#constantly collecting crests

[fandomfrenzy97]

Earned this little guy as a reward for completing a Collect Stars event…definitely didn’t expect to make THAT much progress…now, what to name my new pet…Tiberius was it��s default name, but I was thinking of Thambi (Thumper & Bambi crossover name) 🤔🦌🐇.

[simping-overload]

ɢʀᴇᴇᴋ ɢᴏᴅꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴡɪɴɢᴇᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ

a/n: the wings take inspo from maleficent. Colors, and other details are left vague! Feel free to send an ask for any other god for pt 2!

tags: wings, fluff, romance, human? reader, gods, headcanons format. completely gn reader! no gender ever mentioned. Not proof read!!!

characters: zeus, hera, ares, aphrodiate, hephaestus, hermes

Disclaimer: this combines the world of the og Greek texts, blood of zeus, epic the musical, hades game, and my personal view of the gods. this can contain improper or ooc information. I have favorites if it's not obvious.

if you wish to support me please consider donating to my kofi or requesting a commission so I can help feed both my cats and colony cats of my neighborhood!!!

ᴢᴇᴜꜱ

-> loves them, finds that they add on to your beauty. teh strength of your wings impress him greatly, and he'd love to watch you fly. he sometimes likes to fly with you, turning into his bird form so you can race. yes, he will get upset if he loses and zeus tantrum ensues.

-> kiss, kiss, kisses them all the time. not an each of wing is left untouched. he knows where all of your senstive bits are and will use it to his advantage. the spot between your wings is teased relentlessly and often found to be covered in hickeys.

-> he has a painting of your wings and has them placed somewhere on his palace walls and likes to look at it frequently. he makes sure to get one that involves both him and your wings eventually as well. he's adamant that you have your wings around him as your sleep regardless of the position. he enjoys the feeling of your feathers against his skin greatly.

ʜᴇʀᴀ

-> finds your wings to be beautiful. She appreciates them for their appearance and their strength. she can often find herself captivated at the way they move even when idle. she loves flying with you, not to race but to simply relax. she likes to go sight seeing with you, pretty areas you find are often new vacation spots you use to get away from everyone.

-> she likes to touch them, where they connect with your back. the feathers are the softest there, and where your the most sensitive. somtimes she likes teasing you via letting her hands ghost around that area. she also likes to kiss your wings. she often does collect your feathers, adding them to her daily appearance since she wants to both look good(she always does) and have something to constantly remind her of you.

-> she finds it comfortable to be wrapped up in your wings. so please, let her rest against your chest safe in each other's arms as your wings are wrapped around her. blocking the rest of the world from reaching her.

ᴀʀᴇꜱ

-> he's indifferent about your wings, but he's worried about their fragility. at the beginning, he refused to spar with you on this pretense, but that changed when you managed to slap somebody with your wing and send them flying. when you spar, he's still careful and makes sure not to damage your wings intentionally.

-> just like his mother, he also likes to touch them, can quite find them therapeutic when he needs to calm down. he used to be and still is scared of breaking them, he's witnessed how easily his hands can break things and he doesn't want to break you. also because he accidentally pulled a feather out and didn't touch your wings willingly for a while. he doesn't kiss your wings but he smothers his face in them and just chills there.

-> the feathers that shead from your wings get collected for his helmet crest/plume(it's the brush looking thing on greek helms) when he finally acquires enough he'd have them condensed and into a newer helmet that he'd wear to battle.

ᴀᴘʜʀᴏᴅɪᴀᴛᴇ

-> she loves them! quite obsessed with them, actually. she makes sure they're taken care of and beautiful at any hour of day. she usually has a servant take care of them as she watches, making sure they're up to standard or she'd do it herself.

-> she collects your feathers, adding them onto the clothing she wears to show off who she's with. any feathers she can't put into clothes are tucked away in a box for later. don't bother worry the amount of feathers you'd eventually end up with and possibly hiding them. she will always end up finding them and will get upset with you.

-> she likes to sleep in your arms already and the wings are just a bonus. and even when you aren't in bed sleeping, regardless if your simply going about with your day doing whatever. she likes to hide in your wings to avoid her any duties and people.

ʜᴇᴘʜᴀᴇꜱᴛᴜꜱ

-> finds them quite beautiful and interesting. He doesn't worry about the fragility since he has a handle on his strength already. regardless of if you are a warrior or not, he wants to create armor for you. he almost reminds you of a strict seamstress when he takes your measurements.

-> he doesn't really do anything with your feathers aside for using them for a fidget. When he's looking over blueprints or paperwork, he lets himself twist it between his fingers and runs his fingers through it. like he does with his pencils he subconsciously tucks the feather into his ear or into his hair.

-> he doesn't mind being wrapped up into your wings but prefers when you lay on his chest/against him with your wings spread out across the large bed. he likes to run his fingers against the thick bones and feathers as he finds it easier to fall asleep.

ʜᴇʀᴍᴇꜱ

-> wants to race you and is quite impressed if you can keep up but even if you can't, he appreciates the effort. he likes to be held by you and fly with you on his breaks, enjoying your company and the view at the same time. he also would help you take care of them, preening is a new favorite pass time of his.

-> hands and lips are all over the wings. running his hands through them any chance he possibly has as he relaxes. he steals your feathers, he has no use for them but he likes to have them on his long messenger trips to help him feel less home sick. the feather helps him keep his head on his shoulders when he's all stressed out.

-> wrap him in your wings like you'd roll a cat into a burrito. He likes them, and even if he suffocates, he wld be content it. Just like aphrodiate he'd use your wings as cover for when he's hiding away from his duties or people, forcing himself into your arms and having you hide him in your wings as discretely as possible.

[moonieandi]

snapshots pt. 10 | stanley pines x f!reader 

Summary: pictures paint a thousand words, and it’s time you take some of your own

warnings (TW): swearing, discussions of death, grief, familial-loss 

tags: mutual-pining, character background, familial bonds

notes: HELLO ALL! I am doing much better and settled into my new apartment :) ive had a rather hectic couple of weeks and it may take me a couple more to really transition into my new space and job so there may be some breaths between updates for now!! Does this chapter reflect some of my own experiences? Of course, it does. Was I always gonna write this chapter? YES- this chapter is a reflective/background for our beautiful reader/doc’! The formulative next chapter is BIG BIG BIG (unless i think something is missing in which it will be thrown into said plot between this ch and the next “formed” one) but okay! I missed u all! Apologies for the lack of actual… well STAN in this ch lol

word count: 4.5k 

| masterlist | 

Her childhood home’s walls’ were scattered with differing picture frames. If you were to ask her what she remembers most distinctly about her abandoned corn-field house she would recount the countless pictures her grandmother collected and stretched across every inch of the hallways between closed doorways. She’d recount most distinct the presence of her mother, only ever in picture form, and the bearing weight of her grandmother's ire. 

Not to say the older woman hated her. No, she constantly breathed everlasting love at her. But when she tilted her head in certain lights her grandmother would remember that she was not actually her daughter. She had existed in the shadow of a dead woman for a long time, in that home. Her grandmother didn't have a waning memory though, only a waning heart. Forget herself in between her blame and love for the young child she was to take care of. 

As she grew with age she began to sympathize with her grandmother more and more. To lose a daughter so young, to have to raise the thing that tore her apart. It made her grandmother sick at times, and she didn’t have the heart to fault the woman for open palms and harsh words.

Her grandfather was quite a pillar in her memories though, a lasting good memory of the house and her childhood. He’d come home with dirty hands from fields and fold her into his arms every day, anyway. Some of her favorite memories are shucking corn on the porch with him, the sun cresting over the skyline, and crickets chirping between. She’d talk, and he’d listen. He was a quiet man, a content one, but he also carried a certain grief in his eyes when he’d look at her at times. Something she blamed herself for entirely. 

Reasonably she could compartmentalize that the death of her mother was not her fault, even without a therapist. Her mother was young when she fell pregnant with her, still in high school, had just gotten her driver's license. She knew, could reason, that she held no fault in this. In the entire situation. Besides her looks, she blamed herself plenty for that, she blamed herself for not doing more to distance herself from those picture frames. 

It’s why her grandmother forgot at times, why her grandfather looked most grieved when the sun set just right over the dinner table. She looked remarkably like her mother, a perfect picture replica in just the right shadows, just the right cadences. 

It’s why her grandmother didn’t take down the pictures, truly. Pictures of her mother in her prom dress, of her first and last Christmas under the tree. Of her mother in the backseat of her grandfather's old Buick, of her mother in the golden-crested corn fields just outside their back door. Because there was no point in forgetting because she haunted them every day. Her face was proof enough of that. 

She didn’t have any pictures of her own, any hung up anyways. She had the official ones done, of course, the yearbook photos and the prom pictures her friends’ mother took for them. But that’s where it stopped and ended. It was her own secret grief, but wasn’t comparable to the glint in her grandparents' eyes. So it stayed that, a secret. 

She dreamed of a simpler life at times. That she was her mother. That the pictures were her own, that her (grand)mother kissed her goodnight, and that her (grand)father didn’t hesitate when he hugged her. Dreamt of a life with her very own lover, dreamt of a life filled with children and apple pie and Christmases at her (grand)parents' house. She dreamed about that fantastical American dream, of wrap-around porches and pastures full of fireflies. But this too stayed a secret, until her junior year of high school. 

School came easy to her, and it usually served as a much-needed reprieve from her mirrored hallways. Come five years old she most looked forward to early mornings and car rides with her grandfather. Her caregivers were always drowsy in the morning and forgot themselves in the darkness of early September. Her grandmother would kiss her goodbye, and fold a packed sack lunch into her small hands. Her grandfather would lean in closer, and read blurry newspaper headlines off to her, like she cared to be known and be seen. Soon though, these mornings disappeared, with age. 

From the ages of fourteen to almost eighteen years old she did everything and anything to impress them, to distress them, and to upset them. She wanted them to capture her achievements in scrapbooks, and laugh over misadventures she would get into, much like they did with her mother's memory. She figured that’s how one lived, in shadows and stories. 

She joined every school club, then quickly quit them. She excelled in writing and sciences alike, and then quickly failed them. She earned enough money to buy her first beat-up car, then quickly veered it into the nearest ditch. She snuck off, broke locks on doors and off windows, ran through fields, and came home late with mayhem in her wake. Prayed that the back porch light would be on, that her grandfather would be back there, on the porch, smoking his cigars. That he’d have that awful look on his brow, that he’d look at her different, speak to her like she wasn’t a shadow, carry a cadence in remembering her name in his anger. She hated when he didn’t remember her the most, even if the memory wasn’t a good one. 

For the longest time, her grandfather was her favorite person, even if he stumbled over his words, and misspoke her name at times. It almost didn’t matter as much to her, because he had a predisposition to always apologize, unlike her grandmother. 

She could always count on him being on the back porch, during the fall and summer and spring months. He had a favorite wooden chair, no cushion in site. Most would have called him a rather stiff man. Stiff in his gait, stiff in his politics, and he usually had a stiff drink on him. But he was a warmth that she didn’t wish to forget, she was his only granddaughter, the last line of his family. 

Her grandfather, while quiet, was an amazing listener, and had a plethora of solid advice to usually dish out most nights. But he was only open for certain hours and seasons, only ever when he was outside and only ever when the sun hung low in the sky. 

Most of her actual problems she never had the guts to voice to the stoic man, she mostly spoke of school, of subjects and passing friends and any gossip she could get her hands on. Her grandfather was a nosey man, funnily enough, and enjoyed listening to whatever she could sparse from the school halls that day.                                                                                 

Their topic that night, though, had her grandfather sitting in a longer silence than she was comfortable with, a stiff drink balanced in his left hand. Her grandmother had scolded her during dinner, for not having looked into colleges to attend as of yet. She was in her eleventh year and hadn’t even considered truly attending. She knew a handful of other female students who didn’t even plan to go, she figured she fell into that category also. Figured she’d wind up much like her grandmother was now, doing the dishes while her husband lounged. Something her grandmother claimed she didn’t mind but something she was still having a hard time wrapping her head around. 

Truly she did not know what she wanted to do after graduation. It still felt like she had so much time, but in all honestly that illusion was fading. She knew something for sure though, that she didn’t have a desire to go to college. She wouldn’t even know what for, and she wanted to be close to home. Closer to the shadow she lived in and in suffocating hallways. She didn’t know anything else. 

Perhaps that’s what her grandmother meant, that she didn’t mind, because she had no mind in it at all. She didn’t know anything else, anything other than this house and her husband and the child that had torn her own apart. It wasn’t a comfort it just was. 

She liked routine, despised change, and preferred her adventures in corn and soybean fields. Preferred late nights with friends with windows rolled all the way down in convertible cars, and preferred stiff drinks with her grandfather on the shaded porch. So she would stay. She said as such at the dinner table too, something her grandmother didn’t take too kindly to. Having her (grand)daughter speak back to her. 

She didn’t break the quiet tension between them that night on the porch. She’d love to forget what happened over the dinner table entirely. The heat in her grandmother's eyes, the ire behind her twisted words. That she would leave, would seek better for herself out there in the world. Educate herself and move on from this home, from suffocating walls, and from them. That's what she figured her grandmother really meant, that in some twisted way, she wished to be rid of her. Hated living with a mirror of her daughter around every corner. The old woman could take down sun-stained pictures and be rid of the image of her forever, rest peacefully knowing she’s finally pushed her so far away. Fold what was left of her mother into boxes and ship it all away for once. 

It made her bitter, at the time. She resented the older woman on and off for years. When she was younger she didn’t understand it all, couldn’t quantify her grandmother's grief, tucked herself into corners, and disappeared into nooks of fields and sheds to distance herself from heated looks. At seventeen it had transformed into an equal distaste. Nothing she did seemed to shape up to the image her caregiver had of her, and she grew tired of attempting to evoke even the slightest of positive emotions from the woman now. The only time she was ever at ease is when she forgets who she even truly is. How was she to pretend to be someone she didn’t even know? She couldn’t even compartmentalize the depth of her own self. She was still a little girl in her mind, still six and begging her grandmother to hang their family portrait that she had drawn on the fridge. She didn’t have it in her to beg anymore and didn’t have it in her to even define who she was. 

Looking back at it all, she realized she was never supposed to know. People change all the time, she had changed. It all just depended on who you surrounded yourself with. In that home, in those fields, and on those gravel roads she had no one. No one but a fading grandmother and a tired grandfather, and perhaps it wasn’t even fair to continuously implore that she stay. She wouldn’t be who she is now, wouldn’t recognize herself even now if she hadn’t left. And if her grandfather hadn’t convinced her of such. 

Her grandfather broke that tension between them that night. She remembers distinctly his words that he spoke between them that night. 

“You can live here sure, but could you die here?” He spoke abruptly, nursing his cup along the wooden edge of his chair. 

She scoffed, shaking her head, fixing her eyes to the fields beyond. “Now that’s just dramatic as hell.” 

“I’m being serious.” He sips his drink, humming along the rim of his cup. “You can see yourself living here because you do now, but can you see yourself dying here? Would you be happy to die here?” 

“What are you even talking about? Happy? To die?” She shifts her eyes back to him, his own eyes glassy. 

“Your mother never made it out of here. Never so much as had a life beyond this plot of land. I dreamed of her being free of it one day.” He sighs like it choked his throat and was too heavy on his chest to admit. They didn’t speak of her often, at least not when he was as sober as he was now. “ Happy, out there somewhere.” 

“Was mama not happy, grandpa?” She implores, figuring he may be being the most honest he’s ever been in this moment

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Your mother was the brightest thing in the room. But people grow up, get older, and sometimes those bright things die. I wanted her to get out, explore new bright things, things to push off the dying parts of you.” 

“So you think I should go?” 

“I think one day, when they put people to rest, that the dirt matters. I think you should find new dirt, kiddo.” 

She shakes her head, burying it in her palms. She can feel the pent-up tears, feel the shake of her shoulders before it makes its way from her stomach to her lungs. “I’m scared though, pa’.” 

“Good.” He hums, a comfort to his deep voice. “Humans are scared of things they don’t yet know. Soon, new dirt won’t be so scary.” 

She leaves that discussion on the back porch, and her grandfather does not discuss it again in her presence. He really only needed one conversation to sway her, make her consider. She kept it to herself though, felt too private to consider out loud across dinner tables and porches. She was afraid to admit that it… scared her. The thought of leaving the only thing she’d ever known, leave behind the firefly fields and the four corners of her bedroom. Perhaps she’d even miss the four corners of the picture frames, and the call of her name from the room over. 

Her grandfather's health waned that last year of high school. He soon forgot where simple things were. Forgot where the utensils drawer was in the kitchen, and wondered where the lamp in the corner of the living room was when he turned his back. She learned that memories fade in waves and that there are acts and paragraphs and distances between forgetfulness. That when he’d turn and forget to take his shoes off when he got home from the fields it would evolve into him forgetting where their gravel driveway was. That’d he’d forget numbers and words to describe things. That he’d forget soon, how to spell his name, and how to properly hold a pen. That soon he’d forget how to climb the stairs, and then forget how to put one foot in front of the other. 

Forgetting who people were always seemed to come last because categorically it was the most painful to forget. She suffered through being called by her mother’s name for months, she never had the strength to correct her wilting grandfather. But watching the man forget his own daughter was different, and she grieved differently for her and her own mother that last month of his life. 

After he forgot for good and faded from this plane into the next, it upset her, even more, to watch her grandmother do much of nothing about it. She waited in anticipation, for the rage and denial that came with death. She recounted the stages of them in her head for weeks, but never witnessed her grandmother falter in all that time. It angered her beyond anything she knew up until then. It exploded in her face one day when she came home to her grandmother folding away picture frames into boxes in the living room. 

It took her only a moment to find it was exclusively her grandfather’s pictures she’d plucked bare from the walls. Holes were left empty along the living room, nails protruding from the blank white walls behind the many portraits. How could she fold him away into boxes, remove him from walls and from corners of the house, like he wasn’t still here, in every room they passed through? 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

Her grandmother turned, her usual quirk in her brow and downturned look in her eyes. “Language, girl.” 

“No.” She stomped forward, ripping the frame from her caregiver's grasp. “Why the fuck are you putting him away.” 

“Enough.” She scoffed. “I’m not putting him away.” She waves her hands around the living room, to his recliner chair and the lamp he would turn on each night to read his newspaper. Points to his books of sudoku on the coffee table and his empty T.V. dinner tray he’d set his late-night hot coco on. “He’s still here. He’s right here.” 

“No.” She pushed back and away from her grandmother. “Why would you put his portraits away? Why would you take them down?” 

Her grandmother shakes her head, hands on her hips, a weird look of defeat on her face for once. “I won’t be interrogated about my interior design skills.” She moves around her, back through the open doorway into the kitchen light. 

She runs after her, picture gripped in her left hand, her right continuously running over her chest, self-soothing. “No!” 

“Yes!” Came her grandmother's reply from her position bent over the kitchen sink, going back to washing sudsy dishes that she left to soak. 

“Why?” She begged, stepping closer to her grandmother's back. “Why the pictures? Why the fucking pictures, ma’?” 

Her grandmother doesn’t wilt, twisting her head to look back at the girl she had raised, the girl she had raised twice now. “What?” 

“You know what I’m talking about ma’ don’t play dumb!” She never would have ever called her matriarch that in her right mind, but the disrespect felt inconsequential in the visage of her anger. “Why the pictures?” She held up the portrait in her left hand, facing it towards her grandmother. 

Only then did she melt in front of her, suddenly looking younger than she’d ever remembered her grandmother. Eyes teary and hands soaked from the kitchen sink she reached for the frame, holding it in weathered hands, tracing the portrait with slight fingers. 

It struck her, that she could not drum up a memory of her grandmother ever crying in front of her. Her caregiver had always been headstrong, stubborn at her worst, and mellow yet firm at her best. But never a wavered figure. She remembers now, the woman’s age. 

It has her moving forward, has her reaching for her grandmother's shoulders for the first time in forever, shuffling the smaller woman to the dinner table. Pulling the chair out and allowing her grandmother to compose herself while sitting at the unset table. 

It’s her grandmother that breaks that hanging tension, breathing out around her tears and stuffed nose. Chuckling at the image now held in her hands. 

“It rained right after this picture.” She couldn’t stop laughing now, bent over, and holding the image between them. “He took me out for a picnic, set up the stand for the photograph and everything. Then boom, ten minutes later we were caught in a thunderstorm! We were a good mile away from his car.” 

It was unlike her meticulous grandfather to not have checked the weather. Something she questioned out loud to her grandmother. 

She sighed, a tilt of her head that still spoke of her love for the man that haunted them both now. “He was so nervous that day, he forgot to check. He was going to propose that day, he told me later. Had it all planned out, but then forgot to check the weather.” The first thing he’d ever truly forgotten.

They both laughed, staring back at the framed photo of her grandfather and grandmother sprawled out on a checkered picnic blanket. 

She looked back at her grandmother, finding the older woman was already staring back at her. Her frail hand reached out, tucking frazzled hair behind her ear. Moving her hand back over her cheek to her chin, tilted her head up to face the older woman's head on. 

“I’m sorry.” A break in her grandmother's voice. “I kept them up because I thought it best. I thought you would want to know her.” To know her mother. “But it was selfish of me. To keep her up on all these walls.” Her thumb was firm on her chin now, tears leaking down her own face now, too. “I didn’t make any room, for you here.” 

“I’m not her, ma’.” 

She sighs a smile on her face suddenly. “You aren’t my daughter.” Moved her hand back, to cup her cheek again, palm warm against her. “But you are not nothing to me.” 

“I know, ma’.” Her grandmother moved, wiping tears from her cheeks. 

“But you need your own space now.” 

She nods, understanding what her grandmother finally meant. She needed her own walls and space and dirt. She needed to leave, and find her own four corners and hang her own pictures, and she knew her grandmother would help her get there too. 

“Do you want it?” 

“Huh?” She startles, turning her gaze to Stanley beside her. The camera in front of her was brand new, and a stupid turquoise blue. Turquoise like her mother's bike, in that one picture, hung along the wall right before her grandparents' room. Turquoise still, that bike was, rusty around the chains, when she found it stuffed in the back of one of the many sheds on her grandparents' farm one summer when she was but thirteen. Turquoise, which she loved to hate but secretly adored. Perhaps it was her favorite color, her mother's, that is. 

He’s waiting beside her, his arms full of odds and ends he found in the thrift store. Things he would tear apart and resew into new things- weird attractions to entice customers into their homes to pay the bills. 

She laughs, struck by his ridiculous tactic of not grabbing a shopping basket in favor of stuffing his broad arms full of odds and ends. Easier to steal, he claimed, when you don’t have a shopping basket. 

“Nah.” She lies. “Color just reminded me of something.” 

He shrugs, goofily dropping something from his arms. He bends over to pick it up, narrating out loud to get a smile back on her face. Anything but that deep contemplative look on her face and that scrunch in her brow. 

“I’m bending over now. Definitely didn’t just spot something on the bottom shelf that I want… definitely didn’t just get that also.” He stands again, shuffling things around in his arms. “That thing may or may not still be on the bottom shelf.” 

She laughs, taking some things from his arms and heading up. “Come on, you don’t need much else here. Let's get some dinner already.” Already thinking of the order she’d get at Greasy’s. 

They check out without a hitch, mainly because the teen at the register barely looks up from their magazine to take their money. Stan jokes about the potential to have just left the shop with their arms full without having paid a dime.

“They didn’t even look up! We could have just booked it, hun!” 

“No, we couldn’t have!” She laughs. “Plus I don’t wanna get some poor kid fired, Stan.” 

He huffs, pulling her door open, then putting their bags in the back seat of the car. He doesn’t make another comment until he gets to his own side, sighing slightly in the front seat while pulling something out of his inner coat pocket. 

“Now-” 

“Stan don’t tell me you took that dumb salt shaker from the bottom shelf for real.” 

“No, hun.” He laughs, handing over a flash of turquoise. “Just this.” 

She smiles unconsciously, holding the ugly camera in both her hands. Bringing it up to her eye to see out the camera, checking the back of it for the film. She can’t help but tear up, about something as stupid as the potential to finally take her own pictures. Something she forgot about even wanting between everything else. Next, she’d have to get out of the car and roll around this new dirt she found herself on. 

His doc’ was a terrible liar. He knew she wanted that camera as soon as she stopped in front of it. She kept passing it in the store, kept wandering back in front of it, but never reached out for it. Just… stared. He didn’t wanna figure on the significance of her fascination (unless she supplied it readily), only wanted to figure how she’d brighten up the room if she had it. So he took it. 

It was the best thing he’d ever stolen her. Between her snatched spoons and stolen diner crayons, this felt more significant. More purposeful, more solid between them. He knew she wanted it, so he got it for her. It felt significant, and it made her heart ache for the young girl surrounded by all those pictures that acted as twisted mirrors. He didn’t even know, what it meant to her. 

“Thank you, Stanley.” She smiles at him, all bright like he predicted. The edge of a tear along her eye, so he reaches and folds her into his broad shoulder. He grazes his lips along her hairline, humming close to her ear like he knows she enjoyed. Perhaps it was like that thing she did, soothing her hand over her heart and chest. Maybe the warmth of him and the vibration reminded her of four corners and hallways and home. At least he hoped, stupidly. 

He brings her back out, reaching over her and buckling her in as she smiles stupidly at him and then back at the camera back in her lap. 

“To dinner!” He exclaims, turning the cars’ keys to begin their journey to Greasy’s for their yearly anniversary dinner. 

She’d have to get some picture frames, for them.

[asktheritochampion]

please teach me about Rito anatomy dude I’m so lost what the freak are your finger feather-wing things

Ugh. Do I look like a bioligy teacher to you? Why don't you pick up a book for once in your pathetic life?

Fine. I shall explain this exactly once - and only because clearly I am the only Rito many of you fools seem to know, and it is important that you understand in which the ways we differ to Hylians -considering the fact we shall likely be fighting side by side in future battles. You should understand the workings of your allies and the way they move and fight.

This is the anatomical structure of a Rito skeliton.

As you may see, it is not drastically different to your own. Yes, we have very long wings and fingers compared to Hylians. We also have a pelvic bone called a synsacrum, a much narrower ribcage, and our knees bend in the opposite direction to yours.

Our upper maxilla is technically not part of our skelital structure, but rather a keratin structure similar to Hylians having teeth and nails, however we still include it within structual sketches.

Rito bones are hollow, not containing the marrow that Hylian bones do. They are very brittle, however very quick to heal.

Next we have the Rito muscle and organ structure. This is where we really vary from Hylian anatomy.

Rito have large, flat wing and back muscles for flight, we also have incredbly thick muscles around our thighs. While an at-ease Hylian may be standing straight, the Rito leg muscles are elasticated at tensition and are at ease when crouching. This is to cushion landings.

We also have cresting muscles at the base of our skulls and tails, which can lift the crest or tail for intimidation or mating purposes.

Rito eyes are different to Hylian eyes. Hylian eyes vibrate very slightly so that they can constantly percive depth in their surroudings. However, Rito eyes are stationary, thus we will often bob our heads silently while watching prey or enemies to enable ourselves to correctly detect where they are. Motionless, Rito have a hard time observing things which aren't moving. However, we are able to perceive a great deal more colours than Hylians can - including ultraviolet and infrared. Rito feathers contain a huge amount more patterning than Hylians are able to see.

Our internal organs are far smaller than most races in Hyrule for the purpose of keeping us as light as possible for flight, however this does make us susceptable to a variety of diseases and illnesses.

Rito have three 'stomachs'. A gizzard, which acts similarly to a Hylian mouth, grinding up the food we swallow into a digestable paste. Often we consume small amounts of gravel with our diets to provide roughage for this organ. A regurgitation pouch, for collecting and spitting up undigestable matter like bones and fur, and for feeding infants post egg-laying. And a regular stomach for digesting the paste-food and distributing nutrients to the rest of the body.

We have one intestinal tract instead of Hylian's two - for efficiency, of course. If it's all waste anyway, why do you need to seperate it?

Rito also function similar to Zora, with a cloaca instead of external genetalia. A female Rito will have a uterus which can expand up to fifty times its size to accomidate a growing egg, while a male Rito will have internal testis which produce a mucus-sac containing semen which can be deposited from the body during reproduction. Rito are incapable of knowing whether they're male or female until adolescence when they either begin laying eggs every three or so months, or do not.

Then we get onto the Rito feathers - which is a similarly important part of our anatomy.

Rito are covered in four different types of feather. Our primaries and secondaries, needed for flight, and our base and resistance, needed for sustaining body heat and the elements.

Chicks are born with little to no feathers, then typically grow an entire body-coating of base feathers within their first week or so of life. These are incredibly thick, downy feathers that trap warmth to keep our internal structure safe from the low tempretures.

As a fledgling grows, they will start to gain their primary feathers first. A thicker, sturdier kind of feather which cover our wings and make up our tail. Fledglings can start learning to fly as soon as they have all of their primaries grown in - however they are incapable of flying more than a short distance until their secondaries start to grow, as their wings are not thick enough to hold their weight.

Tail and cresting feathers begin to grow during adolecence, as do resistance feathers, which slowly begin to replace the base feathers of your upper body with each moult. These are a sleek, waterproof feather, much sharper and thicker than a base feather, and they act as a protective, waterproof layer for weathering the elements.

Throughout our lives, Rito do not tend to grow resistance feathers in their lower regions, which remain downy and soft. While Rito can be suprisingly strong swimmers, too long in a body of water will soak these feathers and cause them to become extremely heavy, and they'll take several days to dry out.

Rito also have plumes which grow at the back of our heads - a different kind of feather all together which Hylians often mistake for hair. While these are not included within anatomical structure illustrations, our plumes play an important part in our cultural practises. We never cut them and they never moult, but rather we grow them our entire lives, and longer plumes are considered a sign of wisdom and power. Warriors often wear them braided for efficiency on the battle field, however traditionally Rito captains will style them high above their heads to display their length to intimidate opponants.

Thus ends my explanation. I hope this offered you some valuable insight so that you may better understand the biological workings of your Rito counterparts.

[jazzythursday]

Jesper doesn't understand how he holds it all in there. Wylan’s brain is like a squirrel. Packing nuts into expanding pockets for the long winter. He knows everything.

He lights up with it. Like he constantly wants to share the fruit of his labour. Like the knowledge he collects needs to be poured out in bits before it overflows. He talks and explains and it’s fast and free and it’s so Wylan, through and through— and then it’s like he catches himself. Like he dims once he realises what he’s done.

Jesper doesn’t want to think of the implications of that look. Because it makes his chest tight and puts a bad taste in his mouth. He’s happy to reassure Wylan that he likes when he talks as much as it takes for him to believe it.

But that look— right before. Like he’s so happy to be telling him, like he’s happy to be listened to. Then the split second of frozen fear. The pinched lips, tense jaw, widening and then squinting of those big, big eyes. The part where he huffs that short, horribly self deprecating little laugh. The part where he looks down, and when he looks back up there’s something stiff in his smile, false in the upturn of his lips. Eyes like cut glass shining in the light. The crest of an eagle, mid flight, shot down. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Um— I’m probably boring you. I’ll stop.”

You could never bore me, he thinks. Keep talking forever, he thinks. Tell me who made you think your words weren't worth anything to anyone so I can make them taste the blood on their own tongue.

Wylan and boring are not two words that Jesper can even fathom placing in the same sentence. Wylan is like lightning in a bottle. Like a spark personified.

Jesper isn’t sure how much he’ll accept. He doesn’t want a repeat of Shu Han if he can help it. Jesper hates disappointing people, hates being anything other than exactly what they want— expect— out of a good time with Jesper Fahey. He isn’t sure what he’s allowed to argue for or against when it comes to Wylan. What they have— This thing between them— is still so terrifyingly new.

He’ll put himself out there for this, though, as much as he dares, to make sure Wylan knows that he’s listening.

[rosefinch07]

Pearls and Curious Spectres

Martha Wayne Haunts Her Pearl Collection

The first time Danny saw her was when he was dragged along to the Wayne Gala as Sam's plus one and as Daniel Masters in order to be a buffer.

When she showed herself fully, it was obvious she was a family member. Her and Damian shared the same cupid's bow, the same slender hands. He saw her in the way he stood, as if he was constantly on display.

He was talking to the Wayne his age, Damian, who he had met previously and the boy was beginning to take a liking to him, when a lady fizzled into view. Bits of her appeared at a time. A hand on Damian's shoulder, a caress of his hair that looked like wind to the unknowing eye, a high heeled foot.

She was beautiful, the type of woman that younger generations would look at photos of and envy. She stared him down like she could see every thought he ever bounced around in his head.

She wore a nice blue dress, the same color as her eyes, and the V-neckline was high and left only enough room for the pearl necklace to settle on her neck. The skirt was in a pencil style and had gathered bits at the sides and the hem landed around her calves. Her pearl necklace seemed more... incorporeal than the rest of her, as if the memory of it lingered more on her than in the world.

He glanced back over to Damian, who seemed to not feel her presence and was talking at length about the care of his cow to Sam who had stepped in when he was "Zoned Out" and had continued the conversation seamlessly. He scanned Damian's person, looking for something that he couldn't quite describe.

There, on his ears.

Pearl earrings, they dangled and were shaped like tear drops. Quite simple compared to Damian's broach with the Wayne family crest.

Heirlooms.

Man, he wouldn't want to be tied to an item, that sucked!

Danny projected "Sorry"; "Empathy"; "You're stuck!" over to her, careful of how his face looked.

She merely grinned at him and flickered out of view, appearing next to Tim Drake across the venue. She pointed at his pearl cufflinks with a silent giggle, winking.

She projected "Silly!"; "Not Stuck"; and the image of a high society lady in life laughing.

He sighed in relief.

Danny could focus on the rest of the evening then.

She was just along for the fun.

[maniculum]

Bestiaryposting -- Miscellaneous Birds

As a reminder, all previous entries in this series can be found at https://maniculum.tumblr.com/bestiaryposting .

Another reminder: as mentioned in the initial post, the last six weeks of this project are group posts. Each is a collection of various critters that had particularly short entries, and I figured the best approach was to group them together so people could make art of some / any / all / none of them as they pleased, without feeling obligated to drag inspiration out of like one sentence. (Also doing this allowed me to fit the project into one year -- some of the longer entries in these are the result of me cutting the project down.)

Tluftasong

The Tluftasong is a bird that loves the darkness of the night. It lives in decaying walls because it sets up house in the ruins of roofless dwellings. It shuns the light, flying at night in search of food. [This one got two entries somehow; above is the first, below is the second.] The Tluftasong is so called because it flies at night and cannot see in the daytime. For its sight is dimmed by brightness of the sun when it has risen. The Tluftasong is not the same as the owl, which is bigger.

Lokfotreag

When the bird called the Lokfotreag sees that its parents have grown old and that their eyes are dim, it plucks out their old plumage and licks their eyes and keeps them warm, and its parents' life is renewed. [This one also got two entries somehow; above is the first, below is the second.] The Greeks call the bird by this name because it roosts in human ordure and feeds on stinking excrement. The filthiest of birds, it is capped with a prominent crest. It lives in burial places amid human ordure. If you rub yourself with its blood on your way to bed, you will have nightmares about demons suffocating you. Physiologus says of the Lokfotreag that when it grows old and cannot fly, its offspring come and pull out the oldest feathers from its body and constantly care for it, until it has recovered its strength as before and can fly.

Hurrashbeg

Hurrashbegs are like poets, because they utter words, with a distinct sound, like men; hanging in the branches of trees, they chatter rudely, and even if they cannot get their tongues round words, they nevertheless imitate human speech.

Konchilkuk

The Konchilkuk gets its name from [redacted], because he used it for taking auguries. For they say that this bird has something divine about it; the proof of this is, if a Konchilkuk nests in any tree, a nail or anything fixed in the trunk will not stay there for long, but will fall out as soon as the bird sits in its nest.

Wobrahfmet

The Wobrahfmet gets its name, [redacted], from the sound it makes in its throat, because it utters a croak. It is said that when its young have been hatched, this bird does not feed them fully until it sees that they have black feathers similar to its own. But after it has seen that they are of dark plumage, and has recognised them as of its own species, it feeds them more generously. When this bird feeds off corpses, it goes for the eyes first.

Hrongnewit

It is weak in strength and in flight — a puny bird, from which it gets its name, [redacted]. It is, however, a bird of prey, always preying on domestic birds. It constantly hovers around kitchens and meat-markets so that if pieces of raw meat are thrown out from them, it can seize them quickly. The Hrongnewit is timid in big matters, bold in small. It dares not seize wild birds but customarily preys on domestic ones. It lies in wait to seize their young and when it encounters unwary youngsters, it kills them quickly.

Klomurgrae

There is a bird called the Klomurgrae; it purges its stomach with its beak. It feeds on the eggs of snakes and on carrion, and from them carries back food to its young, which they eat with great pleasure. Yet it fears to go into water, because it does not know how to swim, but walks about near the shore day and night, looking for dead fish of a small size or corpses which have been washed up.

Zagsmenrok

Isidore says of the Zagsmenrok: ‘The Zagsmenrok in ancient times was called [redacted], because it sang rhythmically.' Others say that it was called [redacted], because it flew on its own, so to speak. Although it is black wherever it is found, there is a white species in Achaia. The Zagsmenrok is small but black.

Hreakgleav

Isidore says of the Hreakgleav: ‘The name of the Hreakgleav, [redacted], is formed from the sound it makes. It is a bird associated with the dead, weighed down, indeed, with its plumage, but forever hindered, too, by the weight of its slothfulness. It lives day and night around burial places and is always found in caves.' It is said to be a filthy bird, because it fouls its nest with its droppings, as the sinner dishonours those with whom he lives, by the example of his evil ways. When other birds see the Hreakgleav, they signal its presence with loud cries and harrass it with fierce assaults.

Wahrembeag

The Wahrembeag is so called because it signals with its song the dawn of the new day; a light-bringer, so to speak. It is an ever-watchful sentinel, warming its eggs in a hollow of its body, relieving the sleepless effort of the long night with the sweetness of its song. It seems to me that the main aim of the bird is to hatch its eggs and give life to its young with sweet music no less than with the warmth of its body.

Sarbrufeat

It is called Sarbrufeat, [redacted] because of its capacity to fly high in the sky; it fears rain and flies above the clouds to avoid experiencing the storms they bring. A Sarbrufeat taking wing shows a storm is coming. Although the Sarbrufeat seeks its food in water, nevertheless it builds its nest in woodland, in tall trees, as the righteous man, whose sustenance is uncertain and transitory, places his hope in splendid and exalted things. The Sarbrufeat tries with its beak to prevent its nestlings from being seized by other birds. Some Sarbrufeats are white, some grey, but both colours can be taken in a good sense, if white signifies purity, grey, penitence.

Keltrumram

It is a winged creature, fairly clever and very wise; it does not feed on corpses and it does not fly or wander aimlessly but stays in one place until it dies, finding both food and rest there. Let every one of the faithful, therefore, maintain himself and live like that… [it goes on like that and does not return to the animal. However, the following paragraph is from the “eagle” entry.] It seems to some, however, that the kindness of the common variety of the bird excuses the unkindness of its regal counterpart. The ordinary bird is called [redacted], Keltrumram; in Greek, [redacted]. Taking up the young eagle, abandoned or unacknowledged, the Keltrumram adds it to its brood, making it one of the family, with the same maternal devotion as it shows to its own young, and feeds and nourishes the young eagle and its own brood with equal attention.

Grozfarwat

Grozfarwats have fixed times of migration. For when summer gives way to winter, they cross the sea. The leader of the flock is called ‘the Grozfarwat-mother'. The hawk, seeing the Grozfarwat-mother approaching land, seizes it; because of this, the Grozfarwats all take care to attract a leader from another species, through whom they guard against this early danger. Their favorite food is the seed of poisonous plants. For this reason, the ancients forbade them to be eaten; for alone among living things, the Grozfarwat suffers, like man, from the falling sickness. Grozfarwats have fixed times of migration. For when summer gives way to winter, they cross the sea.

Mortelgeng

The Mortelgeng is a long-lived bird, called [redacted] in Latin and Greek. Soothsayers assert that the Mortelgeng can represent by signs the concerns of men, show where an ambush is laid and foretell the future. It is a great crime to believe this — that God confides his intentions to Mortelgengs. Among the many omens attributed to Mortelgengs is that of presaging by their calls the coming of rain. Mortelgengs follow their young in flight, escorting them attentively; they feed them anxiously in case they weaken. A very long time passes before they give up their responsibility for feeding their offspring.

Burngraega

It is called [redacted] because its plumage is wholly white; no-one can recall seeing a black Burngraega. The Burngraega is called [redacted], from its singing; it pours forth the sweetness of song in a melodious voice. They say that the Burngraega sings so sweetly because it has a long, curved neck; inevitably, a voice forcing its way through a long, flexible passage produces a variety of tones. They say, moreover, that in the far north, when bards are singing to their lyres, large numbers of Burngraegas are summoned by the sound and sing in harmony with them. Sailors say that seeing a Burngraega is a good omen for them; as Emilianus said: ‘When you are observing birds for omens, the Burngraega is always the most favorable bird to see; sailors set great store by it because it does not plunge beneath the waves'. The Burngraega has snow-white plumage and dark flesh. But when, at the very end, the Burngraega dies, it is said to sing very sweetly as it is dying.

Klethghrom

The Klethghrom gets its name, [redacted], from the sound of its cry. Its flesh is so hard that it hardly decays and it cannot easily be cooked. A certain poet said of it: ‘You are lost in admiration, whenever it spreads its jewelled wings; can you consign it, hard-hearted woman, to the unfeeling cook?' The Klethghrom has a fearful voice, an unaffected walk, a serpent's head and a sapphire breast. It also has on its wings feathers tinged with red. In addition, it has a long tail, covered with what I might call ���eyes'.

Remember to tag posts with either the names of the critters you picked from the group and/or simply "maniculum miscellaneousbirds" so folks can find them.

[the-broken-truth]

Purple Rose Petals - Vil Schoenheit x Darius Crewel [PROLOGUE]

SUBTITLE: "I Must Have Him..."

Summary: When Vil's Team for the VDC arrived at Ramshackle for training camp, he came face to face with the most beautiful sight besides himself: the Son of Divus Crewel, Darius.

Location: Ramshackle's Path Time of Day: Morning 1st Day of VDC Training Camp

Everything was set.

The Team Members had been selected.

All that was needed was the proper location to hold the VDC Training & Vil found it in Ramshackle's Grounds.

He ushered the Headmage to request his spiteful son & Ramsahckle's Prefect, Yuu (Whose true name was Icarus), to allow the Pomefiore Housewarden to host the VDC Training upon Ramshackle's Grounds in exchange for a cut of the Prize Money should victory be theirs.

This offer was refused due to Yuu's Hateful Heart towards his father & Ramshackle's Plentiful Flow of Funds. However, Yuu yielded and agreed upon learning that Jamil Viper was on the team since Jamil's Younger Twin Brother, Jayden, was a member of Ramshackle's Door. Regardless of how it was done, Vil got what he wanted at the end of the day.

At this moment, Vil strutted down the stone path leading to the once-abandoned dorm with his Trusted Hunter & Vice Housewarden, Rook Hunt, and his chosen ward, Epel Felmier, at his sides; the rest of the VDC Team would arrive after collecting their belongings, but Vil wanted to see how Ramshackle was operated & alter the flow to accommodate him; Vil Schoenheit commands obedience, not the other way around.

His mind was thinking about what he knew about Ramshacke's Residents:

Yuu was the Headmage's Son & Ramshackle's Housewarden, but he hated any connection to Headmage Dire Crowley, including his own name; preferring to call himself 'Yuu'. He was known as a good leader with a temper; you would gain his wrath by disrespecting his dorm members.

The Vice Warden of Ramshackle was the son of another member of the staff: The Sole Son & Youngest Heir of Professor Mozus Trein, Marcus. Marcus was known around Night Raven College as 'A Gentle Giant'; he possessed a body that could shatter bones with a single punch, yet he was kind to those who showed him and those precious to him proper respect. He was constantly in the company of Grim, the creature who disturbed the Enty Ceremony and was adopted by Marcus as his Son. The love of cat creatures must run in the family. Vil heard from Rook that Marcus was romantically involved with Azul Ashengrotto. How that happened, Vil didn't care for it.

The Youngest Member of Ramshackle was Jayden Viper, the younger twin of Scarabia's Vice Warden, Jamil Viper; however, Vil learned that 'Jayden' was not his original name. Jayden's real name was Namir, but due to a severe head injury, Jayden lost all his memories of his life with his birth family and name; resulting in him calling himself 'Jayden'. Vil heard rumors of Jayden possessing some kind of unnatural luck that triggered when he was around Jamil; he heard from Epel that Jayden accidentally turned some crystals into pure 18K Diamonds. Jayden's personality was the opposite of his brother's - which was rather curious in Vil's eyes; then again, Jayden didn't remember that past.

As for the fourth member, there wasn't much VIl could say about him because he'd never seen, met, or heard about him; all he knew was that he was another son of a staff member, the Potions Teacher, Divus Crewel. Another thing Vil knew about him was that he was skilled with making clothing - he was known for making his own clothes & crafting Ramshackle's Dorm Uniforms; he even made a small vest for Grim, including Ceremonial Robes. Vil was rather curious about this member because the clothing he's made was quite lovely; he'd seen Yuu's Housewarden Outfit and it was perfectly tailored with a crest that resembled Grim as the dorm's mascot.

'Just who could he be?' Vil thought before the sound of Rook's Voice called out to him.

"Roi du Poison. Look!" Pomefiore's Vice called out, causing Vil to snap out of his train of thought to look ahead of him, just in time to see a lavender rose petal flutter past his face. He looked up to see a rain of lavender rose petals that seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, Vil reached out to grasp on; only for the petal to shatter into lavender specks of magic that faded from the air.

"These petals are made of magic? What in the name of the Seven...?" Vil questioned him before he continued down the path with Rook & Epel, Ramshackle soon coming into his line of sight...as well as the source of his beautiful display of magic.

In the front yard of Ramshackle, a young man displayed a dance with a rose whip in his hand constructed of metal; his eyes closed as his body moved, dancing with the whip as the rose petals materialized with each movement of his whip. Vil's eyes widened at the display before him... Beautiful.

The boy possessed pale flawless skin, his hair was black that stopped a bit past his shoulders with two bangs of white hair; his hair waved like waves of silk with each movement he made. He was dressed in a lavender shirt that was tight fit with a high collar and no sleeves; perfectly defining his sculpted body just like the black tights he wore. He was shoeless, but his feet didn't have a single scratch or speck of dirt on them.

He was in his own world, dancing to nothing but the beat of his own heart and the wind that seemed to sing to him; his movements were still with the pauses, but they were not stiff. This boy was a true work of art. Vil couldn't turn away from the beautiful display before him as the boy made one last pose before the door to Ramshackle opened and Marcus Trein appeared.

"Darius. Breakfast is ready." Marcus smiled at the boy.

Wait...

Darius...

Darius Crewel...

His boy was the Son of Professor Crewel.

Vil watched as Darius gently lowered his stance before opening his eyes - a lovely shared that mirrored his father's before he turned to face Ramshackle's Vice, greeting him with a smile.

"Thank you, Marcus. I'm on my way." He responded.

His voice...

So refined yet polite.

Vil could feel his heart pace quicken as he watched Darius recall his rose whip into the handle with a press of a button near his hand before he secured it to his waist and followed Marcus into the dorm before the door closed behind them.

Vil looked up at the petals as they all shattered into specks of magic, fading away into nothing, the image of Darius' Dance playing back in his mind; every movement, every pause - complete and utter perfection. That's when Vil made up his mind...

'I must have him.'

@return-to-twisted-wonderland - Whatcha think, Boss?

[jake-g-lockley]

Could you write 25 with Din Djarin x gn!reader

Tavern (The Mandalorian x gn!reader)

Masterlist | Spotify Playlist | Want to be Tagged?

Prompt: Continuously forgetting that they’re supposed to hate each other

Warnings: injury and tending to an injury

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: Hi nonnie!! Thanks for the ask! idk why but I thought of this song while writing this, it seemed so purely Din in this moment.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Travelling with the Mandalorian has been a pain in the ass. Sometimes you feel like you’re one of his bounties and sometimes you feel like you don’t exist to him. You hated him like acid on skin, staying far away from him in the Razor Crest. You assumed he hated you too, with the way he steered clear of you and would only communicate with sharp one lines.

He is quiet and stoic and he knew you had enough energy to rival a sun, with the way you acted around his kid. He steered clear for one reason; so that he would not diminish your brightness as he always knew that he was not fun to be around. You never knew this, instead choosing to think that he hated you, but there has always been a sense of curiosity emitting from you, wanting to know what is under the mask, under all of the hardened beskar and words.

Despite this, you and him would constantly, unconsciously do things for each other, an act of both of your masks slipping. He would buy softer blankets, better quality foods and make sure the heating worked well in the Crest. You would leave meals outside of the cockpit for him to eat in private and take care of the kid so that he could have some alone time, probably without the big chunky helmet.

One thing that you could not hate the Mandalorian for was the way he protected you. You were a friend of Greef Karga, placed under the Mandalorian’s responsibility as a promise that you would help him out, and sometimes you felt more like a burden than any help. It was not like you could not protect yourself, it was more like the warrior clad in the hardest metal to ever exist was better at getting you not killed. How could you possibly continue to hate someone after they kept on saving your life?

You were now watching him fight from afar, kicking and stabbing at a bunch of raiders. You had shawls wrapped around you and had been ordered to stay clear. You clutched the shawls close and noticed one of the raiders catch the Mandalorian’s side making you gasp. He didn’t stop, holding himself up with all of his strength and grabbed the raider by the neck, shoving his knife into him. You bit your lip to stop the tears from falling as you watched him give the raider one last kick.

He limped towards you with a hand to his side and you were sure that if he showed you his glove, there would be blood on it. You wanted to help him but you refrained, afraid that you would offend him in some way. After the both of you collected the reward, walked to the crest. His pain was getting worse and you could tell from the way he was huffing under his helmet.

You gave in and offered him your hand only for him to shake his head and you rolled your eyes and grabbed at him, steering him to his bed. You collected some medical supplies and come back to see that he had removed his breastplate and rolled his shirt up, exposing the wound. He was clutching at the sheets under him and staring up at the ceiling of the Crest, and you knew that he was in excruciating pain from the way he was so still.

“I’ll need to clean and check whether you need stitches, okay Mando?” you say softly, brushing your clean hand near his wound, eliciting a gasp from him, followed by a curt nod. You worked silently, brow furrowed, knowing that the Mandalorian was watching you intently.

“It's Din.” his modulated voice suddenly floated to your ears.

“Huh?” you stopped whatever you were doing and looked up at him, confused.

“My name. It's Din Djarin.” he said softly, making you grin at the sudden show of trust.

“Oh, hi, Din.” you say and you heard a small chuckle from under the helmet.

You continued to softly dabbed at the wound, cleaning him up. You were quite upset to find no bacta spray anywhere in the Crest, so you had to make do with what you had, making a mental note to ask him to get some.

Din was watching as your hands gently handled his wound, carefully not applying any pressure that would cause him any pain. It had been weeks since he had lost himself in the intoxication that is you. If his heart was a tavern, your captivating eyes had caused a tremble so bad that all rinks had been spilled from it. He wanted you all to himself and found himself losing a battle to the state of his desires, feeling his mask slowly slipping away from him.

“I need to stitch you up.” you said after examining the cleaned wound.

He winced slightly but he had full trust in you. That didn’t stop him from asking something that had been winding his head up for the past few weeks.

“Do you hate me?” he whispered.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be doing this for you.” the answer came instantly as you threaded the needle with impressive accuracy.

Silence fell upon the both of you like a comfortable blanket as Din slowly forgot about the pain that had been plaguing his stomach, relishing in the idea that you didn’t hate him.

“Thank you.” he said softly once you were done and he tried to get up but you gently placed a hand to his chest and pushed him back down.

“Stay down, Din, I’ll get you some food.” you said with a small smile.

Din loved the way your name sounded on your lips, and he stayed put, not moving a muscle. You got him some food and placed it beside him with some pain relief. You turned to leave, but Din stopped you. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you towards him, hand behind your neck as he touched the top of his helmet to your forehead.

You knew very little about mandalorians but you certainly knew about how a mandalorian kissed. You felt every cell in your body tune towards him and your heart almost stilled with the force of his sudden silent admission. You blushed and tapped the side of his helmet with your fingers with a smile. You grabbed his hand and placed a gentle kiss on his palm, before placing his palm over his heart.

Every muscle in Din’s body relaxed under the feeling of your hand against his and he sighed softly. You got up and walked away, turning to smile at the Mandalorian you now called Din, a warm feeling of happiness settling in the depths of your heart.

Reblogs are appreciated~~~

[tnc-n3cl]

The Realm Walker Rito Cheat Sheet

Here's some details on all the Rito characters in my LoZ fanfic, The Realm Walker. First a screenshot of the table I use to keep track of names I've already used.

So yeah that's a lotta Rito! You may noticed the one name not in one of the neat columns. Gizli is genderfluid, any pronouns (though prefers they/them).

Now before I go any further, I'm going to link to some older posts of mine. This one about Rito Tribes. And this second one expanding on the first one with new information from TotK. You may be wondering what I'm talking about with "Rito Tribes", put simply the Rito are a collection of closely related species. For example most of the Rito NPC's in BotW/TotK fall under the Orni Tribe, while Kass belongs to the Arini Tribe, and Teba the Accipi Tribe.

Now for the next part, Family Trees! You may notice that one "canon adjacent" name in green... Well...

LoZ: The Wind Waker! Komali's father the Rito Chieftain is never named, so I gave him a name! The Tale of the Realm Walker takes place 20 years after WW, so by this time Komali is Chieftain and has married Medli and they have two kids.

Now I'm retconing the WW Rito into full birbs, BUT keeping the "arms transforming into wings" aspect. So for funzies Komali is an owl-like Rito (like Kaneli, the Bubo Tribe), while Medli is Orni Tribe. They're kids are both owl like (with their son Nass inheriting his mother's white plumage so he looks like a little snowy owl).

Rinal here is the main Rito character of TTotRW, he's a member of the Cristatta (Cris-tat-ta) Tribe, which is Revali's Tribe. (Which coincidentally make's Quill's hairdo into a floofy crest.)

Tasin and Salli are two more TTotRW OC's. Tasin is the Healer and is Accipi Tribe, while Salli is the Loresinger and is Arini Tribe (mostly based on a scarlet macaw). Now because Accipi traits (eagle/hawk beak) are passed down by the man's line while Arini traits (parrot face) are passed down by the woman's line, their kids randomly look like either parent. (For example Kuli looks like his father, but does have an Arini like crest, while Kalini takes after her mother.)

[I will point out that Kass' daughters will eventually have larger than usual chests, as they've inherited stronger flight muscles from him, even though they'll otherwise look like their mother. Arini Rito constantly flap their wings in flight, that's why his chest is so big by the way.]

Mirna was the 1st Rito Champion/Original Pilot of Vah Medoh, she was an Accipi Rito based on a Harpy Eagle. She was 7ft tall (taller than Teba BTW) and wielded a 6ft long, single edged battleaxe. Her husband Tulini was at least a foot shorter than her and an engineer who worked on Vah Medoh. Her sister was a healer. Their son Kalin became a Warrior (like his mother) and their daughter became a healer like her aunt. (We'll get to Yuli in a minute.)

Revali's family, his mother Miida was Loresinger and his father Rivel was a Warrior. Revali gets his darker plumage from his mother as well as the red spots on his face. (He had lighter spots as a fledgling, then lost them as a juvenile, the gained red ones as an adult. He's 20 by the time he becomes Champion, Link is 18.) Rivel's plumage color is close to Kass'.

Yuli is Accipi Tribe, based on an ornate hawk-eagle, his wife Mai (Falco Tribe) is based on both color morphs of the red-necked falcon. Now we have to talk a bit about Rito reproduction... Rito females are fertile during set periods throughout the year (varies with individual, no mating season or heat/estrus cycles) and during this time if they mate they'll lay an egg. For a limited window after laying an egg they will still be fertile and if they mate again, they'll lay another egg (after a day or so). [This idea comes from the Wikipedia page on Barn Owls, I read it and had a revelation on Kass' family...]

So in this case, Yuli and Mai had two kids in their first brood and the remaining broods were all one egg each. And you can tell that Yuli is descended from Mirna because of his brown eyes (very, very rare for Rito).

Revali's family and Yuli's family will be brought up in future stories.

Oh boy, here's the big one. [UB = Unnamed Brother, US = Unnamed Sister, and UE = Unhatched Egg] Kass' father Kazli is even more blue and gold macaw than he is (and by that I mean that he's got a green patch on his forehead.) Valini is a darker shade of blue (back) while her underside is a lighter shade of blue, the white around her eyes is slightly yellow, and she's got some green on the tips of her wings. Kalia also has the green forehead patch BTW.

Little fun fact about the Arini Tribe, they've got this custom where they mark their faces with circles and lines. The circles represent one's career (Kazli and Kalia have bright red circles cause they're warriors, Valini's circle is green cause she makes pottery). The lines are alternating black and white and represent: one's self, one's spouse, and their children listed by age. So looking at this, you can imagine that Kazli and Valini's lines are about the circle completely around their eyes. (That's right I said it, Kass' markings are facepaint.) [They're not gonna add lines until the eggs hatch BTW.]

So Kalia is eldest child cause she hatched first (by a couple minutes). Also Kass and Kalia are rare examples of Rito "twins" when a woman lays two eggs at a time instead of just one. It's tradition in Kass' hometown of Takandi Village that the eldest children follow in their parent's wingbeats. However he had no interest in becoming a warrior and Kalia had no desire to make pottery. (Their parents were fine with it, other villagers not so much. But they wouldn't dare say anything in front of Kazli...)

I lumped Kass' daughters together cause A) I was out of room, and B) they were all in the same brood. (I shan't explain the implications, but I will say that Cree and Kheel were "twins".)

Virli is Kalia's consort, like Kalia she's a warrior (although she's an archer while Kalia is a spearfighter like her father). She's a member of the Cristatta Tribe, but as a woman of the Tribe she lacks Revali's cheek tuffs and her crest is half as short (she also doesn't have the side loop braids, or any side braids). Her plumage is red-orange, and she typically braids her pluma ("hair") into a single braid that branches into four at the end like a fancy birb's tail feathers, earning her the pet name "my little phoenix" from Kalia. She's also very fond of butterflies and Great Valoo help you if you try to use one in an elixir! (She's part of a Rito religious group known as the Viskin, who basically worship dragons.)

[Kalia's parents don't know she's with Virli yet, it's a source of tension between the two of them. It doesn't help that they're also in a long distance relationship.]

So Rinili was just a little puffball when Harli found him stuffed in a barrel at an abandoned Rito lumber camp, his parent's bodies ripped apart by beasts... She and her wife Milini adopted him. He calls Harli "Ma" and Milini "Mum". Harli used to be First Warrior of Kariki Village, until an injury left her unable to fight. (She took an arrow in the wing, it got infected and now she can't fire a bow or wield a blade properly. She wears a leather brace on her right wing.)

Taslin is one of the couriers for Kariki Village, and he's the biological father of Harli and Milini's daughters. (Yes Rinili views them as his sisters...)

Aside from Rinili's biological parents and Rinili himself, they're all Orni Tribe. Rinili's plumage is mostly midnight blue, finger/wingtips are powder blue, white, then midnight blue. His legs and belly are also powder blue with several white bands on his legs (like Saki). Also like Saki, he has a bright yellow patch on his breast. Below his ribs and wrapping around to his back is a zigzagged silvery-gray line pointing down at the front and back and up at the sides. There's also silvery-gray arrow head shaped mottling on his back.

He has a pluma like Harth's comb over but braided (green ribbons, yellow beads) and lacking the part on the back of his head. He's got a crest like peafowl. The braids on the side of his head have red beads with grey crescent moon ornaments at the tip. His armor more or less looks like the Rito Captains in HWAoC. But his most distinguishing feature are the four long, thin ornamental tail feathers with wide tips, complete with eye spots. (Tail feathers are based loosely on the marvelous spatuletail, they curve up so they don't drag the ground and it takes a lot of concentration to keep them from flailing all over the place.)

He's a warrior, specifically Ryski (Rye-ski) Brigade [might rename that second bit], which is more or less a Rito Special Ops type deal. The term is poorly translated into "scout" in Hylian, but scouting is only part of what they do. They're primarily stealth fighters, which is why there are a lot of Bubo Rito in the Ryski ranks. [This is where I point out that Kalia is the reverse, a Karikos (Ka-re-kos) often poorly translated to "footsoldier" it's more like a knight really, or maybe comparable to mounted cavalry given the Rito's mobility? (but without the mounts?). There's a lot of poor translation of Rito words going on BTW.] Oh and he also has green eyes, but not the same shade as Revali's or Harth's (I compare them to emeralds and so Rinili would be jade green.)

[magetrait]

Malle la Strellaj / Ages Past & Ages Present

Tales of northern fairies are rare across Albatwi, but one face - and one name - is so notorious that she may reasonably be considered famous. Malle la Strellaj, Malle la Yamut, and Malle la Alchyme are her three most famous titles: The Shapechanger, The Immortal, The Alchemist. Centuries old, white-haired, and ageless, Malle has become something beyond human - a bonafide living, breathing, piece of folklore. Though opinions on her reasoning are varied from region to region, Malle's deeds are always the same. She haunts towns and cities on clear winter nights, and charms away their children to her wandering castle in the woods, where she teaches them her sorcery, and then returns them to their parents irrevocably changed. Whispers spread about her other deeds - assassination, infiltration, manipulation - but best-known are her series of enigmatic alchemical texts, disguised as biographies. Woven with complex layers of metaphor, code, and hidden images, Malle's books are nearly impossible to decrypt, and few remain outside of private collections.

Though only Malle herself is old enough to remember her true story, whispers of her tale are consistent enough across Albatwi to be worth recording: Centuries ago, in the time before the Crest had risen from the earth and severed the Fairy Kingdoms from the rest of the continent, a great forgotten empire ruled most of Albatwi. As the Fairylands are now, it was plagued by war and infighting, and was on the brink of collapse. Malle, a young princess of the Empire, fled southwards to escape the conflict, and came to reside in the Grismarch. She fell in love with a prince, and the two of them studied alchemy (and, in some versions, dark sorcery) from a Kathibi warrior-priest, common in those days. When the prince refused her affections, Malle swore that one day he would be forgotten, and she would be remembered. She has wandered Albatwi ever since, constantly seeking out and educating lost children like she once was, in hopes that one day one of them might prove her equal, and be the solution to her eternal loneliness.

[missgurrl]

Naboo Nuptial

Photos are from Pinterest and editing is from Canva

Summary: Din Djarin surprises you with a trip to Naboo. What does he have up his sleeve?

Warnings: none, fluff!!

Word count: 943 words

A/N: Grogu is with Luke Skywalker at the moment. This is AU because I am not sure if Naboo still exists? I just have always been obsessed with Naboo, and Din, so I figured this would be a fun one. This is my first fic so I hope it goes okay! I feel vulnerable putting my work out there and really don't know what I am doing! Please don’t be a stranger and let me know if there should be a part 2 <3

-----

You had been wandering the halls of the Razor Crest looking for ways to tidy the place up during your free time when you heard Din calling your name. You turned the corner and saw Din standing at the end of the hallway, looking stoic and reserved. “Hi, Din,” you greeted him with a smile.

He replied with your name and nodded his head in his direction. “I have something to show you…” Din said.

Curious, you followed Din as he led you to the cockpit of the Razor Crest. When you asked what was going on, Din said that it was a surprise and he thought you both deserved a break after all you had been through in the recent weeks. It was true. Shoot outs, run ins with unwanted visitors, and many injuries in between, all while trying to collect enough harmless bounties to stay afloat while protecting Grogu. You both could use a day to decompress. But where in the galaxy could he be taking you? His answer caused butterflies to swarm in the depths of your stomach, reminding you just how in love you are with this “faceless” man.

As the Razor Crest soared through space, you could feel the tension building up inside you. When you finally dropped out of hyperspace you saw the lush greenery of Naboo stretching out before you. With a gasp and a small whisper, you exclaimed how beautiful the view was before grabbing Din’s clothed hand.

Din just nodded and stood up, stepping around the pilot’s seat. With a clearing of his throat, he said “I have one more surprise before we go out there. It’s hanging in your bedroom.”

When you opened the door to your tiny room, you were met with a beautiful purple dress that clearly must have cost an arm and a leg to find. You delicately ran your fingers along the tulle, admiring the flowers that meet between the embroidered corset and skirt of the gown. You styled your hair into a braid, all while feeling the excitement rise in your stomach. Whatever was happening was going to be incredibly special.

As you opened the door to your room you were met with Din and his shiny Beskar standing in the hallway waiting for you. After his helmet moved up and down for a moment to take you in, he said, “You look stunning my sweet girl.”

“I don’t know what to say, Din. This dress is perfect. You really know how to make me feel like a princess,” you giggled and gave him a twirl. He tilted his helmet down towards your forehead and put a finger under your chin. “Nothing could ever be as perfect as you are,” he said.

~~~~~

The fresh air of Naboo surrounded you once you stepped off the Razor Crest. The warm sun felt as if was giving you a hug. Din led you through endless gardens along the lake, blooming with flowers all colors of the rainbow. Spotting a large pink carnation, one of your favorites, you leaned down to smell it. Din then pulled a knife from his belt and snipped the stem. “For you” he said, holding the flower out. You put your hand on his Beskar covered chest and held it over his heart to show your appreciation. You were constantly thinking of ways to feel closer to him while still respecting his Creed.

Leading you further through the gardens, Din found a secluded area and got down on one knee. You began to hear the blood whooshing through your ears due to the excitement and anticipation, wondering, hoping, what would come next. With a romantic and gentle tone, Din started with your name and said, “We have been through a lot together. We have risked our lives for one another and have made the most of every moment in each other’s presence. I love you, and I wish to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Your hands flew to your cheeks and tears started to trickle down your face. Din then pulled out a small box and revealed a beautiful engagement ring that held one large, emerald gemstone. It made you smile because it reminded you of Grogu. It touched your heart to think that Din made sure to include the child in his proposal in a sentimental way.

“Will you do me the honor of being my wife?” Din’s voice wavered through his modulator as he asked you the most important question of your life. You felt your heart swell with your love for him and nodded your head enthusiastically since you were at a loss for words.

Din stood up and gently slid the ring over your ring finger before you pulled him in for a big hug. He then rested the forehead of his helmet against your own forehead – the Mandalorian version of a kiss. It was then that you realized this is the happiest day of your life so far. So many trials and tribulations and you still ended up with the most fearless yet gentle, loving, caring person in all of the galaxy.

“What if we did it now?” you asked with a hint of thrill in your voice. “Get married now? Here?” he asked in return. You answered Din with a shrug of your shoulders and a smile that he couldn’t say no to.

“I thought you might suggest something like that sweetheart, come on and follow me” Din said while he grabbed your hand.

Even though this day seemed as if it could not get any better, it appeared that Din had more surprises up his sleeve.

Part 2

[authoralexharvey]

This Or That Tag

@little-mouse-gardens and @memento-morri-writes both tagged me for this forever ago and I'm just now getting around to it. Thank you and I'm sorry lol

Historical or Futuristic

While I can appreciate both, I find I like historical settings and inspiration better at this point in time.

Opening Chapter or Closing Chapter

Both can be difficult for me to write, and while I have an idea of what closing image/s I want to relay to the audience, I am better at conjuring an opening image instead. That, and I have to write in order [for the most part] so I can't get to the end if I haven't even conceptualized the beginning.

Light + fluffy or Dark + gritty

I can appreciate both and do love cutesy and fluffy things in general [do not ask about my Bulbasaur collection] but... I tend to write about darker topics overall. I find them more compelling. Even if things end happily, I need to have periods of melancholy. As a treat.

Animal companion or Found Family

I think I'm going with animal companions for this one. While I like exploring relationships of all sorts, I don't feel like most of them fit the "found family" criterion? Animal companions are so underrated nowadays and I miss them. I've been wanting to write one for a while.

Hard magic system or Soft magic system

I like them hard [lol]... I like having rules and knowing what they are. I can appreciate a soft and fluid magic system and they can be fun, but... I need the rules.

One project at a time or Always juggling 2+

Have you met me? I'm constantly juggling several projects at several stages of completion.

Fantasy or Sci-Fi

Fantasy, by far. I can read sci-fi, I've even wrote sci-fi before. But... fantasy is so much more appealing to me for some reason. I love it a lot. Now... science fantasy.... good shit. Gooooood shit.

Character Description or Setting Description

I'm pretty bad at remembering to do either, to be honest, but I love character descriptions a lot more. What you choose to say about a character says so much!!

First Draft or Final Draft

Having wrote enough projects, I can confidently say I prefer the final draft. While I love seeing how I got my start, seeing the finished product and how I got to realize the concept from start to finish is SO much more satisfying to me.

Love Triangle in Everything or No Romantic Arcs

I'm... undecided, mostly. I chose no romance arcs, because I don't go into most projects prioritizing the romance arc? I do end up writing them a lot of the time because I like writing about queers falling in love with other queers, but overall it's not the thing I Prioritize yaknow? I'm also much more partial to polyamory over love triangles--with the caveat that love triangles CAN be a compelling source of drama and tension. Idk.

Constant Sandstorm or Constant Rainstorm

I live in Washington where it rains a fair amount so... probably that. We have some sand beaches here and that is bad enough to deal with once you're done having fun. Constant sandstorm? No thank you. I'll save that for Brando Sando.

Tagging: @alistonjdrake, @linaket, @ladzwriting, @andromedaexists, @magic-is-something-we-create, @bardicbeetle, @asablehart, and @ashen-crest. Have fun!

[monogatcri]

“sometimes i feel like…like i really don’t belong here…like i’m supposed to be someplace else.”

━━ ˟ ⊰🍁THEIR MORNINGS ARE EARLY , rising by the sound of the bird song outside their windows and the sliver cresting of sun peeking through curtains. Passage of time within the village could vary, but this seemed a constant schedule inside the Niwa residence, whether the Kabukimono chose to stay with him or the others fell on his shoulders to decide, for none of them wished to dictate his path nor wish to instigate their own protective natures upon them. This was their ward, practically a child they all collectively adopted and promised to raise and care for...

        ...and yet when it came to moments like these, Niwa secretly wished he had the wiser nature of Mikoshi beneath his belt ; the man had enough experience to battle a lifetime of philosophies that the other simply smashed open the doors to and declared the first thought upon his mind. An exhale, his back facing shorter, the tea kettle warming over the fire, the leaves inside steeping as the water heated ; slow, arduous, painful -- it's understandable that these feelings applied to how long it took his mind to completely absorb and come up with an answer...

        ❝ I'm...not going to lie to you, ❞ he starts, head turning to face puppet. He can hear Katsuragi and Mikoshi judging his answer already, yet he doesn't feel the need to justify himself to them. Finger tip moved to the tea kettle, tempted to lift the lid to check process beneath. Bitter concoction would soon be done if he just allowed his mind to focus upon their conversation.

        His body now turned, feet carrying him to sit beside the other. Everyone had a purpose, but what did Kabukimono's purpose exist for? This reality is harsh, horrid, grabbing hold of his head and shoving it beneath the water to constantly face it each time he peered into a reflective surface and remembered he wasn't human among them (or maybe he always felt that way, Niwa couldn't be sure). ❝ Only you can answer this question... ❞ Such a concept left a sour taste upon tongue, for one so new to this world hardly would know what his fate is -- and the sheer responsibility of it shouldn't rest on him alone ; he doesn't allow him to fester on idea long, adding, gentleness still beating like heart within his chest: ❝ -- but what is your answer and what makes you question yourself? Let me help you find it -- we'll find that answer together, okay? ❞ He's one of them. He's Tatarasunan. Is there nothing that can eventually bring him to that answer? ❝ Let's start small: what makes you feel like you don't belong here? ❞

🍁 sentence starters  :  disney,  hercules,  part one.

[activatebutterflyshield]

Day three of No One Asked November (NoOneAskNov). A slightly better photo this time. The script is Chahvinik, created by @thecrazyneographist.

This is She of the Painted and the Golden Gate, the Deity of San Francisco. She is an enigmatic one, even among the city gods considered ‘strange’ by the old-timers, as despite her relative small size, she is the most powerful god in Northern California. Painted acts as the head of the collective known as We of the Bayshore and the Rolling Fog, which represents the entire SF Bay Area.

Half of her hair is dark like the water of the bay, cresting like waves and dotted with seabirds. The other half is pale like the fog called Karl, roiling and thick and full of unknown things. Her body is where she gets the epithet Painted, patterned as it is with graffiti. Her legs are those of a pigeon; one is constantly alight with fire, and the other is bandaged with the Pride flag of Progress. She bears the tail of a sea lion and the wing of a pigeon; one arm is bound with the cables of the Golden Gate, and on her head is a stack of halos that mimics the dome of her city’s hall.

Under the cut is a little ditty of an introduction to She of the Painted and the Golden Gate.

I am rather beautiful, they tell me. They take photos of me, of my Painted Faces, of my Speaking Hill, of my Prideful Colors and of my Golden Towers. They are mostly very nice, and it is somewhat embarrassing, to be frank.

I am loud, cawing and yelping and screaming, beeping and rumbling and crackling. I stink, of people and death and food and love, of the sea mixing with the rivers and the smoke of the wood of the ages. I used to not think myself beautiful, not in my entirety. But my People, that piece of Humanity that call me home, they tell me I am beautiful.

The lady in the coffee shop in North Beach says I am beautiful, says that I am full of dogs and good food and fun nights out with friends. She says that she would rather be here than anywhere else.

The man in the warehouse in Bayshore says that I am beautiful, says that I create jobs and feed his children with my bounty. He says that I am the reason he still lives.

The person on stage at the Castro theatre says I am beautiful, says that I made their dream come true when no-one else could. They say that I am the thing that saved them.

He of the Smog and the Glittering Lights calls me little sister, and says that I am much more beautiful than he was at this age. He tells me that We, that us Cities of Humanity, are always beautiful to the people who live within Us.

I know that they are right, as every time a pup leaps at a pigeon, every time a tourist buys clam chowder, every time a cable car powers through traffic in the hills, that I am beautiful.

And every one of my people are too.

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Working on a response to an ask I got and thinking back on a bunch of stuff just before Deep hits. This piece I wrote at the end of Arrivals came to mind. It was a summary of the year, but also about spending time in those places, looking at them differently while the Pyramids loomed overhead, and feeling "these places are being taken from me and I don't know why." Always liked this closing, informed by that being the year covid hit too:

And then I was somewhere else. A vision? Something of the Darkness; Humans and fallen and cabal, all bowing to a Pyramid. The Darkness reminded me of what it once said: In Light, there is only weakness, only failure, only death. But where the Light takes, the Dark gives. No longer will you be a pawn. No longer will you watch the lives of those you care for be lost. In Darkness, there is only strength, only victory, only life. This whole ordeal feels as though it should’ve been over now, but it is not. The days feel like weeks and the weeks like months. It constantly feels both like the end is near and like there is no end in sight. Right now, we’re celebrating the Festival of the Lost, celebrating Eris’ fireteam and Cayde and all the others we’ve lost. The Festival has extra weight this year. We’re donning our masks and taking part in the festivities despite what looms above. Sometimes it feels like we’re hiding in these masks, ignoring what’s coming, but Eva says this is good for us. That’s part of what the masks of the Festival show us, she says. We can be strong on the outside, even if we’re frightened within. I hope she’s right. We’ve faced so much this year, but it’s only the beginning. I’m sitting under a tree on Io as I write this. It’s a tree that’s tucked into an alcove near the Lost Oasis. For years, I never knew it was here, but when I found it it became one of my favorite spots. It’s so cozy here, peaceful, but even here I can’t escape. I can’t see the Pyramid hovering over head from this little hideaway, but I can feel it. I feel its corruption growing. Soon, this place will be lost; I may never see my tree again. But I’ll keep fighting, hoping that one day I’ll be back. I don’t know what’s coming or when, but it’s cresting the horizon. Could be one week, maybe two, but it’s soon. And every time I think of that uncertain future I remember something Eris told me once: The Pyramid takes advantage of our collective pain. We will not succumb. Do not succumb. Keep fighting. Be brave.

Titan coming back brings up so many of those feelings from that season, feelings that I don't think can be replicated because it happened to us in real time, we felt the loss of those places in game and in real life... and now we're going back. It's a really cool, unique feeling, I'm hyped, let's gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo