#crimson spirit

[cosmicpopstar64]

It’s Sig’s birthday today!

[sweetpallette]

Making new family trees for the fankids, starting with the SigAmi family!!!

Note: I interpret Sig to be a descendant from the body of the crimson spirit ok thanks we have fun w/ silly grandpa Aya

[suspiciousvivi]

strange arle or something idk

[eway]

Why did I make this?

[eway]

@kid-az @elder-sister

Demon-possessed boy, half-demon boy + bonus Ocean Prick So hey I’ve been playing Puyo Puyo Fever 2 for the past few months (took me 3 freakin’ years to realize there’s a Beta English patch for the game…). I’ve always wondered how these two are related for SO many years and Sig’s origin is finally all clear to me now!

Bonus:

[cosmicpopstar64]

yearly tradition

[ex0skeletal-undead]

Crimson Peak by karmavirtanen

[eway]

@kid-az @elder-sister

saw this post and knew what I had to do

[chekovs-merkin]

IT'S

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Oyobi, Who Split the Heavens

Her angry call split the sky. From that rift descended her champions.

Artist: Christopher Moeller TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[neon-zipperooni]

decided to use comic studio to show off my headcanons for the families of the legendaries (and some super epics) (and two bonuses because those blank spaces were gonna bug me)

if anyone sees this and decides to adopt any of these headcanons please lmk i'd love to hear it

[mettywiththenotes]

I like to think his fanbase is half men who admire him and want to be like him in a good way and half toxic masculinity dudebros

The latter are gonna shit themselves when they learn that Kirishima couldn't help anyone back then and that Mina was the one who saved people even though she was scared. Imagine he gives a big shoutout to Mina and finishes with a big "Women can be manly too! Any gender can!" (similar to Crimson Riot's video)

[summertimemusician]

Linktober Shadow 2024, Day 1, Woods

Man I need to write for First more. Anyway! Another one done and polished, nice and soft and technically a continuation/missing scene from one of last year's one shots that I'm really glad to be able to finish and post. As always the reader pov is gender neutral (can lean either side to whoever is reading) and can be read as romantic or platonic and in or out of an LU context, though I am mainly writing for an hypothetical iteration of First in LU since he is not officially in the comic but a lot of people accept him as part of the official Chain (the author included), and really that's what we have aus for lol. (Also uh, possible TW{?}, just to be safe for those who are squeamish/can't handle graphic descriptions: OoT Dead Hand and it's lore is it's own warning and I do reference it. As always mind your safety and health dear readers. ) Enjoy your reading!

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Long, pale, thin arms bend in shapes not meant for a human body, too many joints bend with sickly cracks, thin fingers adorned with elongated, winking crimson claws hook around your arms and legs, too many limbs that should not belong to a single being reanimated through a sickness of the world holding you in place with indomitable strength fueled only by rigor mortis and hunger no matter how hard you struggle. A stabbing pain upon your skull rips a howl from your throat, a sound better suited to a dying animal than a human being, in the corner of your eye you see the thing slowly slinking closer, once pale robes a mottled, dusty gray, bloodied from the life force of previous victims and fellow tortured souls.

You are a pinned butterfly upon a board, frozen with a primal terror as the claws lacerate through flesh digging, tearing like a rabid dog's teeth upon an unfortunate deer, the things wide, staring eyes meet yours from the top of an impossibly long neck barely supporting it's elongated head, instinctively your struggle renews itself. Gagging at the sickly sweet smell of rot and sick, the scent of metal thick in the air squeezes the breath from your lungs, a cocktail of desperation and helplessness flooding your entire system.

("H—")

It died starving, and hunger still settles over it's decaying features. A broken jaw contorts and twists in a cold, toothy mimicry of a human grin, grotesque and unnatural between the rotted gums and exposed teeth, burning it's stark, decaying and sunken features into your mind.

("—ong?")

The putrid corpse's too blunt, too human teeth sink into the hollow of your collarbone, tears through skin, rips through tendons, it cracks and grinds through bone and meat, something sinks into your pores and it burns. Something too thick to be saliva, closer to tar as it nests beneath your skin like an infection, eating you inside out and you scream and scream and scream-

"Wake up!"

Your eyes snap open as you bolt upright, a scream bitten down with practice from one too many nights traveling in a group haunted by the things called nightmares and insomnia from a life of fighting.

It's just you, the nightly whispering of the woods, the crackling of the fire and First.

The knight's stoic posture relaxes, softens a little, stern features creased as concern flickers through twin azure flames, the moonlight turning his hair the same shade as wheat fields in summer. "My apologies for waking you, I could not bear to watch the terrors interrupt your rest any for any longer."

You breathe in the sight of the hero, of the woods of Twilight's era with it's dark trees shedding honey and maple scales onto the ground as life went to slumber and the smell of birch and maple and hawthorn and attempt to quell your shaking. It's a futile effort, you're shivering from the late autumn breeze like as if the woods' leaves had taken a human shape, the memory of the empty eyes and a sunken skull and fine strands of human hair clinging to a decaying skull sinks it's claws into your mind. "There's no need. It was probably for the best." Your gaze drifts around the camp as you palm around for your quilt knocked over in your struggle, the firelight allows you to see the other boys, and you distractedly note your long dagger is right where you left it; it helps loosen the hold the hooks that night left on you, you swallow thickly. "Did I wake anyone up?"

First shakes his head, your shaking fingers meet fabric and your distracted mind is yanked back to reality when the motions of using it's warmth and weight as a shield against the world are already done.

It's not your quilt, painstakingly made with Malon's help and teachings inherited from Sun on one of the quieter moments you and the Chain had in each era since you've started traveling with them. A mark of friendship that served as a balm for difficult days.

(A little after Sun confirmed you were not a threat, to the relief of your cautious companions, a little before you had found First half delirious with duty not yet fulfilled and death stolen from a mortal body and blood loss and dragged him from the brink with meager medical knowledge and later back to the Chain on your back.)

It's First's cape, as red as the feathers of his and Sky's loftwings, soft and warm and carrying the scent of breezes through hylian fields and leather and metal.

There's a quirk to his generally stern, elegant countenance as you turn your shocked eyes to his, as amused and warm as he's allowed himself to be. First's hand falls over yours as you make to remove it, cautious and with as much care as a bird landing on someone's hand, you can't help but marvel a little at it, the part of you that would either jump for joy or break down into sobs from pride were you not so tired. First was the most distant of the Links, drifting just on the edges of the Chain, with a kind heart that had chunks ripped out both by cruel fate and still bled to this day; he could be cold, of course, but anyone could see how weariness had been carved into the lines of his being. A spirit made to never be broken but not never damaged, who never had a chance to heal.

"You need it more than me." He rumbles softly, insistently. You catch the glimpse of the discoloration on his wrists as his hands reach to readjust the scar, not unlike the tears marring your arms and your heart aches a little.

You've both come a long way.

You stop your motions with a small sigh and as soon as the knight is done, you pick up your discarded quilt, determined to return the favor. You know it's his turn to keep watch, as him, Warriors and Time generally swapped the second turn between themselves (much to your exasperation and the Chain's), but there's no reason he can't continue doing so comfortably.

"Join me? It's chilly and it's not like I'll be going back to sleep anytime soon." You offer, offering him the blanket in turn.

First tilts his head and gives you a look, it's a bad excuse, it's only mid autumn after all, the campfire, and you're both well aware that he's withstood worse than the fall winds between his imprisonment and crossing the skies atop Vermilion.

Still, he nods, the ghost of a smile clings to the edges of his face as he sits by you. Allowing you to wrap the quilt around his shoulders, facing the fire and the woods. "Of course."

You smile, it's a small thing of broken glass and haunted nights, but it's there.

Between the crisp, cool autumn air, the return of your smile, the one who unwittingly guided him back to his fellow heroes and the knowledge that he's not alone, that's more than enough for First.

The two of you spend the rest of the second watch quietly chatting, First about his time with his fellow knights, before the imprisonment, about Orville and the ballads and legends of his time, you trade him stories of your own home, myths and legends, tales and stories you've grown up hearing and reading in your childhood into your adulthood. At some point you drift closer together, his chin atop your head and your head on his shoulder.

It's peaceful.

Neither of you have nightmares that night.

(A gentle hand hesitantly finds it's way to your head, lighter than a feather, clothed in butterfly scales and diamond dust, it brushes softly through your hair. The pale figure smiles, careful fingers softly rest over First's sleeping face, and the being's eyes soften, clearer than the sky on a summer day, a hum leaves the pale entity's slender throat, and the world follows in symphony.

Content, She does not linger.

The wind through the trees sound like singing.)

[azurebolt-fr]

My full pages for @sornieth-zines :)

[puyopuyoconfessions]

I just realize. People in the western fandom call The Crimson Spirit "Ayashii" which means "suspicious"

So when the western fans shorten it to Aya, they are essentially shortening to Sus.

People are calling The Crimson Spirit "Sus"...

[larrythefloridaman]

WOAH, HE'S BIGENDER? I DIDN'T KNOW THAT!