky and opaque; the contrasts of light and darkness across its fabric give the impression of a reflection on water, of a thousand shifting stars under the sun. On your head rests a delicate crown of silver thorns, interwoven with fine filigree, glimmering like fresh snow, hands folded in your lap are covered by silk gloves, so smooth they almost shine.

Leon’s heart stutters.

This is the moment he has been longing for, the only prayer that’s ever left his lips even after his faith had fallen.

He has endured the war, survived the bloodshed, all for this. For you. For the woman who has been his guiding light, the saintess who had once healed him with her touch, whose presence had filled the void within him during the long, cold nights on the battlefield.

He steps forward, his hands trembling at his sides, his breath catching in his throat as the group approaches the dais.

His knee wants to bend before he even realizes it, the instinct to kneel before you stronger than any other impulse.

But as when you take your place atop the steps of the dais, hands raised in the familiar gesture of blessing, something gnaws at him—an unease that creeps along the edges of his mind. The movement of your hands, the tilt of your head—it is all wrong. Too stiff, too formal.

He hesitates.

The room holds its breath, the nobles watching in silence as the saintess descends down towards him, the veil obscuring your features, body swathed in layers of white that flutter with each step.

Leon’s pulse quickens, and his eyes—despite his every effort not to—search for yours through the veil and the mask. He needs confirmation that it’s him who has changed. He needs to see, even if it is just the glimpse of the eyes he had held in his memory through every moment of agony, through every victory.

But as you draw closer, his stomach drops.

The eyes behind the veil—dark, unfamiliar, and cold—are not yours.

His body freezes, his muscles locking in place as the realization hits him with the force of a blow.

This isn’t you.

This woman—this stranger—isn’t the one he had fought for, the one whose face had kept him alive in the blood-soaked trenches of the war.

The saintess lowers her hands, preparing to lay her blessing upon him, but Leon jerks back, his knees refusing to bend, breath quick and sharp in his chest. The room grows still, the murmurs of the nobles faltering as the tension thickens around him like a noose.

The Archbishop’s head snaps toward him, the ceremonial calm in his expression faltering for just a moment. His fingers tighten around the staff, the knuckles turning white beneath the pressure.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s reprimand is sharp, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “You must kneel to receive the Saintess’s blessing.”

Leon’s fists clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. His body is trembling, but it isn’t from fear. It is from the fear-soaked anger that is building inside him, slow and burning like a fire stoked too long. His gaze fixes on the false saintess, his heart thundering in his chest, his mind spinning with questions that have no answers.

Where are you?

The walls close in, the air thick with the silent judgment of nobles and clergy. Each breath is a growing struggle, laden with the oppressive load of their expectations. His limbs feel anchored, refusing to bow before this stranger, this imposter.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding. His eyes flash a stern warning. “You will kneel.”

The pressure shatters.

Leon’s body moves before he can stop it, his hands flying out to grab the front of the Archbishop’s robes, yanking him forward with a force that sends the man stumbling, the ornate staff clattering to the floor. A collective gasp sweeps through the room, the nobles recoiling in shock as Leon’s voice, low and ragged, spills out.

“Where is she?” His hiss is a harsh rasp, breaths coming in short, jagged bursts. “Where is the real Saintess?”

The Archbishop’s face twists in fury, his hands flailing against Leon’s iron grip. “Unhand me, you fool! You stand in the presence of Ethelion’s chosen—”

“No.” The word is a snarl, the growl of an animal promising to get violent. Leon’s grip tightens, the anger boiling over, his muscles trembling with the force of it. “What have you done with her?”

The room descends into chaos. Nobles rise from their seats, the sound of their hurried footsteps mingling with the low murmur of alarmed voices. The clergy shift uneasily, their faces pale, but none of them dare to move. The paladins stationed near the walls exchange nervous glances, their hands hovering near their swords, but none step forward.

They have seen what Leon is capable of.

“Release me!” The Archbishop’s voice cracks, his pale face contorted with fear and rage. “You dare attack the church? You will be branded a heretic for this!”

Leon barely hears them, his body trembling with rage as he stares down the terrified clergyman clawing at his arm, nails digging into Leon's skin, leaving behind bloody scratches.

“I don’t care.” Leon’s voice is low, silent, the words spilling from him like venom. “Tell me where she is.”

Before the Archbishop can answer, a hand—small, yet firm—clamps down on Leon’s shoulder.

Princess Ashley doesn’t release his arm as she pulls him toward the side of the throne room, guiding him through the side doors that lead into a quieter, more secluded hallway. The heavy wooden door closes behind them with a dull thud, cutting off the noise of the throne room and leaving them in a sudden, suffocating stillness.

Leon exhales, his breath shuddering as he leans against the wall, one hand coming up to palm at his face, and between his fingers, stares down at the ground with a wild look.

[todayontumblr]

Monday, August 21.

Snoopy of the Day.

He is the anthropomorphic beagle. He is, and let us make no bones about this, an actual icon. It is a word that is used and abused, and not least by us here on the World Wide Web. But #snoopy, of Peanuts fame, is an internally-renowned, instantly recognizable superstar. Indeed more celebrated than his unfortunate, round-headed owner, Charlie Brown, in some respects. He is an anthropomorphic black and white beagle, and then some.

He is also an international beagle of mystery, and endlessly charismatic, with a magnificent array of alter egos: the German flying ace The Red Baron, The World Famous Author/Novelist, The Masked Marvel, The Easter Beagle, and Joe Cool. And there is simply no bad day or melancholy mood that cannot be remedied with a little dose of Snoopy. So it is our good fortune this Monday, August 21, that we stumbled upon @snoopyoftheday: your new go-to for each and every one of your daily Snoopy needs. Your daily bread of Snoopy, if you like. 

[marengogo]

NAKED - 6: I’d Rather Be …

Listening to the playlist bts sexy songs

[Music is a very big part of my life and I’m MOSTLY INCAPABLE of writing without music, so I just thought I'd share what I am listening to while writing this]

–🐺–🐺–🐺–

Why hello my Lovergurls, Loverbois and Loverenbies! It’s been a minute since I made a Naked post, hasn’t it? Well, need something fun to do tonight, so given a particular development that came to light because of the AYS behind the scenes, I decided that it would be fun to point out a couple of things, while we look at a couple of chronologically very interesting fact at least to me, they are quite interesting I even have a tin-hat moment for y’all! … So ⚠️SPOILER ALERT⚠️if you don’t want any AYS VOD Behind The Scenes spoilers, this is not the post for you. Ayte? Cool, lesgo! 😘💋

The date is July 13, 2023. JM, and his perfectly shaven legs, get into a flight to NYC. Nobody knows why. Most of his solos assume he must be going for a personal schedule that has nothing to do with JK. Most Jkkrs assume that he is going to support JK. Boat Blue Bird AMI feel a certain way about airport info which they can’t be completely blamed for tbh, so they completely ignore the whole thing.  

At this very moment in time, all we know for sure are the following 3 things: 1. JK’s solo first single, Seven, will be released July 14, 2023. 2. JK will debut said single with a live performance on Good Morning America on that same July 14. 3. July 14 also just so happens to be Silver Day. So it is that the evening of the 13th of July pulls up and pictures of what seem to be JM and JK going about the streets of NYC start surfacing. Some believe them, some don’t and we are all left at that.

July 14, 2023, the following day, finally arrives. JK does amazing, despite the rain, and even though he let’s it slip that JM is somewhere in NYC because of a very curious TV-host, he manages to still keep JM’s presence very vague. Yet, the thing that will have the majority that was paying attention except for celebrating Capulets of course rather confused, and some even aghast, is the fact that JM was nowhere to be found at JK’s performance. This will eventually be a topic of discussion for months to come, given how JM had been physically present for every other member’s debut, release, live, or fanmeet. 

Eventually, on the July 15th a video of who seem to be JM and JK on a yacht surfaces on the world wide web thanks to said yacht’s dickhead owner, as well as tells of various other people who begin to spot the two around Connecticut. As always, most AMI ignore, Jkkrs decide to die on that hill, and Capulets fight to deny everything. Regardless, eventually JM goes back to Seoul in the same way he had left, alone, and the reason for his visit to NYC, because at this point nobody believes he was in Connecticut, or even with JK at all remains a mystery.

Little did we know that: On July 13th, not only were JM & JK truly spotted skipping around NYC, after they’d gone eating at a Korean restaurant named Antoya, with their staff and crew,

but JM had indeed gone specifically for the sole objective of being with JK and filming a single travel vlog for AMI before they left for the military. 

Could he not have just shown up for JK’s debut at GMA, just like he’d done with all the other members? Yes, I’m sure he could have, but apparently JM would rather have spent the night before leisurely with JK, perhaps getting him tired enough to have him at least sleep a little, so that he’d be ready for his performance the following day, rather than staying awake from nerves and/or excitement, to then eventually relaxedly go and film their carefree and “therapeutic” content. 

Eventually, we’d also have confirmed the fact that JM & JK went back to Antoya, this time alone, most likely right before JM returned to Seoul. 

The date is September 23, 2023. Jungkook is once again in NYC where, and within the walls of a very familiar hotel room, he starts a WEVERSE live, right after he’s done performing at the Global Citizen Festival in Central Park:

That very day Jimin has the world in hysterics as his posts his first #ThisIsJimin reel on IG many “cried”: it was emotional. This very night JK would also get on a flight to get back to Seoul. JK lands September 24, 2023 and nothing would be heard neither of him, or JM, on this day. 

#ThisIsJimin 1

September 25, 2023 quickly comes by and from this day, for a couple of more days, JM start’s to be particularly active on IG, making us believe that “Okay, interactive JM is back!” … 🤡 by first posting a video of Tae. 

Tae Surprise Performance

September 28 he posts a picture of what looks like a shark eventually JK will tell us it was a whale 🙃… okay saying that JK drew it. September 29, JK’s second single, 3D, is released, and JM also posts something about it on his IG. October 1, the second #ThisIsJimin is posted on IG and, on the same day, JK also has a StationHead Listening Party with AMI. This would be the last we’d hear from JM until the day before his birthday (October 12, 2023). 

Little did we know that: On September 25th, JK, JM and Tae would be boarding on a plane all the way to Jeju, to film the Autumn episode of Are You Sure?!. I guess being around Tae might have been what made JM want to post that video on that same day, but really, who knows, right? That same night, after Tae goes to bed, JK and JM spend some time together in the living room watching a performance video for SNTY and chit-chatting; the below being one of the chats:

From this convo, we gather that JK didn’t sleep, at least on the flight from NYC to Seoul, reason why he was tired, and it would appear that he’s told JM beforehand because he is searching for consensus, which JM readily gives. So at this point we are all like “He’s told JM before they travelled”. 

And then this AYS behind the scenes change this whole scenario completely:

Given as to how they literally were to have met to film content together, couldn’t they just have met the following day? Yes, I’m sure they could have, but apparently JM & JK would rather have spent the previous night together, rather as JK landed in Soul as they enjoyed some makguksu made by JK at JK’s place.

Tin-Hat Moment: Remember how I’ve mentioned time and time again that I just go on the Blue Bird to silently get info? There was a rumor back in August 2023 that JK and JM were spotted in Jeju. No pictures were going around on the platform but it was all that jkkr twitter was talking about for that day as the rumor died within a day or two. It took me forever to find this tweets again but here are some:

I remember this rumor so well since, because of it, I thought that AYS Jeju was being filmed in August, which is close enough to Chuseouk. However, if these episodes were filmed at the end of September; how was there a rumor that they had been spotted in Jeju mid August? 🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔 …

… I guess we’ll never know.

The date is November 23, 2023. JK & JM stroll up together into Incheon and because of that nobody, be it jkkrs, be it Capulates, be it Blue Bird AMI can ignore their presence and the word of everyone’s mouth is: Why?

Reporters at the sight all have received info saying that they are working together on some kind of project. And as they make their way through Incheon greeting people, looking like the next royal couple, they eventually land in Tokyo, and after JM posts the below pictures on November 25th, chaos ensues. 

“They are not staying in the same hotel?!” “JM has spent his whole day without JK, shopping and having fun” “JK is no where near JM” “Yeah, we’ve felt it for a while, they are just business associates kinda bandmates” “So it is just work after all” “... maybe they just happened to have business in Tokyo on the same day and went together”.

Eventually on that same November 25, JM & JK are seen leaving for Sapporo, and on November 28, they both go back to Seoul. This time around, the general consensus is that they are filming because they are seen in the airport in Sapporo with GoPros, but nobody knows what they are filming exactly. Hence, they go fairly unnoticed in Sapporo, except for a youtuber who randomly spots them, on her way back to Seoul, and who thought she’d seen JK and his blond girlfriend … 😏 .

Little did we know that: On November 23rd, JK was hella busy when they went to Tokyo, as we know, amongst the many things he did, he also filmed the Hate You video JM’s favourite song from Golden may I add:

So much so that there were sightings of JK being spot in particular restaurants and JM in others, which to be honest, given how busy JK was, I don’t have a problem believing. So then, Couldn’t have JM just meet JK directly in Sapporo? Afterall JM did fly to NYC to meet up with JK alone? Yes, I’m sure he could have, but apparently JK would rather have had JM around even if they couldn’t do much together because, from his very own words:

… Who knows what they did together in Tokyo. This, like many other things surrounding JK & JM might just remain a mystery we’ll never know 🙄.

Now let me tell you, because of what had been initially presented to us, throughout JM & JK’s “chapter 2” and thanks to what is slowly being revealed, it is safe to say that we were NEVER going to get that WEVERSE live, not for fault of JK I’d say, I think my Twinflame tried his best

Also he can lie his ass off when needed kudos to him no cap!👏🏾  This live happened after they met in NYC, on the 30th of July. I mean this the same man that pulled up on WEVERSE for a whopping 1 minute and 53 second with a 17’s member.

Basically if they wanted to have done a live together; they would have.

Ever since I’ve found out that basically JM spent every single night before filming AYS with JK, for, even though he didn’t really have to, nights during which honest to everything, they could have just done a 10sec live particularly in Tokyo, since we publicly so them go together, I’ve had Rihanna’s James Joint stuck in my head:

🎶I’d rather be breaking things cause we can’t see… how you live and love like fuck rules, don’t care why just know I love you🎵

This song made me think about them, not because I think they are in this edgy-as-hell relationship, but because it finally dawned of me that there were a lot of things that both JM & JK rather would have done than coming on a live with us 🤡🥹🙃, which to be honest, no matter how much I am the first person who loves to see them together and would have boxed JK’s trainer for a live … I must admit … I respect their decisions, and if they really are in a relationship, I find this rather healthy NGL. Aaaand that’s all from me y’all, as always, stay sassy, but keep it hella classy 💋. 

Always respectfully yours,

Marengo.

[duckprintspress]

Let’s Get Spoopy! 6 Queer Gothic Books for Halloween!

Happy Halloween, everyone! We did a queer horror-themed rec list in August to celebrate Frankenstein Day, so we thought we’d try something a little different: queer gothic stories! Here are our six recommendations for queer gothic works. Five Duck Prints Press folks contributed recommendations to this list.

Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu

In a lonely castle deep in the Styrian forest, Laura leads a solitary life with only her elderly father for company – until a moonlit night brings an unexpected guest to the schloss. At first Laura is glad to finally have a female companion of her own age, but her new friend’s strange habits and eerie nocturnal wanderings quickly become unsettling, and soon a ghastly truth is revealed.

What Manner of Man by St. John Starling

This is What Manner of Man, a queer vampire romance novel about an innocent priest sent to a remote island to exorcise the demons that are allegedly tormenting the villagers — but what happens when the priest begins to suspect his host, the mysterious, nocturnal lord of the local manor, may have invited him another reason entirely? And what happens when the supposedly celibate priest finds he cannot resist his host’s powerful charms?

Unspeakable: A Queer Gothic Anthology

Unspeakable contains eighteen Gothic tales with uncanny twists and characters that creep under your skin. Its stories feature sapphic ghosts, terrifying creatures of the sea, and haunted houses concealing their own secrets. Whether you’re looking for your non-binary knight in shining armour or a poly family to murder with, Unspeakable showcases the best contemporary Gothic queer short fiction.

Even dark tales deserve their time in the sun.

A Dowry of Blood by S. T. Gibson

Saved from the brink of death by a mysterious stranger, Constanta is transformed from a medieval peasant into a bride fit for an undying king. But when Dracula draws a cunning aristocrat and a starving artist into his web of passion and deceit, Constanta realizes that her beloved is capable of terrible things. Finding comfort in the arms of her rival consorts, she begins to unravel their husband’s dark secrets.

With the lives of everyone she loves on the line, Constanta will have to choose between her own freedom and her love for her husband. But bonds forged by blood can only be broken by death.

Silver in the Wood by Emily Tesh

There is a Wild Man who lives in the deep quiet of Greenhollow, and he listens to the wood. Tobias, tethered to the forest, does not dwell on his past life, but he lives a perfectly unremarkable existence with his cottage, his cat, and his dryads.

When Greenhollow Hall acquires a handsome, intensely curious new owner in Henry Silver, everything changes. Old secrets better left buried are dug up, and Tobias is forced to reckon with his troubled past, both the green magic of the woods and the dark things that rest in its heart.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

In this celebrated work Wilde forged a devastating portrait of the effects of evil and debauchery on a young aesthete in late-19th-century England. Combining elements of the Gothic horror novel and decadent French fiction, the book centers on a striking premise: As Dorian Gray sinks into a life of crime and gross sensuality, his body retains perfect youth and vigor while his recently painted portrait grows day by day into a hideous record of evil, which he must keep hidden from the world. For over a century, this mesmerizing tale of horror and suspense has enjoyed wide popularity. It ranks as one of Wilde’s most important creations and among the classic achievements of its kind.

TELL US MORE QUEER GOTHIC BOOKS!

These books have been added to our queer horror shelf on Goodreads and our affiliate recommendation list on Bookshop.org!

[random-musings-of-life]

A (Mostly) Comprehensive List of Tumblr Holidays

I saw this post about Tumblr holidays/celebrations, and there were a ton of them, so I decided to make an organized list and their meanings. I am also adding famous "fandom holidays" to this list. Feel free to point out any I missed/explained incorrectly and I'll add them!

Tuesday:

Supernatural Tuesday --- an episode of Supernatural was about a time loop where it was always Tuesday. Can be posted on any Tuesday.

Leave the Bog --- a meme with a drawing saying "When it's safe to leave the bog" and an arrow pointing to Tuesday. Can be posted on any Tuesday.

Thursday:

Out of Touch Thursday --- a video of the cast from the anime Lucky Star dancing to the song "Out of Touch" by Hall and Oates. Can be posted on any Thursday.

Thursday the 20th --- a screencap of a rapper in The Simpsons with a gold necklace that says "Thursday the 20th". Can only be posted on Thursdays which are also the 20th of their month.

February:

Galentine's Day --- February 13th. From an episode of Parks and Rec where Leslie dedicates this day to celebrating female friendship.

March:

Pi Day --- March 14th. The first digits of pi, 3.14, line up with "March 14" or 3/14.

The Ides of March --- March 15th. The day that Julius Caesar was assassinated. Many memes and jokes are made about him, the assassination in general, or bad luck.

Evergiven/Suez Canal Anniversary --- March 23rd. Refers to an event where a ship, the Evergiven, got stuck in the Suez Canal.

94 Meetings Day --- March 31st. From an episode of Parks and Rec where April doesn't think this day exists and books all of Ron's appointments then.

April:

April Fools --- April 1st. Also a real world holiday. The most popular prank is Rickrolling.

Mishapocalypse --- April 1st. On this day, Tumblr users spam one specific photo of Misha Collins, who played Castiel on Supernatural, where he is looking at the camera wide-eyed.

Neil Banging Out the Tunes --- April 13th. Refers to a photo of a rat by a children's keyboard with the caption "Neil banging out the tunes April 13th 2006".

Homestuck Day --- April 13th. The birthday of Homestuck, a web comic. It is/was one of the most popular fandoms on Tumblr.

It's Gonna Be May --- April 30th. Comes from a GIF of Justin Timberlake singing the song "It's Gonna Be Me". In the song, he pronounces "me" like "May".

May:

Star Wars Day --- May 4th. It comes from a pun between "May the force" and "May the Fourth".

Revenge of the Fifth --- May 5th. It comes from a pun between "Revenge of the Sith" and "Revenge of the Fifth".

June:

Let Papyrus Say "Fuck" Day --- June 16th. Someone who was annoyed with mischaracterization of Papyrus from Undertale established this holiday and it caught on.

July:

Dashcon Anniversary --- July 11th. Dashcon was a poorly organized attempt to hold a Tumblr convention.

September:

21st Night of September --- September 21st. The day referenced in the catchy disco song "September" by Earth, Wind, and Fire.

Frodo and Bilbo's Birthday --- September 22nd. The joint birthday of Frodo and Bilbo Baggins from The Lord of the Rings.

October:

Mean Girls Day --- October 3rd. This comes from the part of the movie where Cady's crush asks her what day it is.

Treat Yo'Self --- October 13th. From an episode of Parks and Rec where Tom and Donna have a day to pamper themselves.

November:

November 5th --- Multiple holidays. It's Guy Fawkes Day (a holiday in Great Britain where effigies are lit to celebrate the failure of a traitor), and some people post screencaps of the movie V for Vendetta, where it's mentioned. November 5th, 2020 specifically had three huge news items: rumors of Vladimir Putin's resignation, Destiel (a ship from Supernatural) becoming (one-sided) canon, and the controversy over counting electoral votes in the U.S. election.

Life Day --- November 17. The equivalent of Christmas in Star Wars.

December:

Christmas Adam --- December 23rd. It comes from a Tumblr post making a pun on "eve" and "Eve" (from the Bible). As the original Tumblr post describes, it "comes before Christmas Eve and is generally unsatisfying".

Almost Christmas (Means It Wasn't Christmas) --- 11:59 P.M. on December 24th. This is from Ace Attorney, a video game where you're a defense lawyer. The fact that it's not quite Christmas is a crucial piece of evidence in one of the cases.

DL-6 --- Christmas/late December. This is when one of the most famous cases from Ace Attorney (mentioned above) occurs.

Other:

Annoy Squidward Day --- either January or February 15th. This refers to an episode of Spongebob where Mr. Krabs votes for Employee of the Month; a screen cap shows Spongebob pointing to the 15th day on the calendar with a sticker of Squidward on it.

Fuck this Post and Happy Birthday [Fictional Character] --- any character's birthday. The original Tumblr post starts out with a user saying "People who celebrate fictional character birthdays are annoying, pass it on", and another retorts with "FUCK this post and happy birthday, Sonic". "Sonic" can be replaced with a character of your choice.

[girlactionfigure]

⚠️ FRIDAY - ISRAEL REALTIME - Connecting to Israel in Realtime

Erev Shabbat - Parshat Barak - Numbers 22:2 - Balak, the king of Moab, summons the prophet Balaam to curse the people of Israel.  Three times, from three different vantage points, Balaam attempts to pronounce his curses; each time, blessings issue forth instead. Balaam also prophesies on the end of the days and the coming of Moshiach (the Jewish messiah).

⚠️ WORLD WIDE COMPUTER OUTAGE .. Israel impact (not a cyber attack - an update error)

ISRAEL EMERGENCY NUMBERS MAY BE DOWN:

MDA 101 - alternatives call Hatzalah 1221 (who report they are operating fine) or 100 police

Electric Company - instead of 103, call 054-5838074 or report on Facebook page.

Working fine: 100 police, 102 fire

Some Israeli companies impacted - may accept only cash or be unable to do business for a while:

Israel Post

Ikea

Delek gas stations

Various hospitals - Shaarei Tzedek reports recovered, normal ops, Hadassah not on the problem list, Asuta Ashdod working fine

   Affected: Hillel Yaffe, Laniado, Barzilai, Sheba, Wolfson, Shamir Assaf Harofeh, Rambam, Ma'aini Hashua, Nahariya, Poria, Bnei Zion, Ziv, the French Hospital in Nazareth, the Italian Hospital in Nazareth

Meuhedet health clinics

Clalit health clinics

Carrefour grocery - cash only

Banks HaPoalim, Leumi, Discount

Bank of Israel

Port of Ashdod completely down to ships and trucks

EL AL reports no impact, they don’t use the affected software.

Unrelated - Globes newspaper hacked (not the web site, the newsroom.)

WORLD IMPACT:

AIR TRAVEL - FAA suspending many flights in the US, Berlin flights on hold, Spain flights on hold.

Sky News having disruptions

⚠️HEZBOLLAH THREATENS.. significant retaliation for recent IDF targeted eliminations.  Northern towns should be on ALERT, take precautions in the north.

▪️RUMORS ABOUT PM.. may suspend trip to the US.  At the same time, “Israeli officials estimate that the Netanyahu-Biden meeting will not take place on Monday as planned”, unclear if due to Biden’s health or US election politics.

▪️FIN. MINISTER.. Sanctions from cabinet on PA officials NOT implemented by IDF and Shin Bet for the last 3 weeks???

▪️FBI USES ISRAELI SOFTWARE.. Washington Post: The FBI hacked into the phone of the assassin of Trump using the software of the Israeli company Celebrity.

▪️ECONOMY.. The Turkish embargo has stopped the import of Hyundai, and it is beginning to seep into Toyota, whose inventory in Israel is also shrinking.

PRESS BRIEFING BY IDF SPOKESPERSON RADM. DANIEL HAGARI - JULY 19, 2024

Overnight, a UAV, which we believe was launched from Yemen, infiltrated from the sea to our west and struck a building in central Tel Aviv. This impact resulted in the death of one civilian and lightly injured eight others. We extend our condolences to the bereaved family and wish a speedy recovery to the injured.

No alert was activated during the incident, and we are thoroughly investigating the matter. Our initial findings suggest the UAV was a Samad-3, an Iranian weapon likely upgraded to extend its range. This UAV flew from Yemen to Tel Aviv. Iran supports, funds, and arms its proxies in Gaza, Judea and Samaria, Lebanon, Syria, and Yemen, as evidenced by last night's event. UAV threats have been a constant challenge since the beginning of the war across all our borders. Dozens of UAVs have been launched from Yemen alone, most of which have been intercepted or shot down before entering Israeli territory. The majority were intercepted by an American task force under U.S. CENTCOM, while the rest were intercepted by Israeli Air Force planes or defense systems.

Simultaneously with the Tel Aviv incident, another UAV attempting to infiltrate from the east was intercepted and shot down outside of Israel’s borders. We are investigating the connection between the two incidents.

We are conducting a thorough inquiry to understand why the UAV was not identified as a threat and intercepted before it struck. An initial inquiry was conducted this morning, and we will continue to review the findings and update the public accordingly.

I want to emphasize that our defense is not foolproof. We are strengthening our air patrols and airspace protection across the country. We are continuously improving our capabilities to better protect the citizens of Israel.

There is no change in the Home Front Command directives. Should there be any changes, we will immediately inform the public.

Overnight and this morning, the Chief of the General Staff conducted several situational assessments. We have increased our defensive capabilities in Israel’s skies with additional planes and other measures to improve detection, alert, and interception capabilities. The incident on the ground was managed cooperatively by the Israel Police, Magen David Adom, and the Israel Fire and Rescue Services, who provided vital details for the inquiry.

In the north, the UAV threat is a daily challenge due to short-range launches, differing from last night’s incident. We are studying the northern threat to improve our response. We recognize the ongoing challenges faced by residents in the north.

In the past day, we have eliminated six Hezbollah terrorists and struck fifteen targets from the air and ground in the north.

We are engaged in a multi-front war, operating in all arenas and defending the country's skies daily. We are addressing threats both near and far.

In the coming days, we will continue our situational assessments to understand the incident better, determine the source of the threat, and decide on the necessary defensive and operational responses against those who threaten the State of Israel.

[greenbeetlestew]

i infodump about homestuck history and you pretend to listen

13th of april 2009 Andrew hussie releases the first few pages of the web comic Homestuck.People both commemorate it and celebrate it every year, commemoration of the day is typically ironic and satirical.

2010, After a whole year of viewers deciding the storyline of Homestuck, Andrew Hussie completely takes over, and the last reader request is taken.

2010,The most important and most recognizable part of the comic (act 5)begins. This is also when the Homestuck fandom begins to be considered “that” annoying fandom. this annoying fandom trope is also where the phrase “LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT HOMESTUCK” originates from, this line was typically used to imitate Homestuck fans in a satirical mocking way, poking fun about their constant need to talk about Homestuck and the cult like following it had.

2011,Often referred to as a fandom legend, a still anonymous girl is mentioned in a Tumblr post to have ‘allegedly’ attempted to dye her skin grey for a Homestuck cosplay at anime expo, this was done in a hotel bathtub. She did this By ‘allegedly’ using a mixture of water, vodka, and sharpies, filling the bathtub with it and climbing in. This becomes a very important defining moment in fandom history, with many celebrating its anniversary every year.

Also taking place at the 2011 anime expo, Homestuck fandom members film the infamous YouTube video of people passing around a bucket and spitting in it (in the middle of a family restaurant). They do this with the intention of referencing a popular headcanon of troll reproduction.

These two anime expo events solidify the horrible reputation Homestuck fans would hold to this day.

2012 the Kickstarter for a Homestuck adventure game is started, making 2.5 million dollars.

In 2013 Andrew Hussie momentarily stops updating Homestuck, this time is known as the gigapause

2014,dashcon takes place it becomes widely known as the worst convention in fandom history, as well as the closest thing to a homestuck convention to ever happen.Theres many pictures of homestuck cosplayers in the famous urine-soaked ball pit at dashcon

Homestuck goes on its final pause in 2015, this pause doesn’t end until 2016 when the final pages of homestuck are released

2016,The worlds greatest literary mistake is almost over, homestuck is coming to a end.

Homestuck 2.0 is announced in 2016 and video games,a tv series books etc are promised None of these projects ever release, infact nothing EVER comes of ‘homestuck 2.0’.

2021,Andrew Hussie essentially abandons homestuck.

2023, homestuck is updated again in october.

non dated=>>>

snoop dog reposts homestuck fanart

Broadway karkat

violent attacks with buckets

grey facepaint, EVERYWHERE

the multiple homestuck websites and messaging platforms

[dynared]

Random thoughts on the Earthspark cancelation and what comes next for the Transformers brand

What a week, huh? So, we got confirmation Earthspark was canceled, Hasbro put the absolute bare minimum effort into their 40th anniversary celebration leading to many people going to the movie theaters expecting Transformers the Movie and not DVD-quality episodes of the TV series with many demanding refunds, and some good news, Transformers from Skybound being nominated for several Eisner awards, the first time a Transformers comic has ever been nominated for the comic book world's Oscar equivalent.

So once again, the brand, the sole surviving Western mecha brand at this point unless that J-Lo movie next week somehow launches a new franchise (doubtful) is at a crossroads, especially with their enduring business partner Paramount in complete turmoil, with more senior executives jumping ship and an official NDA signed between Paramount and Sony yesterday which allows Sony access to Paramount's record-keeping in order to ascertain the value for a bid.

So with all that said, rambling about the franchise under the cut.

Earthspark is done after this season, and it's easy to see why. While many right-wing grifter types will point to the nebulous "wokeness", an ill-defined term at this point that means little besides "bad non-traditional thing", the reasons are pretty simple. Kids weren't interested, the toyline didn't sell, and the show, whether due to being distributed on a streaming service people only get for Sonic stuff and the occasional South Park special, had very poor ratings. If you're making a kids show and you bore the kids, you're done, no matter how "important" you think the stories are. The days of Ted Turner funding Captain Planet out of his own pocket are long gone.

Since Earthspark is dead, but another series is in development, it looks like Hasbro will not be letting the franchise rest for any set period of time. The most likely follow-up for Earthspark is a spin-off of Transformers One similar to what Tales of the TMNT is for Mutant Mayhem after the latter's box-office success. It's a pretty low-risk venture to boot, with the biggest issue being the usual problems with a movie spin-off (lower quality visuals, sound-alikes since you can't pay the celebrity actors to do the voices week in and week out) so long as the movie is a success. It also lets the franchise establish some needed distance from Earthspark's lack of success.

Now, the question of "What if One isn't a success?" definitely is one that Hasbro is contemplating. For all the ragging on Snake-Eyes GI Joe Origins as a box office bomb, Rise of the Beasts was widely viewed by Hollywood as a flop and the lowest-grossing film in the history of the franchise. While a lot of that may be due to the wishy-washy way the continuity has been handled and the inability to commit to a full reboot (Madame Web producer Lorenzo di Bonaventura has been insistent that all the Michael Bay movies are still canon, even though that makes no real sense), if One isn't successful, the franchise may need to step back for a year or two.

Any other new concept for a series that fans have wanted is simply not feasible due to time and budget. With Hasbro joined at the hip with Paramount (apparently Hasbro board members own Paramount stock, hence their desire to keep the relationship going so long as Paramount exists), they don't have access to or funds for numerous studios. Studio Trigger have been asking to do a Transformers show for years now, hence all the shout-outs in stuff like SSSS.Gridman and even Panty and Stocking. Studio Orange's head took to the internet earlier in the week asking to be able to do a mecha show. Neither is getting the call from Hasbro because Paramount would rather use local Western studios and save money.

That of course leads to the final option for an adaptation, a 1:1 or similar of the Energon Universe. The problem with that is simply put, it's way too soon. While it would assuredly get a lot of attention just by putting down "From the creator of Invincible and The Walking Dead" in the promos, animation lead times mean that it would be impossible to do at this point without overtaking the entire stock of comics and either resulting in huge delays between seasons, or filler. Neither of which would be helpful.

So I guess tl:dr - Earthspark bombed not because of a non-binary owl, but because the kids were bored by it, with even the Fox News controversy failing to get the show any real positive attention with its main demographic of families. As horrible for Hollywood as it may be to see Paramount be sold for parts to Sony, it may actually be Hasbro's best bet at making its tie-in brands successful again on the big and small screens. And if One doesn't succeed, they are going to be in big trouble because nothing else is realistically ready yet.

[nightmaresfromthebottom]

1994 produced some really cool things!

1. Friends the tv series

2. Lion King

3. Dakota Fanning

4. Halsey

5. The Shawshank Redemption

6. Interview with the Vampire

7. The World Wide Web aka www.

8. Waterfalls by TLC

9. Overall and Animal Print Clothing

10. ME!!!!

September 27 1994 BROUGHT YOU ME!

Life overall hasn’t always been easy for me, a few close calls here in there, this or that but I’ve never let it stop me. If you would have asked 15 years ago what I would be doing at 30… I probably would have laughed and told you something to make you happy; when realistically I never seen me making it to 30. Life has sent me challenges, up and downs, goods and bads. However at the end of the day I cannot complain.

I’m in a happy healthy relationship, I’m going to school, I’m seeking a new career path that will provide for my family, and life is good.

For gifts and etc I’m asking for money to put towards my celebration for my birthday or a gift to purchase after my celebration. Money will be used strictly for my birthday. TIA.

Donate to my cash app: $lcjh0994

Or follow the below link: https://linktr.ee/lumberofjacks

[disruptxrr]

…🫀♱ ★ “without warning, heart attack. he fell asleep in the snow, never woke up, died alone....”

self-proclaimed misery chick n the fuck up angel watching you sleep. i dont live in your post 9/11 world. & i will never be real enough for you (i belong in a dream)

hi. i'm sid. she/he. 17. NOT a tcc blog, but fine with you interacting (as long as you aren't fucking weird about it). TW SH!!!!! —if you are uncomfortable with any of that, leave. i don't want to hear it.

you can find my favorite posts under the #spiralz ꩜ tag, asks under the #sid(speakz)! tag, music under the #musik tag (self-explanatory), posts my friends sent/tagged me in under the #4.me tag, and my ramblings/og posts under the #s.thoughtz ☆ﾟtag, if you care about those.

last.fm spotify pinterest letterboxd zero day ☆

have fun surfing the world wide web (i love user @august-undergrounds on tumblr)

"please don't dress in black, when you're at his wake. don't go there to mourn, but to celebrate....” ー ☆ ¡!

[elementoftheeye]

My mind is elsewhere. We went to babysit our grandchildren last weekend, and also celebrated my beautiful wife's birthday. She is such a beautiful soul and physical person. It is a long drive, Last night on the way home I turned off the audiobook so that we could chat about the weekend... I was getting sleepy and blurry eyed because it was raining and foggy. We had good conversation and talked about what we wanted, which wasn't things but time. Time with family and friends, time with each other. One of the gifts that she was given was tiny framed painting, portraits of our pets, and even 2 of our pets that have passed. The 2 portraits of the passed dogs really hit me hard. These 2 rescues were known as "our girls" they passed during incredible turmoil in our home. Family crisis, dementia, emotional upheaval ... to this day I seem to walk with the blame...maybe allowing that negative energy to take it's toll on our beloved girls. Mind you I put this out here on my blog mostly because it is an outlet for people to read if they want or just to look at the photo and get some enjoyment... I don't look for pity, or affirmation... when I was in massage school one of the assignments was to white something on a paper and burn it and it would go away, burn equaling releasing into the universe. I tried that and it always felt worse, maybe my frame of mind was/is off. Maybe I don't want to really release it, maybe I want that guilt to carry... maybe in the world wide web, it can be diluted, mixed with other worse events, obscured with other beautiful posts...

[infinitystoner]

Since you won’t get yourself an Easter egg ( >:( ) I have no choice but to send you this Easter message.

K, you wonderful, amazing soul, how did I get so lucky as to have you as a Computer Friend?? You’re the funniest, silliest, kindest little weirdo I have ever met on the World Wide Web. I hope you know how much I look forward to your messages every single day and how I wail at the moon when you have the audacity to leave me and do your job.

You are a bright and beautiful comet that lights up the sky, and one of the most talented girlies I know! Don’t let anyone extinguish your light!!

Forever grateful that the universe decided to intertwine our parallel lines! I adore you! 🩷🩷

Saz! What did I ever do to deserve all this? 🥹

I might not celebrate Easter, but this is the sweetest gift – better than any chocolate, egg, or combination of the two!

You’re the warmest ray of sunshine and I adore you! 💞