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thesmokingguns · 4 years ago

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Tous Les Jours

word count: 1472

Requested: “Hii💖 can i request a fic where their s/o is in a band like baby metal and at first their like “how cute girls dancing to metal” but then they see how heavy it is and how much control they have over the crowd” I don’t know who requested this but I hope you like this. It was super fun to write!

“Salut, Salut, Salut! We are Les Petites Souris from Paris, France! Comment ça va, Los Angeles?” The crowd roared to life at the opening act. Dressed in feathers, bedazzled corsets, and fishnets it looked like Vegas showgirls and very out of place for the opening act to a rock and roll show. “This is our song Tous Les Jours!” Nikki looked up, confused from the bar where he was currently being bumped into by people trying to rush closer to the stage. Tommy and Vince both looked absolutely out of their minds excited besides him.

He had been promised to see the hottest band in LA at the moment and a huge competitor but what looked like three hot French Burlesque dancers were on stage. WHen the music started his eyes furrowed together. Heavy bass lines and drum beats mixed with great guitar riffs, and then they were singing. The lead singer was pretty blonde with long legs that she was using to do the Can-Can with her backup singers. BUt her voice was angelic. Nikki watched the three girls in their synchronized dance moves. The high energy of the girls were like a mix of pop stars on MTV and strippers. The way that they danced to their music, that was way heavier than he could imagine for them. He stood in almost shock as they performed, well TBone pretty much went nuts beside him.

They sang a few songs before the crowd started to get wild and try to surge forward. It was like a fight club as people pawed at the stage. Nikki felt like he was watching Beatles Mania happen. The lead singer finished her song, giving the crowd a look over that made them fall silent. Tommy elbowed him, in awe of the stage presence from the petite singer.

“Que faites-vous, mes amis?” she tsked at them and Nikki felt his eyes glued to her as she walked a few steps towards the crowd. The way her hand went to her hip and she looked out at them like she was scolding children, “This show is for everyone but we will not sing if you keep acting like this, d’accord?” though they didn’t know what she was saying they all agreed with her anyway. The way she smiled at the audience had them all cheering as she walked over and started dancing again.

Nikki loved watching the way the three girls bounced around the stage like they were just having a lot of fun. It didn't feel like they were acting but it also felt like a full performance. It was a gimmick but they could actually perform and all of them had great voices that sounded right over the heavy music. By the time that the show was ending he understood why the guys had wanted to come to see the band so badly. He was surprised at the end of the show when he was thinking about how he didn’t want it to end. He enjoyed watching the girls dance to the heavy music, their bright smiles, costumes bouncing at their silly moves, and the way they drew the crowd into them.

At the last song it got so loud he could see his whisky shake in the glass. The crowd was absolutely losing their minds for them. The girls all clasped hands bowing to them and giving them all waves as flowers, bras, and even what looked like a pair of boxers all made it up onto stage. The singer once more stepped forward waving at the crowd and trying to get them to quiet down so she could talk.

“Merci, mes amies. Once again we are Les Petites Souris. We are selling some merchandise in the back of the club. Hannah, wave your hands so they can see you, mon amour.” Nikki turned to see the girl waving her hand. “We also will be playing at The Roxy tomorrow night. You can find me at the bar before the set and buy me a few drinks, oui?” she smiled as there were catcalls and whistles from the crowd, “Merci, mes amies. Until tomorrow, bonne soiree.`` She departed the stage and it took a few minutes for people to realize they were done and not coming out for an encore.

It was crazy how the crowd was already leaving when they hadn't even been the main band for the night. Vince and Tommy were already finishing their drinks which the bassist knew meant they were going to try to head backstage to meet the new chick band on the club scene.

When they made it backstage they had no problem finding the dressing room since they had all played here before. T-Bone wanted to just walk in but they managed to restrain him as Nikki knocked. The door opened and there was the blonde, looking him up and down.

“Do I know you?” She asked and he smirked that her accent had been real and not just part of the show. Her eyes rolled away from him to the two men that were with them. He could hear someone say something to her in French and she responded lazily with a Hand wave.

“I’m Nikki Sixx, this is Vince and Tommy. We saw you play tonight and just wanted to invite you out.” Her eyebrow rose and she turned to look in the room of girls relaying the messages. Two heads poked it looking at the men and they were all chattering over each other in what seemed like a game of pick your date. Nikki felt the heavy blue eyes on him of the blonde.

“So you come to our dressing room after our show without flowers, without champagne, without anything about our show and you and tes sales amis want to take us out tonight? Tut-Tut, Monsieur Sixx.” She walked away from the door replaced with another blonde who was making eyes at Tommy.

“Do not pay Charlotte any mind. Come back in an hour, yes? We will be ready then.” She shut the door leaving the boys all standing around. Nikki told the boys he’d be back in a little bit leaving the club, feeling like he had a challenge ahead of him.

The hour passed and when then girls came out they were changed from their stage costumes to more casual jeans and leather jackets. Nikki handed Charlotte a bouquet of roses watching the way her eyes danced in amusement.

“Great show.” He said, a smile blooming over his face. He watched the way she cracked the flowers bringing them close and inhaling the sweet scent.

“Merci, Monsieur Sixx.” Her hand went to her forearm lacing their arms together as they headed out and into the waiting limo that the band had.

That night turned into six months later and the pair had been pretty much inseparable. Nikki would take out the French singer as often as possible. She basically lived at his house, throwing parties and laughing loudly with all his friends. The way she managed to get everyone to befriend her with almost the trance-like control she held on stage never stopped impressing him.

The cult-like following of the band had them headline large arenas where seats were packed to watch the cute girls dance to the metal songs. Everyone seemed to forget they could perform with a full range or dance moves and musical talent until they were seeing it live. The way the girls were in cotton candy pastel burlesque outfits contrasted to the heavy metal playing in the background.

Nikki had seen them dozens of times, loving to support his girl, and still he would be sucked into their performance. The cute dance moves, the heavy music, and the sexy outfits all seem to add to the band. He loved watching them can-can to the heavy baselines and the elegance they brought to the music. Just like he was hooked on seeing them he was hooked on their lead singer.

Nikki had known after the first night when she pulled cognac from her purse to splash liberally in their coffee after dinner that she was the girl for him. She made them all feel like they were in the presence of something great and lifted them all up to feel great as well. He loved that when he was having jamming sessions to figure out new songs she’d pick up her guitar helping him come up with the melodies to his music. Or how she’d sing his lyrics and he could finish a song after she had hummed out a few lines. The chemistry they had was something he had dreamed of.

He knew he loved her and he planned to keep her around so that he could continue to love her. Tous les jours.

#Nikki Sixx #Motley Crue #Nikki Sixx x OC #Request #Nikki Sixx headcanon #Nikki Sixx imagine #Motley Crue imagine #Nikki Sixx fanfic #Nikki Sixx fan fiction

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stillness-in-green · 4 years ago

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Idk if anyone told you but the MVA OST leaked, with themes for both the League and the MLA. If you haven't listened to it yet, please do! And if you have, what are your thoughts? I think Mine Woman and RE-DESTRO slap for 2 characters that got shafted hard by canon so I appreciate them a lot.

I have listened to them, and I like several of them! I feel like I need to lead with that, because I'm about to add some criticism about my previous responses to BNHA's score for context, so it's important to know that I genuinely do enjoy quite a few of these.

So, I haven't listened to a lot of Yuki Hayashi's scores, but he's definitely done work I've liked! He composed the music for several of the more recent PreCure shows, including their movies; I particularly loved his finale for the 15th anniversary film, which prominently featured a truly delightful medley of every team's opening theme. I'm also very fond of some of his pieces for Kiznaiver and Welcome to the Ballroom.

His BNHA work, though, I feel like suffers from two main problems: the tracks are too short to work up a good head, and yet, despite that short length, they sometimes feel exhaustingly over the top. (Did Shigaraki's theme really need crying children to get across the point that he's bad news?) I've long felt that the BNHA anime wants me to feel like everything is way more Epic and Stirring and Dramatic than I actually find the material to be, so curiously, the music winds up having a distancing effect rather than drawing me in. This is frequently compounded by placement choices that feel so staggeringly poor that I'm often left wondering whether the staff chose the music out of a hat! (Seriously, why does a fairly rote test of character in Nighteye's office warrant doom choirs?)

As to the MVA tracks specifically, I wish there could have been tracks that sounded a bit more fun or heroic, given that the League in MVA really are the heroes for the arc, complete with Shigaraki suddenly having access to Shonen Nakama Tropes and getting all these little comedic reaction takes. It'd be nice if the music could cue in and let the League have some aural triumph without being all doom all the time ("Oh, no! The villains are winning!" Yes, they are; let them have this for one arc, would you?)

But that said, I do rather like most of these! There are some that I do suspect will fall prey to the This Is Too Much Drama, Would You Please Ratchet Back? problem, but there are also some that I can imagine playing better in the context of the show than they do in isolation, and some that feel like they could even be exactly what I was dreaming about, if they go where I hope they will. For some individual thoughts, see below:

The Mission of the Stealth Hawks: A reasonable enough little tense atmospheric piece. Doesn't jump out at me.

Different Ability Liberation Army: I always approach the MLA as styling themselves as an army, but in reality being more of a sect--far more cult than militia-- I appreciate that if they can't have a good dramatic march despite having Army, like, right there in the title, I'm glad I could get church bells instead. On the whole, though, this is a good example of the first problem I mentioned having with Hayashi's work for BNHA--his pieces tend to be pretty short, and it takes them so long to land on a melody that by the time they find one, there's hardly any time to develop it before the song ends. Even a lot of the hero pieces are like that, and the villain songs, even more so. That said, I do like the horror strings that creep in around the 1.25 mark, blossom at 1.45, and float on through 2.10. I just wish they went on longer. Admittedly, "erratic church bells and horror strings" is still not the choice I would have made for the MLA's main theme. I really would have preferred something with a more militant air; as it is, this sort of feels like it scores a creepy prologue that plays before the opening credits kick in and then the episode proper starts. Which isn't a bad description for the way the dinner scene played in the manga, but thanks to the anime's decision to reshuffle everything, I don't think that dinner scene's going to maintain that feeling of "prologue" when we finally get to it.

My Villain Academia: Better on the melodic front; I enjoy the drama at .43, the dancing tension at 1.05, and particularly the minor strings from 1.25 that just keep climbing until everything else drops out around 2.10. I do wish it found a better place to end rather than noodling on for a further thirty seconds, but the melody will get a more central, and more bombastic, treatment in the final track, so it's probably okay for it to trail off here. (It's also apparently a reprise of a villain theme from the very first season's OST, which is rad. More on that in the Track 11 blurb.)

Second Coming: This is a bizarre one because, while I complained that Hayashi's BNHA tracks are usually short, this one is a full six and a half minutes--except that it falls clearly into movements of about a minute each, with clear lulls in between. I wish it was twelve minutes and everything was twice as long! As it is, I'm highly doubtful that we're going to hear this one played in its entirety anywhere, since I can't imagine what scenes would require this specific sequence of musical passages at this length. 0.00 - 1.01: I love that the song kicks in comparatively quickly; the first minute's passage has a great, thrumming drive that very nearly hits major key towards the end. 1.02 - 1.53: The drive picks up pace in the second minute before the chorus arrives, and for once, I am very prepared to love a BNHA choir piece. I hope this is what plays when Deika's going up in ash. 1.54 - 3.01: I love the melodic line being carried by the intentionally hard to distinguish violin and whatever brass instrument the violin's trading off with in the third minute. It's bit out of place with the rest of the track, but I like it quite a bit on its own, and it does have a similar sound as some of the "dirty" brass in RE-DESTRO and Mine Woman. It's probably too long for RD's childhood flashback, but I wonder if it'll play for an MLA character somewhere? 3.02 - 4.07: The fourth minute has some very fun drums, but otherwise doesn't jump out at me as much of the rest of the track. I'm very curious to know when this will play, though. 4.08 - 5.32: The fifth minute, god bless, has some proper march drums--I like this passage a lot, particularly when it come back in the sixth minute accompanied by the choir. I like this because the key is minor but it's not "oooo scaaaary" minor; it's more dramatic, a bit tragic, but triumphant too--pretty much perfect for Re-Destro, Spinner and Machia's moment of revelation in the crater. I wish it were longer. 5.33 - 6.36: And here for the end we're back to the driving guitar and some fun low-thrum strings and percussive chain sounds. Like the fourth passage, it's fun, but jumps out at me less, particularly as the song's finale.

Gigantomachia: This is an extremely boss kaiju song. Seriously, that brass in the opening could come right out of a Toho flick. Extremely good walking calamity number, love that distorted synth stuff towards the end. It's going to sound great when (if) it plays over Machia leaving the villa, the hand rising up through the floor behind Toga, Momo and the other students surveying the desolation left in his wake, and so on. (I know that's all Season Six material, shhhh. I hope they use this piece there.)

Mine Woman: This is so fun. And so extremely superior that that awful Christmas insert song! I'm glad Curious got this at least, and I love the moment the beat drops at the one-minute mark, and that interwoven sax. So good. It's hard to imagine the fight between Toga and Curious being paced to this song, mind, but it's real good, anyway.

TOGA's Nature: This one showcases the other problem I have with Hayashi's BNHA work, especially his stuff for the villains: it feels very on the nose in a way that tips over into being Too Much. The birdsong, I think, is on the nose but in an effective, playful way, with the natural beauty of the birds undercut by the lovely but ominous piano/synth melody. I am considerably less kindly disposed to the creepy child laughter, which just feels on the nose in a thuddingly obvious way--though I do like the way it slides in when the birdsong fades. I like, too, the sort of cloudy roaring reprise of the melodic line that kicks in around the 1.10 mark. It feels like an effective echo of Toga--cute but creepy as a young girl, and then, after she snaps, creepy in the same way but now you can't ignore it.

Symbol of Fear: The beginning doesn't do much for me, but I enjoy the howl that gives way to the organs at 1.15; while it's too action-heavy to be Tenko, the transition does still put me in mind of Tenko wandering the streets, internally crying for anyone to help him, and the person who finally does is--well. I like that the organ nurtures that howl into something considerably more dire, though you still get a return to that guttural cry periodically. While it is, again, difficult to imagine this scoring the scenes between AFO and Tenko's first meeting and Tenko being formally named Tomura--it's much too bombastic--it does still feel like an excellent representation of AFO sculpting Tomura's formless, aimless rage into something that really could tear down the world.

I Don't Kill My Friends: It would have been really nice if they'd let the most significant, unadulterated personal triumph of the arc sound actually fun. Why does the Sad Man's Parade song sound so upset?? @aysall predicts that it'll play over Twice's confrontation with Hawks and death scene, and I can see it working extremely well there, but it's a pretty weird call for the Dead Man's Parade bit, if that is indeed what this is intended to evoke. Quibbling about the title aside, I do like the way this pulses and throbs, something like an exposed wound, which is not a bad description of poor Jin's mentality. I still hope this isn't what scores his breakthrough, though. As I said previously, the villains are the heroes for just this one arc, and it'd be nice if the score could reflect that at least a little.

RE-DESTRO: I like this one a lot. I love the interwoven layers of that dirty sax and the Big and Dramatic orchestral strings + brass, but both of them undercut with that regular, machine beeping that could almost be a heart monitor, but mostly isn't--right up until the long beep at 1.52/1.53. It feels like a strong illustration of the titular character's different personas--his attempts at casual, friendly villainy (like menacing Giran or chatting with Shigaraki on the phone), him when he's thundering full-volume about the weight of his legacy at people (THE BLOOD OF DESTRO FLOWS THROUGH THESE VEINS I AM RE-DESTRO), and, beneath it all, the constant little thread of stress that Rikiya can never escape (right up until Shigaraki). I probably wouldn't love it so much in isolation, but I'm easy to win over with the right character association. XD

Paranormal Liberation Front: Very fun grubby guitar intro. It also has much the clearest melodic throughline, which inclines me towards it. What inclines me to it even more is the knowledge (per @aysall again) that it's the same main melody as the track Villains Theme from the very first season's OST. That track already having used its allotted Doom Choir quotient, this track makes do with less synth and a lot more orchestra and chunky bass backing, which is much to its benefit, I feel. I do wish it had any of the MLA's theme in it, to represent the merger, but admittedly, it'd be hard to make that very audible when the MLA theme has…next to no central melody, percussive rhythm, etc. Still, as an evolution of the League to something bigger, classier, and far more dangerous, it's real good--just long enough to develop into itself and explore its central leitmotif. Probably my favorite track simply on its own merits.

Thanks for the ask, anon! I'd listened to the tracks once driving around for work, but sitting down with them properly gave me a greater appreciation for them, and now I'll definitely have an ear out for them when we get to this material in the anime…

….whenever that winds up being. *sob*

#bnha #music #stillness answers #my villain academia #reviews?#league of villains #meta liberation army #shigaraki tomura #yotsubashi rikiya

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 3 years ago

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The Dragon Egg (Parts 26-29)

Final parts for @secrettunnelatla

Azula is several unique and distinct layers of anxious. There is the first layer; the typical stresses that come with knowing that she is in for a make or break moment. The layer beneath that is a knowingness that a break is going to be particularly devastating for her. And below that is knowing that Blue Talon is in the room over, that she will once again be forced to listen to Chan’s botched version of her abuse story.

Under that layer is knowing that the subject of said story will be in the crowd, she has already spotted him striking up conversation with Wan Shi Tong after being snubbed by Raava and Vaatu.

And then there is the deepest layer. Hama has invited herself to the performance, after she so adamantly refused to take her advice to not perform. The old bat tried her damndest to dissuade her. Worse still, the woman’s concerns are more than valid. After finally confessing that she had done cocaine, albeit only a little, Hama lamented that that’s more than enough to explain her baby’s low birth weight. And more than enough to put her into early labor. Early labor when her age alone already put her at risk for that. “You can go into labor any time now.” The woman had put it. She can’t say that she doesn’t feel as though it is a possibility. The contractions are becoming more regular.

She holds out her hand and their makeup and SFX artist carefully dresses her fingers with blue claw tips. The fix her up with dragon contact lenses and carefully paint shimmering scales onto her cheeks, neck, and hands.

The woman hands her a sugary blue drink, it is the one comfort she has tonight. With luck it will give her tongue the blue effect that she is looking for.

They fashion her hair into a messy bun and begin working on her undercut. She hopes that it will be another seamless blend between metal and opera aesthetics. With her locks in a pile on the floor they dress her hair with ornaments and hand her, her prop mask--the final piece to her costume.

It has been some time since she has worn something form fitting and she has to admit that she is a little nervous to do it for the first time in front of so many people. But the design team that Zhao had hired for her is masterful, they have crafted a dress that works well with her baby bump. The scales are positioned in just the right ways to shimmer over and around the bump. And they are rather comfortable, more so than she anticipated them being.

“Azula, you have a visitor.”

“Tell Seicho that I got her flowers and we can talk after the show.”

“It’s...uh...it’s Chan and I think that the other two are here as well.”

“Send them away.” Zhao calls from across the room. “We don’t have time for drama.”

“What do they want?”

The woman shrugs. “I didn’t ask.”

“You can let them in.”

Chan is anything but discreet when staring at her belly and even less so when they fall on her chest. Perhaps if she didn’t want to risk breaking her faux claws she would have given him a good slap. “What do you want?”

“To wish you luck.”

“I don’t need luck. I have skill.” She pauses. “And I didn’t leech off of someone else’s material.”

“We’re not going to be performing those songs.” Ruon replies.

“We should though.” Zirin mutters.

“I figured that it would be disrespectful.”

“You figured that out quite late, didn’t you?”

Ruon sighs. “Maybe, yeah.”

“And let me guess,” she turns to Chan, “you decided that you want to be a father.”

“Fuck no!” He replies abruptly. “I don’t want anything to do with the baby, okay.”

“Then I want nothing to do with you. See yourself out.”

“Azula.”

“I am quite busy. Zhao can lead you out if you can’t find the exit yourself.”

She watches him leave with Zirin tethered to his side. “Sorry about those two, Ruon mutters. If it makes you feel any better, we’re going to be going with our new surf rock image after this concert. I convinced them to take up a new band name and give you the rights to Blue Talon.”

At least she can go into her performance knowing that at least one of her former friends isn’t morally bankrupt.

She gets one final visitor before she takes to the stage. Raava pulls her into a careful hug and kisses her on the cheek. “I am delighted that you were able to make it.”

“I couldn’t possibly miss this.” She replies. “Not for anything.”

Her baby shifts.

.oOo.

She is cradled in an egg, a large shimmering thing blue in color and shot with veins of gold. The hiss of a smoke machine lets her know that it is almost time. By now Zuko has emerged from a pile of simmering soot.

She hears a bang and she knows that his fiery wings have burst to life. She makes a note to incorporate pyrotechnics into her shows after giving birth. She hears the crackle as his phoenix wings flare. And in tendrils of curling smoke with the mightiest roar she can manage, she emerges from her egg.

Slipping back into her harsh vocals is like slipping back into a well worn and favorite robe, somehow it always fits just right. Somehow it is always comfortable. She is aware of her limits, well aware and they have several plans to work with them. Should breathing become too difficult, she will gesture for Zuko to fill in. She will resume with an adjusted set of clean vocals.

For the time things are going well, she is still pleasantly reeling from the explosive applause that came with her appearance. Her surprise appearance.

Her lips curl into a smirk as her initial, teaser verse echoes about.

“It’s good to see you all again!” Zuko calls.

The claps are damn near deafening.

“I’d like everyone to give my sister an extra pleasant welcome, we wouldn’t be here without her pestering and nagging.”

“You’re an ass, Zuko.” She scans the crowd for her father. She finds him, arms folded, the most hideous snarl on his face. She imagines that the two bottles on the table will be empty by the end of the night.

“Tonight, a dragon joins the Phoenixes!”

Tonight, a dragon will take flight. TyLee pounds out the first notes on her drum. The crowd is already abuzz with a frantic energy. An ecstatic energy. An energy that has been slowly building band by band. She can only imagine how frenzied they will become by the time it is The Tui Las’ turn to take the stage.

She doesn’t have the energy to move and flounce about as she usually would, so she stands upon a raised platform with glittering ashes at her feet, singing into the microphone while thin wisps of smoke furl and unfurl around her.

Mai’s guitar thrums, she can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy that the woman can so liberally headbang, it is washed away by the sight of a banner unfurling from the balcony. She sees, in glittering acrylic paint, the maw of a dragon, its forked blue tongue thrashing. She can’t quite make out the words upon it, but she knows that it is for her. For her and her alone. Likely a gift from one of the fanclubs that had caught wind of her surprise enrollment. She closes her eyes as Mai’s solo wails on. And it is sound, everything is pure sound.

For a moment anxiety and trepidations give way to elation. To the highs of success and adoration. To the thrill and liberation that only music can bring. She tilts her head back and spreads her arms out. The spotlight glints off of her dress.

And while Zuko runs through his part, Azula points to the banner. She makes eye contact and sticks her tongue out, mimicking the image on the banner. The light twinkles upon her tongue piercing. And the crowd goes feral.

Zuko helps her down from the platform as she works her way back into the song. Her head spins with euphoria as the last vestiges of her misery, fear, and helplessness are shaken away by Zuko’s bass.

She makes a mental note to learn to play an instrument too. Perhaps the drums, she can’t name many lead vocalists who also play the drums. But she can do it, right now, she can do anything. The dragon is in flight and her wings are powerful.

She transitions into her operatic vocals. By now she is somewhat breathless, but it is alright. This is the sound she needs. The sound that is on her albums. The sound that has granted her so much attention. It is all her own. Indisputably so.

Zuko grins at her as she lowers the mic, a job well done. He gives her shoulder a little squeeze. And then he steps back. And Mai steps back while TyLee comes forward.

Zuko and Mai lay their instruments in the egg and TyLee sets her drumsticks at the bass of it. An offering to the dragon. They lay themselves down in those glittery ashes and wait until it is their turn to rise once more.

The stage goes black and then the light falls on her. A single beam that paints her body in a radiant halo.

As a forest falls into a hush before a storm, the venue falls into a silence so complete. Complete until she decides to break it. Break it with a voice like wind sifting through curtains. Like a summer storm rousing bells into a frenzy. Something powerful and light all at once. Something both airy and sturdy.

The spotlight is growing uncomfortably hot, and there is a new energy in the air. She doesn’t think that she has ever been paid such close attention and from so many people at one. She slides into the next note. The baby shifts. The breath she draws is sharp, she improvises a high note to accent it. There is a murmur of amazement.

A small smile play on her lips as she transitions into the next set of notes. The theater throws her voice back at her and she throws it back at the theater. It is a deviation from what she had planned but it is easier somehow. Easier and otherworldly. It is an experiment, a risk. This whole night has been a risk, what is one more? The night is going too well for her to not garner successful results.

As her last chorus begins, her wings unfold as shadows on the back wall. The smoke machines cough out plumes until she is lost in the smoke. And with her body fully enveloped, the stage fades to black once more.

She isn’t sure what to make of the tangible silence to follow. Not until it erupts into a deafening applause.

And then come the sparks, the sparks and flames and Zuko, Mai, and TyLee spring back into action for a bombastic finale. She feels much bolder now, unstoppable. Perhaps if her solo had been even a degree less successful she would have come down enough to know that she is pushing too hard.

As things are, she is taken by the night, by the magic of sound and melody. By the connections; to Zuzu, to Mai and TyLee, to the audience… These connections, for a time, block out a different connection. A connection she should be feeling by nature.

She slips back into her harsh screaming vocals and just in time. She holds her note as the first sharp pang bursts through her core. She screams louder, harder. By all means, it is the best scream she has ever done on stage. She isn’t sure if she is dismayed or relieved that the audience thinks that it is just part of the show. Most of the audience anyhow, Hama goes rigid. She grits her teeth as Zuko sings through his part. She feels a cramp like no other. And she sees faces. There is her father his expression is something conflictingly smug and shamed, he turns his head. There is Seicho, wincing. And Raava, she hasn’t seen that brand of concern since her mother died. She can’t find Hama.

The music cuts suddenly and with it, her dreams and aspirations.

Zuko hooks her under the arm.

“What are you doing?” She mutters, “you need to finish the show.”

“We need to get you to the hospital.” Mai replies.

“Or, at least, to Hama.” TyLee adds.

___________

Y’all are gonna have to forgive me lol, I don’t know too much about childbirth and I couldn’t find some of the answers to the questions I had about c-sections. That said, this is your warning if childbirth and surgeries make you squeamish.

She wants to cry. Cry for the pain and cry for her lost dreams. She had been so close. So, so very close.

And now she is here in a hospital bed, here in excruciating pain that anesthetics can only seem to take the edge off of. They give her commands, they tell her to push and breathe. They are vaguely reminiscent of the mock sessions that Hama has taken her though. But her head is too dizzy to truly do anything beyond hear the orders.

She picks out Hama’s face, but the woman mostly lingers back waiting to be called on for reminders and forgotten rundowns on her condition and medical history. She thinks that Seicho is there too, banished to the other end of the room so not to obstruct.

Azula screams again and they demand that she pushes. She thinks that the push she gives is more instinctual than a response to the order. There is another reminder to breath. She can’t do it. She is growing faint.

She thinks that this baby is going to rip her in two. Spirits, she could have sworn that they said it would have a low birth weight. Spirits, she can’t imagine what a standard weight baby would feel like.

Tears are running down her face but she barely registers them. And then she hears the words Caesarean section. Her face pales further and then further still when they mention that the baby’s heartbeat is unstable.

It is just as well, she doesn’t think that she can keep herself awake to deliver this baby naturally. She clutches the bed sheets as they clean her abdomen. They say something to her, something that she doesn’t catch. She thinks that they are trying to explain what they are doing.

She feels a hand holding hers. It is Seicho’s. Woefully and resentfully, she wishes that it was Ozai’s. Her father should be here. He should be holding her hand. He should protect her when she can’t do it herself. And this time she doesn’t think that she can.

“It’s alright.” One of the doctors promises. “You’re going to be fine.”

To her horror, they keep her awake. They carefully fix the IV into her arm and administer a regional anesthesia. Agni, she wishes that they would just put her out entirely.

“You did good tonight.” Seicho says.

“Mmm hmm.” Azula mannages as they begin to make the incision.

“Really good. You should see what they’re saying about the performance.”

Azula grits her teeth, “that I’m a fool for performing eight months pregnant.”

“No! Okay, well, some people are saying that…”

She must admit that Seicho has just provided her with a rather solid distraction. “They have no right to say anything about…”

Seicho laughs. “But they’re also saying that it was impressive that you could do it at all. And that your performance was amazing, they were only disappointed to see it cut short.”

“Are ‘they’, the audience or the judges?”

“Both, I think?” Seicho replies. “The competition is still going on of course, but your odds of winning still look pretty good according to the live updates.”

Azula’s grimaces at a tugging sensation that radiates up her abdomen.

“Are you in any pain?” The doctor asks.

She shakes her head, “it’s not comfortable though.” And the discomfort seems to last hours. The doctors insist that it had been only an hour and twenty-minutes. And for that hour and twenty-minutes she doesn’t even get to hold her baby.

“She’s being transferred to the NICU.” They inform her. “It might be several days, possibly weeks until you get to hold her. We need to get her stable first.”

Azula can only nod. She is lucky that her baby is alive at all.

______________

Her baby comes with a list of risks and warnings. Obligations and an extensive list of follow up appointments. Here and there she does interviews, ones wherein she promises that she is still very much active, that new songs are in the works and that she has several music video ideas in mind. Ones wherein she announces that she plans to collaborate with From Ashes to Phoenix more and that she plans to take up drumming while on maternity leave. That interviews will be less frequent and that her first tour isn’t slated for at least a year.

She thinks that she is driving Seicho mad with anticipation, she has only been promising her a real date for ages now. But she has things to attend to first. She is putting the finishing touches on her nursery, while profusely but silently thanking Zhao’s wife for providing her with the toys and baby care supplies that she had neglected to buy herself. What Zhao and his wife don’t provide comes in the form of gifts from Iroh, Zuzu, Mai, TyLee, Raava, and Vaatu. Chan has given her a gift as well but a boob pillow isn’t exactly the sort of thing that she wants in her baby’s crib. She supposes that it’s the thought that counts. It is a small little gesture, something that has her inclined to think that he doesn’t want to sever ties with her completely. She puts that to the side for when she has time to deal with it.

“This is so exciting!” TyLee gushes.

Azula is nearly inclined to say that TyLee is more excited to see the baby in her mother’s arms than she is.

“You must be thrilled.” Seicho notes.

Truth be told there is a shot of nervousness too. She hadn’t had enough time to consider what kind of mother she would be. And that in itself is a red flag. Surely she can be no worse than her own father.

The doctor beckons her into the room. “Are you ready to meet your baby?”

Azula nods.

“Did you pick out a name yet.” Inquires another doctor as the first leaves to retrieve her baby.

Azula nods again. “It’s Anzu.”

“That’s so pretty.” TyLee smiles.

“Thank you.”

The doctor emerges. “Here she is.” Gently the woman transfers Anzu into Azula’s arms. She is a precious little thing. Soft, squishy, and terribly small.

“Is she going to stay this small?” Azula asks.

“Most likely, yes. Even if she wasn’t a pre-term baby, you are rather small.”

Azula flushes lightly.

“That’s her polite way of saying that you’re super teeny!” Seicho ruffles her hair.

Azula holds Anzu’s head against her breast. It doesn’t remain there for long, Azula finds that the baby is a wiggly thing. She opens her eyes but they don’t seem to find focus on anything in particular. Azula holds out her finger for the girl to grasp.

“She’s quite a fussy one.” The doctor notes. “Preterm babies tend to have irregular sleeping and eating patterns, so that’s something to prepare yourself for. We’ll be keeping her for another week, just to make sure that she stays stable, but she’s just about ready to come home.”

“I’ll pass the warning onto Zhao.” Azula replies as she strokes Anzu’s hair. “Have you been playing music for her like I asked? I want her to be a musician too.”

“We have.” The woman assures her. “Mostly classical music for now. But she is fond of zither music and the pan pipes.”

Perhaps she will learn to play the zither and the drums. “You know how to play the zither, don’t you, TyLee?”

“And the harp.”

“I can play an accordion!” Seicho declares.

“You can?” Azula furrows her brows.

“Sure. I just can’t play it good.” Seicho shrugs.

Azula sighs, she isn’t sure of just what kind of upbringing Anzu is going to have. With Seicho as a fill in father. Though Zhao, his wife, and Iroh show more promise. At least she has options. Options and a solid support system.

A musical career and motherhood. She will make them both work somehow.

____________

She lets Zuko, Mai, and TyLee tag along. Zhao and his wife have kindly extended her a much needed night off and she is spending it in Seicho’s chair. “I don’t need hand holding, Zuzu.” She rolls her eyes as Seicho brings the needle to her chest. “If I can handle childbirth, I can handle another tattoo.”

“You were numb for the childbirth.” Zuko points out.

“I suppose that I was, yes.”

Seicho makes great time, at this rate they will have time to go out for dinner after the tattoo has been finished. Already, she has the outline of the dragon egg and she is working to surround it with music notes.

Azula closes her eyes and relaxes as much as the constant needle bites will allow. Her mind wanders away from the tattoo parlor and to the stage. It is strange to think that it has only been a month since Audio of Agni. A month since she was able to hang her award certificate on the wall of her recording studio.

She almost can’t distinguish the buzzing of her phone from the whir of the tattoo gun as it pumps more shimmering blue into her skin. She declines the call.

“Who was it?” Zuko asks.

“It was father.” She mutters. “He’s been calling a lot lately.” A lot since he realized that his gleaming little star is shining perfectly fine without him. Much better in fact, without the pressures that he puts on her.

“What does he want?” Mai grumbles.

“Who cares.” Zuko scowls.

Deep down, she does. Deep down she misses him. Misses his praise and his subtle and hard to acquire affections. Misses the man he was before the booze. “Do you think that rehab would help him, Zuzu?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I think that you shouldn’t make it your problem.” Seicho pulls the tattoo gun back and shrugs. “You have a baby and a career to worry about and that’s plenty. You can talk to him when he calls you to tell you that he went to rehab on his own.”

And yet her heart aches for the people that she has cut out of her life. She supposes that she has let enough people in to balance things out. She has friends now, real friends. She has a brother, an uncle, a spunky, highly agitating, girlfriend. She has that dolt Zhao and she has her baby.

She has more than she had lost.

“I don’t need him.” She finally replies.

“Good.” Zuko replies. He has made more progress of his own, perhaps more than even she. He’d built From Ashes To Phoenix from nothing. He’d kindled the flame and then doused it and then flared it up again higher than before. All that remains of his troubles are a series of faint puncture scars on his arms.

“When does your tour start, Zuzu?”

“The beginning of next month. Are you gonna see us play?”

“I’ll let you know when Anzu tells me.” She laughs.

“Well, let us know when you’re touring again, we’ll see your show.”

“I sure hope so, TyLee, you guys will be the opening act!”

“Stop moving so much!” Seicho exclaims.

“Sorry.” Azula mutters. She watches as Seicho moves the tattoo gun across the egg. Somehow she has managed to create an effect not dissimilar to that of her Audio of Agni dress. She pauses to swap out the ink colors. Her hand is so dainty and elegant as she fills in and shades. Finally she pulls it back and hands Azula a mirror. She doesn’t need it to know that Seicho’s work is as fine and painstaking as ever. That it is perfect. That it is worthy of being on her skin.

Seicho gently applies a layer of antibiotic ointment.

“Are you sure that you don’t want me to make adjustments to that tattoo while we’re here?” Seicho gestures to the dragon curling around her arm.

“I’m sure, Siecho. I need this tattoo as it is.” There are nights when it is painful to look at. Nights when it is a glaring reminder of the people she lost. The friends who betrayed her, who almost reaped her of everything she had. But it is also a reminder of what she had tamed and reclaimed.

For better or for worse, Blue Talon is a part of her. Just as much as Anzu and the music industry. And for better or for worse, Blue Talon is a mark on her skin. Just like Anzu.

Tattoos aren’t art, she decides, they are stories. Profound ones. And Seicho has a particular way with words. A particular way of helping her tell her story.

“Alright then, we’re all done here!” Seicho pecks her on the forehead.

Seicho locks and darkens the parlor. She takes Azula’s hand. TyLee takes her other one. And Mai takes TyLee’s free hand. Zuko completes the chain. She walks down the street. A dragon among phoenix.

She thinks that it is best this way.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Azula/Cupholder girl #Fanfiction

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voodoochili · 4 years ago

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My 75 Favorite Albums of 2020

Every year produces excellent music and 2020 was no exception. The exceptional thing about this year, though, is the loss of livelihood so many musicians suffered as a result of the pandemic. To better celebrate all I’ve listened to and loved this year, I’ve expanded my albums list from 50 to 75 albums and included a highlight track from each in the Spotify playlist below. If you like what you hear, why not throw the artist a few dollars on Bandcamp?

Check the Spotify playlist HERE.

Without further ado, my favorite albums of 2020. Happy New Year, and happy listening!

10. Playboi Carti - Whole Lotta Red: Carti’s long-awaited opus has only been out for a week, which is probably not a long enough time to give an album as sprawling and surprising as this one a full critical evaluation. But I do know when I’m hearing something that’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard: this album rearranges hip-hop at the molecular level.

Whole Lotta Red is overstuffed with invention, the glitchy, expansive production giving Carti ample opportunity to glom onto the contours of the beat and experiment with his voice. That voice is the album’s main attraction: it squeaks, it squeals, it roars, it spits, it shudders, and organizes itself into irresistibly ignorant mantras (my current favorite is “Lamborghini parked outside, it’s purple like lean”).

Across its 24 tracks (which feels like too many, sure, but only the 5-minute long Kid Cudi-infected droner “Metamorphosis” overstays its welcome), Carti plays with listener expectations, annihilating rap songwriting conventions (why do you need verse-chorus structure if every line is a hook) as he defiantly proclaims his desire to be unlike anybody else. Though it bears some resemblance in sound and subject matter to Future’s Monster (and much of the production owes a debt to the work of Lil Uzi Vert’s favored Working Of Dying collective), Whole Lotta Red firmly establishes Carti as a totemic figure connecting mainstream and underground sounds.

9. BbyMutha - Muthaland: BbyMutha is a natural born spitter, armed with a drawly stutter-stepping flow that routinely annihilates unconventional instrumentals. She glows with supreme confidence and comfort in her own skin, especially when she’s dripping with disdain with those who’d dare refuse her the respect she deserves. A 25-track opus that earns every minute of its runtime, Muthaland is an engrossing immersion into Mutha’s world, balancing a fascination with the occult (“Sorry I don’t fuck with n****s who don’t fuck with Satan”) with grounding interjections from close friends and her four children. Boasting rockstar fantasies like “Heavy Metal,” bad girl anthems like “Nice Guy,” and dancefloor-ready jams like “Cocaine Catwalk,” Muthaland is a tour-de-force by one of rap’s singular voices, and if she’s really finished with music as she’s claimed (rappers never really retire, but Mutha has indicated she wants to focus full time on her Apothecary), the game will greatly miss her incisive punchlines and crudely empowering perspective.

8. Westerman - Your Hero Is Not Dead: In 2020, Mid-’80s sophistipop grew into one of my favorite comfort foods. Westerman’s Your Hero Is Not Dead struck me directly in the sophistipop sweet spot, evoking the attention-to-detail and synth-heavy craftsmanship of that era and pairing it with harmonic complexity and a piercing emotionalism that recalls his idol Neil Young. On songs like “Blue Comanche” and “The Line,” Westerman constructs tales as twisty as his melodies, economically exploring how people relate to each other at the beginning and end of romantic relationships. Westerman complements his tasteful palette of synth sounds with intricate and lyrical guitar playing, most notably on the sighing, gorgeous instrumental “Float Over,” which softly segues into the title track to end the album on a gently-rising high note.

7. WizKid - Made In Lagos: The focal point of the sub-Saharan Afrobeats renaissance, Lagos is having one of the most exciting musical moments of any city since Kingston in the early ‘70s. WizKid is one of the scene’s biggest stars, with an ability to combine the sonic tapestry of his hometown with Caribbean-influenced beats and vocal styles. Made In Lagos is a masterwork of sound design, bringing creamy bass, chicken-scratch speckles of guitar, tasteful interjections of saxophone and brass, and an intoxicating mix of acoustic and electronic percussion, all offered in service to an immaculate vibe that matches the album cover’s shiny, monochromatic color scheme. Made with lockdown in mind, the album eschews uptempo dancefloor workouts in favor of stress-relief and romance. WizKid plays the perfect host, tamping down his melodic flights of fancy and embracing a song-serving smoothness. He’s a warm and inviting presence throughout, laying out the red carpet for a cross-continental cast of collaborators like H.E.R., Skepta, Burna Boy, and Damian Marley. The result is a truly global pop masterpiece, capable of brightening even the dourest day of a miserable year.

6. Ka - Descendants of Cain: Firefighter by day and rapper/producer by night, Ka is a master of allusion. He organizes his thoughts into themed collections of metaphor, illustrating the bleak realities of street life with gnomic symbolism. On Descendants Of Cain, Ka’s strongest work to date, the enigmatic rapper expresses himself through a litany of biblical references, drawing parallels between ancient parables (he goes far deeper than the Cain/’caine double entendre that rappers have been using for decades) and the stark code of morality with which he lives his life. The 48-year-old hermit produced the project himself, creating an immersive sonic realm, crafting expansive, noir-ish backing tracks populated by late-night saxophones, sparkling pianos, and the occasional shot of sweeping strings. Once again, Ka’s music comes almost entirely without drums (certainly without “beats” in the traditional hip-hop sense–every once in a while, he adds an open hi-hat or a subdued shaker), the artist preferring to let his music swirl around his half-whispered words of wisdom. The album ends on a tearful, sentimental note with “I Love (Mimi, Moms, Kev),” in which the artist ditches the biblical lyrical conceit and expresses his love for his wife, his mom, and his best friend atop light percussion and a warm soul sample.

5. SAULT - Untitled (Rise): Rise is the second part of a diptych that SAULT recorded in response to the movement that exploded in the wake of George Floyd’s death. Black Is, the first part, is a great album (you’ll find it in the lower reaches of my 2020 list), but the mysterious UK collective fulfilled their immense potential with Rise, a propulsive, powerful, and danceable album that doubles as a thought-provoking examination of the nature of freedom and liberation. The album tackles weighty topics–police violence, fake-woke “allies,” protest, cultural appropriation–but handles them with an inspiring effervescence and a propulsion meant to usher right-thinking people into the streets. The music itself is an intoxicating marvel, combining elements from every trendy musical movement from the early ‘80s (post-disco, post-punk, house, hip-hop, whatever the hell ESG was) into a percussive and surprisingly cohesive cocktail. The album immediately makes its greatness known with its first four songs, one of the strongest opening runs of any album in recent memory: the swaggering, funky, keep-your-head-up anthem “Strong,” which features a drum solo from SAULT architect Inflo, the soaring, club-ready vamp “Fearless,” concept-establishing, string-heavy interlude “Rise,” and especially “I Just Want to Dance,” the best song ESG never wrote.

4. Fiona Apple - Fetch The Bolt Cutters: Fetch The Bolt Cutters arrived with the kind of universal acclaim that can make some people suspicious. The Pitchfork review got a lot of attention, not just for its perfect score but for its bold statement that “no music has ever sounded quite like it.”

That statement might’ve been slightly hyperbolic. Fetch The Bolt Cutters has the kind of propulsive left-hand piano figures, chest-thumping percussion, and impassioned vocal performances that we haven’t heard since...the last Fiona Apple album. But the album deserves its experimental reputation. These songs mess around with song structure and melody in ways that resemble avant-garde singers like Meredith Monk, use overlapping vocals that occasionally evoke the works of post-modern composers like Luciano Berio, and echoing modernist composers like Edgard Varese in the way she wrings pathos out of rhythmic elements.

Though Fetch might be a slight step down from The Idler Wheel, it’s an invigorating listen, packed with the soul-baring confessionals that only Fiona is capable of executing. Combining literary wordplay with plainspoken directness, Fiona forces the listener to confront her trauma and contemplate her diagnoses of patriarchal ills. The songs are uniformly excellent–especially opener “I Want You To Love Me,” the most “traditional” song on the record, and “Shameika,” a burrowing childhood rumination with a happy ending–but Fetch The Bolt Cutters stands out to me as a collection of amazing moments: when the jig-like “For Her” fades into an unforgettably painful cadence (“Good mornin’, good mornin’/You raped me in the same bed your daughter was born in”), Fiona’s ground-shaking vocal intensity at the end of “Newspaper,” her dogs howling over the outro of “Fetch The Bolt Cutters,” the winking repetition of the title phrase on “Ladies.” Her albums display more than enough ambition to forgive the long gestation periods, but hopefully we won’t have to wait another 8 years for Fiona to bare her soul once again.

3. Drakeo The Ruler - Thank You For Using GTL: Embroiled in a Kafkaesque legal saga that shines a light on the worst aspects of our horrendous justice system, Drakeo The Ruler spent more than three years wrongly incarcerated for a crime he not only did not commit, but for which he was acquitted (for more info on Drakeo’s ordeal, read Jeff Weiss). He’s now mercifully a free man, mostly due to the work of his lawyer, but at least partially because of publicity generated by Thank You For Using GTL. Recorded over the phone from prison during the height of the pandemic, it’s a miracle that an album created under such sub-optimal conditions sounds as excellent as it does, but credit producer JoogSzn–who not only supplied the creeping, head-nodding backing tracks but recorded Drakeo’s phoned-in vocals–and engineer MixedByNavin for the project’s astonishing fidelity. Drakeo and Joog spent hours on the phone to record the album, in the process paying thousands of dollars to GTL, the predatory telecom company of choice for the L.A. corrections system, whose mechanical interjections serve as a constant reminder of the injustice that made the album necessary. Of course, a good story is a good story, but that alone doesn’t get an album on 2020’s most prestigious Best Albums list (mine). It’s a classic rap album, perhaps the best ever released by an incarcerated rapper, and a thumb directly in the nose of the D.A. and the LAPD. The album is a lyrical marvel, packed with winding wordplay and outlandish flexes, as Mr. Mosley takes aim at 6ix9ine, cackles at sorry-ass Instagram haters, and sneers at American-made cars (“To be honest, a Hellcat isn’t a foreign”). Each song has a carefully considered concept, the rapper’s punchlines building upon one another to make an airtight case for his status as L.A.’s top dog. He contrasts his own whip-crashing lifestyle with flashy wannabes on “GTA VI” and “Backflip or Sumn,” mourns a favorite department store on “RIP Barneys,” and proves he still doesn’t rap beef on “Maestro’s Tension.” The album’s masterstroke comes with “Fictional,” the final track, in which Drakeo exposes the prosecution’s use of his lyrics as evidence in criminal proceedings as the farce it is: “It might sound real, but it’s fictional/I love that my imagination gets to you.” Drakeo’s story was a rare bright spot in 2020, and a rare one with a happy ending. Just last week, the rapper released Because Y’All Asked, a studio-recorded version of Thank You For Using GTL, giving the album’s songs the clarity they deserve. But I think I’ll mostly return to the original, which will live on as an excellent album and a vital document of post-George Floyd America.

2. Pa Salieu - Send Them to Coventry: Hailing from the middle of nowhere–or, more accurately city in the English Midlands only known in the states for its middling Premier League team–Gambian-British artist Pa Salieu served up the most distinctive, visceral, and daring rap debut of the year. His style fuses elements of grime, drill, afro-trap, dancehall, and the darker edges of U.S. hip-hop into a percussive slurry, injected with the urgency of his struggle to survive. The magic of the album comes from the way Pa’s fluid flows interact with the shimmering and foreboding production (Felix Joseph and Aod lead the cast of the project’s sound architects), which is perfectly suited for cold city nights. He slips effortlessly into the pocket, toe-tagging the beats with a combination of aggression and trance-like meditation and uttering casually powerful pronouncements (“I'd make a killa riddim offa any riddim/The grind can never stop 'til I'm wrapped in linen”) that make you believe he’s Britain’s next great rapper. Pa keeps the vibe consistent throughout, but the moments that stand out are the moments when he locks into an unbreakable groove over no-frills production, like on singles “Block Boy,” “Betty,” and “B***K.” The artist’s wry sense of humor and brash confidence keeps the album from feeling bleak, but Send Them To Coventry wisely ends on “Energy,” a warm and bright ode to keeping your creative spark safe from the prying forces of fame and fortune.

1. Kassa Overall - I Think I’m Good: “I think I’m good”–a phrase that’s ran through my head throughout this shitstorm of a year. Sure, I postponed a wedding, cancelled trips, and saw my friends and family much less often than I would like, but I count myself among the lucky ones. Still breathing, still sane. Though it was recorded and released before the pandemic started, Kassa Overall’s I Think I’m Good became a lodestar of sorts for me. It’s a brilliantly introspective and deeply personal album about existing in enclosed spaces–whether a jail cell, an NYC subway car, or the inescapable prison of your own body.

Kassa Overall made his name as a jazz drummer, touring with icons like Geri Allen, but his solo music incorporates elements of hip-hop, classical, and trap to create a wholly original milieu. The album features contributions from over 30 accomplished voices, ranging from luminary Vijay Iyer, to Kassa’s saxophonist brother Carlos Overall, to virtuosic pianist Sullivan Fortner, to venerated activist Angela Davis. But all the disparate elements come together in service of Kassa’s deeply personal and engrossing vision.

Taking partial inspiration from Kassa’s struggle with manic depression, the music fluctuates between meditative calm and unbearable tension, mimicking the patter of an unquiet mind. Album opener “Visible Walls,” is a mesmerizing prayer for salvation soundtracked by fluttering harps, piercing woodwinds, and heartbeat percussion. “Find Me” buries a plea for help within a cacophony of sampled voices and rattling piano notes. Fortner’s piano guides us through the hauntingly devastating “Halfway House” and the Chopin-indebted “Darkness In Mind,” each highlighting a different stage of grief (despair and acceptance, respectively). The arc of I Think I’m Good concludes with the hopeful “Got Me A Plan” and “Was She Happy (For Geri Allen),” a Vijay Iyer-assisted tribute to his late friend and mentor.

It’s ironic that an album that so deeply explores the feeling of isolation vibrates with such a collaborative spirit. I Think I’m Good feels like an answered prayer–a community coming together to check on a beloved friend who’s gone through a tough time: “You good, man?” “I think so.”

Here’s the rest of my list.

11. Yves Tumor - Heaven To A Tortured Mind 12. Shackleton & Waclaw Zimpel - Primal Forms 13. Bob Dylan - Rough & Rowdy Ways 14. Duval Timothy - Help 15. Lil Uzi Vert - Eternal Atake 16. Moodymann - Taken Away 17. Secret Drum Band - Chuva 18. J Hus - Big Conspiracy 19. Headie One & Fred Again - GANG 20. Tiwa Savage - Celia 21. Andras - Joyful 22. Bill Callahan - Gold Record 23. King Von - Welcome To O’Block 24. Flo Milli - Ho, Why Is You Here? 25. Chubby & The Gang - Speed Kills 26. Madeline Kenney - Sucker’s Lunch 27. Empty Country - Empty Country 28. Smino - She Already Decided 29. Destroyer - Have We Met 30. Yves Jarvis - Sundry Rock Song Stock 31. Ela Minus - Acts Of Rebellion 32. Creeper - Sex, Death & The Infinite Void 33. Alabaster DePlume - To Cy & Lee: Instrumentals, Vol. 1 34. Good Sad Happy Bad - Shades 35. The 1975 - Notes On a Conditional Form 36. Kate NV - Room For The Moon 37. $ilkmoney - Attack of the Future Shocked, Flesh Covered, Meatbags of the 85 38. Eddie Chacon - Pleasure, Joy and Happiness 39. Kenny Segal & Serengeti - Ajai 40. Bad Bunny - YHLQMDLG 41. Kahlil Blu - DOG 42. Califone - Echo Mine 43. Boldy James - The Price of Tea in China/Manger On McNichols/The Versace Tape 44. Bufiman - Albumsi 45. Moses Boyd - Dark Matter 46. Thanya Iyer - KIND 47. Jyoti - Mama You Can Bet! 48. Obongjayar - Which Way Is Forward? 49. Rio Da Yung OG - City On My Back 50. Young Jesus - Welcome To Conceptual Beach 51. Owen Pallett - Island 52. Oceanator - Things I Never Said 53. Shootergang Kony - Red Paint Reverend 54. Shabason, Krgovich & Harris - Philadelphia 55. Six Organs of Admittance - Companion Rises 56. Lido Pimienta - Miss Colombia 57. Kelly Lee Owens - Inner Song 58. Polo G - The GOAT 59. Actress - Karma & Desire 60. Phoebe Bridgers - Punisher 61. Porridge Radio - Every Bad 62. Yg Teck - Eyes Won’t Close 63. Mozzy - Beyond Bulletproof 64. Ratboys - Printer’s Devil 65. R.A.P. Ferreira - Purple Moonlight Pages 66. Ulver - Flowers of Evil 67. Rina Sawayama - SAWAYAMA 68. SAULT - Untitled (Black Is) 69. Ezra Feinberg - Recumbent Speech 70. Davido - A Better Time 71. Hailu Mergia - Yene Mircha 72. HAIM - Women In Music Pt. III 73. Half Waif - The Caretaker 74. Key Glock - Yellow Tape 75. KeiyAa - Forever Your Girl

#kassa overall #pa salieu #drakeo the ruler #fiona apple #sault #ka #wizkid #westerman #playboi carti #bbymutha

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liliah39 · 5 years ago

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What about an imagine that takes place in like 1973 and the band goes to a pub and there’s a band preforming, but the drummer is a girl and everyone else in the band is a boy. And Roger is amazed by her because she drums as good as him. Then after the show he goes up to her and starts talking to her and asks for her number. And she says yes

In Sync- ( Roger Taylor X Reader Oneshot )

Word Count: 2K+

Warnings: None!!

~~~~~~~~~~

November 1973:

You sat in the back of your band Illusion’s van, clutching your drum sticks with your other band mates, John the guitarist (because every band needs a John), Ian the bassist, and Steve the singer as the four of you made your setlist for the night. You were pretty much finished, only needed to add in two or three more songs.

“So we’re definitely doing White Room by Cream, right?” You said. Being the only girl you had to be assertive.

“We always do, Y/N” Ian laughed. The four of them treated you like a sister; always making you feel right at home.

“I know, but it’s one of my best songs. I’m just making sure.” You said, punching him playfully in the arm.

“How about a Beatles song?” Steve asked.

“Aren’t we more Zeppelin than the Beatles, Steve?”

“Yeah, but we’re already doing three Zeppelin songs, and who doesn’t like the Beatles?”

“Good point,” John added. “So ‘Come Together’ it is?” the other three of you gave him an approving nod.

“We really should have one more, guys.” Ian said, counting your setlist.

“Say, what about that song the drummer sings from that new band Queen that just put out their first album? You know, the one that plays over at Imperial all the time?” You said.

“Oh yeah, the one Freddie’s in?” Steve asked. Him and Freddie used to work together at the airport.

“Yeah. What about Modern Times Rock and Roll? Their drummer has a pretty good voice. He always sings a song at their concerts.”

“Would you sing it, Y/N?” Steve asked.

“Oh, well, I-” you stuttered. You wanted to sing it, but were nervous to ask the others. Typically Steve was the only one who sang. Illusion wasn’t like Queen.

“You can if you want, Love.”

“Really?” Your face lit up.

“ ‘Course. Might be nice for a change.” He smiled.

“Thanks,” You said hugging him. “Would you all mind running through it once? Just so we make sure we’re all together and so I can practice singing?”

They all nodded in approval as you started to unload your gear into the presently empty bar, ready to prep for your upcoming gig.

~~~~~

Roger and the boys of Queen had just finished a set at Imperial College. Though it started out as a smaller gig, with the release of their new album their popularity began to grow, and little by little their followers seemed to grow as well. After packing up the van, Brian suggested walking to the bar down the street to celebrate their performance, to which the other three members happily complied.

When they arrived outside of the bar, the band performing inside was booming- the bass and drum beats soaring over the loud hum of the crowd.

“They’re good, aren’t they?” John smiled as they waited in line to enter the bar.

“Yeah, I mean from what we can hear they sound great,” Brian laughed. “Well they’ve drawn quite a crowd, haven’t they? They can’t be that bad with all these people here.”

Freddie was eager to find out who was performing; budging to the front of the line to see the name of the band on the poster next to the door. “Guys!” he smiled, running back to his mates. “My old friend Steve is the lead singer of that band! We used to work together at the airport! We’re not waiting in this stupid line. After all, we’re her royal majesty.” He flourished as he dragged the other three to the front of the line, earning lots of eye rolls from his band mates and spectators alike. Freddie always got what he wanted, so through a little convincing and proving he really did know Steve, the bouncer reluctantly let the four of them enter the bar.

They walked in looking to the stage at the other side of the bar, smiling to see the band doing an amazing rendition of Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin, the four of them starting to sing along to one of their favourite songs.

Roger noted that the drummer was superb- playing perfectly on the beat yet adding the perfect flourishes when there was space too, yet when he looked to the stage he couldn’t see anyone.

How odd, he thought. Whoever they are, they must be short. Yet no later did he brush away the thought and join his mates at the bar.

~~~~~

After about fifteen minutes or so, the four of you went into ‘Come Together” upping the tempo and drum beat a bit to make it more of a glam rock type song, earning high praise from the crowd as they seemed to like your version of such a well known song. You ended the song going directly into a drum solo, the crowd hooting and hollering as you played difficult beats.

As Roger listened to your incomparable solo, he couldn’t help but let his curiosity get the best of him and have to get up to see who was sitting behind the kit. When he walked to the front right of the crowd, he was shocked to see you, a girl, doing some of the best drumming he’d ever seen. In all honesty, you were the first person he’d heard play as good as him in a very long time. He was in awe. On top of it, he couldn’t help but notice how gorgeous you were as a brad of sweat dripped down your forehead; a look of intense focus on your face as you banged out a shockingly fast rhythm, coming to the end of your solo. He never found someone so attractive in his life.

By the end of your solo Steve had set up a microphone for you so you could sing for Modern Times Rock N’ Roll.

This is it, it’s now or never.

When you finished your solo and the crowd applauded you were dying of heat, the object of singing a song while playing right now seemed virtually impossible. As you downed your water bottle you took off your t-shirt, leaving you in a sports bra as the audience whistled at your audacity.

“Ready boys?”

They looked back at you with a nod.

“A-one, two, a-one, two, three four!”

And with that you started Modern Times Rock ‘N Roll, coming in to sing for the first time in front of a crowd, the feeling making you liberated and play harder than you ever had before.

~~~~~

Roger was completely speechless. First you take your shirt off, and then you play a Queen song. But not just any Queen song.

His song.

His mates came up behind him, Freddie grabbing his shoulder. “There you are, Rog! We were looking all over for you!”

“They’re playing our song!” John smiled.

“I know, I know.” Roger laughed, trying to hide that he was equally, if not more excited about it than they were.

“She’s pretty good, isn’t she, Rog?” Brian asked.

“She’s great.”

As you finished the song, the crowd erupted in applause, you standing up and taking a bow as Steve took the microphone back.

“Thank you everyone! That was featuring our amazing drummer, Y/N Y/L/N, give it up for her one more time!” The crowd roared. “That was Modern Times Rock ‘N Roll by a new band called Queen. They’re a friend of mine so go check them out. Oh! And while I stood to the side as Y/N took vocals for a song, I noticed a good friend of mine standing over there to the right, ladies and gentlemen Mr. Freddie Mercury and his mates of Queen!” The crowd cheered again as the four of them laughed and waved to the people around them.

You felt the blood rush to your face in embarrassment. Not only did you just play in the presence of one of the best drummers you’d ever heard, you played his own song in front of him. Does it get more embarrassing?

“Alright loves, we’re going to take a fifteen minute break, thank you!” Steve shouted as the crowd cheered.

As you stepped back stage, wiping the sweat from your face, you decided to just put your leather jacket on, you were over the shirt.

“Come on, Y/N! Steve is going to introduce us to Queen!” Ian yelled.

“Oh that’s alright,” you laughed. “I’m just going to get a drink at the bar.”

“Don’t you want to meet them?” John asked.

“Well, yeah, but I just sang and played one of their songs. Little awkward if you ask me.” And plus, you thought. Roger Taylor is incredibly attractive. After singing his song I don’t know how I’d even be able to speak to him right now.

And so, as the guys hurried out of the room in the back you emerged into the crowd and found a seat at the bar, ordering a beer. As you waited, a hand was placed on your shoulder, making you jump in shock.

“Oh, sorry, Love. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

It was him.

It was Roger. Fucking. Taylor.

“Oh, no, uh. You’re fine.” You laughed nervously.

“I’m Roger. Roger Taylor.” He said sticking his hand out to you as he grabbed the stool next to you.

I know.

You shook his hand as you tried to calm yourself down.

You can do this, Y/N. You can speak to him.

“I’m Y/N.” You smiled.

“You’re an amazing drummer, Love. I mean really, like wow. I was in shock.”

You laughed at his candidacy. “Well I guess I could say the same thing,” you giggled.

“Yeah, about that. You played my song.” He smiled.

Oh god, here we go. Time to hear how terrible I did from the person who wrote it.

You nodded; completely unable to come up with words.

“It was great. I mean, you were great. Really, I haven’t heard someone drum like I do in a long time. You’re really great, Y/N.”

“Well thank you,” you blushed.

“No shirt still?”

You looked down, immediately wishing you had your shirt on, yet knowing that if it was any other person in front of you you’d be completely comfortable in just your bra. You were nervous in front of him, desperately wanting to make a good impression because of your attraction to him, even though you usually controlled every conversation you were a part of because of your reigning confidence. Ultimately, in your moment of brief internal panic, you decided it’d just be best to be yourself in front of him, no need to change for a man.

“Yeah, shirts are over rated.” You smiled.

“Must be a drummer thing,” he winked, opening his gold embroidered flower patterned jacket to reveal his bare skin. “Listen, Love, I have to be honest with you. Besides the whole drumming thing, I think you’re incredibly attractive, I mean look at you. You’re absolutely gorgeous. I was wondering if I could get your number, maybe we could go out some time, get a drink somewhere?”

“Really?” You said, shocked. Roger Taylor wants to go out with me?

“Really.” He smiled.

“Well then, of course.” You scribbled your name and number on a napkin with a heart as he put it in his pocket.

The two of you continued talking for a while you noticed Ian waving you back to finish your set.

“Oh, Roger, I’ve loved talking to you, but I’ve gotta go finish playing. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, and just look to the front right; I’ll stay watching the whole time.” he smiled.

“Say, we’ll be done in about 45 minutes, would you like to get a drink when we’re done, Rog?”

“I’d love to.” He smiled. “Now go knock ‘em dead.” He said, leaving a peck on your cheek.

“Could you hold my jacket?”

“ ‘Course.” He said as he watched you take it off and hand it to him. “Break a leg, Love. I’ll see you after.”

~~~~~

A/N: This is adorable thank you for reading!!! for some reason it wont let me do tags rn, ill do them tomorrow

Taglist: @yourlocalmusicalprostitute , @bismillahnah , @deakysmisfire , @queer-heart-attack , @everything-you-dont-wanna-be , @mercurycrowley , @ikbenplant , @xcdelilahxc , @chekovs-davy-jones-wig , @laedymoon , @manicpixydreamgirl , @jaylikesguavass , @brianskindofcheese , @anincurablefangirl , @jennyggggrrr , @delightfullynlove , @johndeaconshands , @jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels ,

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windup-dragoon · 5 years ago

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I vomited words out. There had been a clear decision of where I was going with this, then I lost it and found it again at the end???? Idk. PLEASE EXCUSE MY INABILITY TO WRITE ACTION. IT’S AWFUL AND CRINGE PLEASE I KNOW. But thanks @vestaloflight for the drabble prompt! It also has to do with Kirishimi’s backstory a bit. Isho and Az’hala are both OC’s of mine that I rarely talk about. Isho having been my retainer that I fell in love with. He’s a big gruff boi who idolizes Tataru for her money keeping skills. Az’hala is a ninja cat boi who’s pretty goofy. Lowkey ship him with Yugiri kek BUT THAT’S A DIFFERENT STORY.

Anyway, here’s today’s dookie story.

【Ｓｈａｔｔｅｒｅｄ　Ｍｅｍｏｒｉｅｓ】

Hien x Kirishimi

Word Count: 3,341 (IT’S ACCURATE THIS TIME)

Daydreams occupied his mind that afternoon, taunting and beckoning him to cast all else aside. Fantasies of her clouded his green eyes, her laugh a melody that only he could hear. If he were careful, as he diligently tried to be, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, the scent of her, still held traces over his robes. Who knew such common aroma’s could spark such a state of entrancement?

He had long since said his goodbyes to her that morning, leaving only after stealing half a dozen kisses or more. But oh, his heart yearned for more. Hours, minutes, even seconds longer in the rosy glow of the rising sun. Time he would have spent memorizing every inch of her skin. From the silvery silk of scars that decorated her flesh, to the petal soft curves she hid away beneath layers of armor and cloth. The sensation of her lips against his, sharing a single breath a thousand times over again.

But duty had demanded their attention. His were stately by nature while hers had brought her out to the Ruby Sea. Word had it that visitors awaited her arrival, in desperate shape for the aid of the Scions. Hien could only begin to imagine what that would entail.

Considering her loyalty to the Scions had given him enough strength to endure his own tasks for the day, drab as they may have been in comparison. Yet even while his guests spoke freely before him, chatting among themselves, he found himself once again at the mercy of her fleeting visage just beneath closed eyes.

–

“Whaddya ‘suppose they want?” Inquired the sandy haired miqo’te, Az’hala, all but skipping in pace with his companions.

Ahead of him, as if leading the small collection of scions to war, marched the ever stoic Isho, an auri raen with flamboyantly pink hair and diamondesque scales. Not even a step behind Isho, nearly at his shoulders in height, was Kirishimi, one of several Warriors of Light.

“Who knows?” Kirishimi remarked, flashing Az’hala a grin over her shoulder. “Maybe someone needs help fishin’?” She teased.

“Doubtful.” Rumbled Isho in response, his fellows frowning immediately. “They requested Kirishimi personally.”

“Yeah…About that?” Az’hala squeaked, prancing up to Isho and peering up at the towering man. “How did they even know she was here? Mistress Tataru? Lil’ Alphinaud? Alisaie, perhaps?”

Kiri leaned forward in her strides, enough to catch a glimpse of her companion across Isho’s broad chest. “I’ve been wonderin’ that myself. Tataru and Alphinaud usually let us know about visitors. This time I hadn’t heard a peep.”

None of her companions had. Instead, word had been given to Isho who had been in Kugane on business. A member of the confederate pirates had passed along the message that visitors had arrived for her. Reluctant as he was to play errand boy Isho knew exactly where to find the snow haired woman. In the arms of a certain prince.

“T-They must have seen ya’ passin’ through!” Az’hala tried to sound convincing, but sky blue eyes revealed that not even he could pass it off as mere coincidence.

Ankle deep in sea water, trekking their way along the shores of Bekko, Isho gave pause. Where the ruby seas met land of the isle, two stood in wait for their arrival. Just as the pirate had made mention. Flanked on his sides, Kiri and Az’hala stopped short.

Neither party seemed eager to greet the other. Clouds overhead had begun to gather, Heaven-on-high a mere silhouette in the distance. Kirishimi could smell it on the breeze, just as Eyriwolk had taught her many years ago; a storm was approaching.

Although tension in her shoulders and an itch in her hand told her to draw her lance, Kirishimi ignored her intuition to offer a small smile to the figures in red cloaks. Ascians? Unlikely. But who else was known for being so dramatic in fashion?

“Greetings!” Kiri attempted her best impersonation of Alphinaud. She felt unpleasant and stiff in doing so. “Am I to presume you are Lani and Edea? Lookin’ for The Scions?” Kirishimi gestured vaguely at her company. Az’hala gave a meek wave, peeking out from the shadow of Isho’s lumbering form. Isho made a low guttural noise. Ever the eloquent one.

Droplets began to prick at Kirishimi’s face and splattered across her darkened dragoon armor, icy beads of rain getting caught in her lashes. What started as a sprinkle soon became an onslaught. The waves of the Ruby Sea churning, gurgling, and lashing against the shore.

“Aye! You must be the Warrior of Light, yes?” The taller of the two moved forward and cast aside her hood. “‘Bout time I was granted an audience with ya’.”

The trio stood frozen, air caught in their throats at sight of the womans features. Blue piercing eyes, locks of quick silver cropped at her jawline, tan skin with the faintest trace of light freckles dusting her cheekbones. If not for the pronounced nose and high arched brows of a Roegadyn, she could have easily been Kirishimi’s doppelganger.

“W-What? Am I seein’ things, Isho?” Az’hala promptly rubbed his eyes as if rain had diluted his vision.

“Afraid not.” The woman answered without a moments hesitation. “If you’d like, we have no business with the lot of ya’. The ever popular champion of Eorzea will suffice.” Howling wind and roaring waves tore at the woman’s cloak as she spoke. She reached up, a fox grin plastered on her lips, and let loose the fabric that tore at her neck. Armor trimmed with fur and fashioned with an angled cut skirt had been hidden beneath the discarded garment, along with an ax that hugged her back. It was more a cleaver than an ax but nearly as large as she.

Isho responded quickly. His sword and shield promptly drawn at the mere sight of such a monstrosity of a weapon. Kiri slowly reached for the lance at her back.

“Az’hala,” The dragoon spoke in a clipped tone, low even against the crashing storm that drifted closer. “Go.”

–

Hien was nearing his limit with this meeting. How many times could this very topic be addressed? Trade had been sparse immediately following Doma’s liberation, but it had long since been handled. Their markets had begun to flourish even! But, given all that his people had gone through in his absence, he could only imagine the lingering fear that plagued their minds. The ‘what if’s. What if it happened again? What if supplies ran low? What if trade stopped?

Just as his lips parted in answer to the posed question, the doors to his meeting room were thrown wide. Yugiri presented herself, kneeling and bowing her head with some urgency behind her actions.

“Lord Hien, forgive my intrusion, but trouble is brewing at the Ruby Sea.”

The Ruby Sea? Had the pirates started acting up? He could hear his comrades murmur curiously to themselves. None in his company seemed worried by the news, but Hien found his stomach suddenly in knots. His mouth went dry, throat tightening as his jaw tensed.

“Pray, excuse me my friends. I will see to this matter immediately. We will continue our discussion at a later time.” It was maddening to the prince. Forcing himself to remain calm and collected in that moment. Instead of letting his body spirit him away in a heartbeat out the door and all the way to the Ruby Sea. Where Kirishimi had gone. No, despite the overwhelming distress he felt, he reserved himself and begged apology.

He was at Yugiri’s heels as they left. The Doman Enclave seemed quiet outside his meeting hall, peaceful even against the pounding of his heart in his ears.

“Az’hala returned in a panic,” The ebony haired shinobi explained. With a gesture she pointed out Az’hala leaning against the nearest wall, pitched over as if sick.

“K-Kiri… Oi, I’m gonna heave…” Az’hala breathed, choking on the emergency that riddled his voice. “Some batty lady is threatenin’ Kiri. Isho…” A pant interrupted him. He gulped, ears twitching. “Isho stayed with her….”

Hien tilted his head with a cocked brow. “You left her?” He hadn’t known Az’hala very long. All he had known was that he had studied under Yugiri for a time during her stay in Eorzea. He hadn’t quite mastered the ways of the shinobi as Yugiri had, evident by his weak stomach for running, but Kirishimi had placed faith in him time and time again. So then why would he abandon his comrade?

Az’hala’s tail gave a sharp flick of annoyance. “She told me-” That same snapping, twitching tail suddenly went stock-still while a convulsion ripped through the young mans body. Stomach content and saliva splattered the stone of the Enclave.

“I believe she may be in trouble.” Yugiri continued, turning away from Az’hala’s disaster. “Or that she may have reason to believe as much. Mayhap she was asking Az’hala to bring assistance?”

“We lack information.” Admitted the prince with a sigh. Ignoring the gurgling sounds behind him, Hien nodded, a flame suddenly igniting in his mossy eyes. “Let us see for ourselves what is transpiring.”

–

Lightning shot overhead, thunder drumming only a few short malms from the isle. Rain pelted bare flesh, running like watercolor in brushstrokes of crimson down the crest of her cheek and along her left arm. Pieces of shattered metal had embedded themselves in the sand, soon to be washed away by the tide. Her armor was all but shredded thanks to Lani and her cleaving ax.

Yalms away she could hear the familiar twinkling sounds of magic being spent. The other visitor, yet clad in her cloak, landed spell after dizzying spell upon Isho and his raised shield. Each successful hit mimicked a war drum that rang in her ears.

“Sweets, you do not have the luxury to watch yer friend.”

Kiri had barely turned back to Lani and react. The cleaving blade of hers bit deep against the metal shaft of her lance, the vibration of impact making her arms numb. She ground her teeth, the balls of her feet nearly buried in the wet sand as she stood against the force of the vertical swing.

“Exhausted yet, Warrior? You look an awful mess in this rain.” Lani mused with something of a laugh.

“I’ve seen you before…” Growled Kirishimi in response.

“Ever look in the mirror?” The axe lifted, the grinding stopping for a brief moment. Thunder roared as the blade crashed down a second time, then a third. With each impact Kiri could feel her lance splintering. It would break clean in half at any given moment. “I know all about you! Kirishimi Yasuragi, a famed Warrior of Light! You won the hearts of those in Eorzea, even Ishgard and their silly lil’ dragons! Now a champion of Doma as well, from what I hear. Greedy lil’ shite, aren’t’cha?”

“What do you want?!” Each ring of axe against lance had the dragoon flinching. If her own weapon didn’t break soon, her injured arm would. Already she could feel the ache setting in.

Posed with such a question had Lani halt her assault. “I want yer end. Yer story should have ended that day.” Blue eyes were suddenly distant. Recalling a memory. A vision that Kiri would be subjected to.

Like the dull ache of a migraine she felt its approach. Kiri squeezed shut her eyes, begging Hydaelyn to take back this cursed blessing. It washed over her in a heartbeat. One minute she was on the shores of the Ruby Sea, the next, standing in a field of tall, dried grass.

A literal sea of pale yellow surrounded two children, a hushed breeze rolling through the grass like ocean waves. The smaller of the two had stooped low to the ground, rivers of tears turning dirt to mud on her cheeks. Her elder stood cross armed, glaring down at her.

But the Echo faded just as abruptly as it had begun. Kirishimi looked up from her lowered position before Lani, kneeling to better take another hit from her ax. The scene was familiar. To Lani perhaps it was poetic. To Kirishimi, who felt only a hollow ache in the pit of her heart for the small weeping child, it was a tragedy. What had Lani done to that girl crying in the fields?

“Don’t you dare look at me with those damnable eyes! You freak! Bloody monster!!” Lani screamed out to the storm, ax over her head. In one swoop she brought it down; a hammer to a nail.

Sparks showered the sand, fizzling out in the clapping waves of the sea around her. Kiri, who had braced for impact, blinked mismatched eyes. She half expected her lance to be in two, as well as herself. But yet here she remained in tact. Time itself felt as if it had stopped. The pounding of her heart, nearly feral with the drive to survive, only echoed with exhaustion.

Kirishimi cocked her head upright, expecting to see Lani looming over her, ready to decimate. But instead she was greeted with a familiar sight. One that roused a tired smile to her bloodied lips. Yellow and black fabric.

“Hien!”

–

Aye. The prince himself, his blade keeping Lani’s ax at bay in a burst of sparks and hissing metal. With a slick twist of his wrist the katana threw aside the woman’s ax, it’s heft dragging in the sands at her feet.

“Are you well enough to stand?” Hien’s voice, normally soft and cheerful, was low and short. Anger ripped his vocals. It took his whole being to keep from snarling at the ax wielding woman. He had only seen Kirishimi defeated once during his time with her. In the arms of another, being spirited away to far away lands. He swore it would be the last time she suffered so.

Kirishimi did not reply however. Instead, granted this small opening against Lani, the dragoon took to the sky. Her lance was sure to break but this fighting needed to end. She was desperate for answers. Why Lani and Edea felt compelled to single her out, to attack so unannounced but with such determination. Answers that only Lani could give her.

“Kirishimi!” The voice of the au ra called against drumming thunder.

In a blink of an eye, with her target in sight, Kirishimi no longer felt the pin prick sensation of rain pelting her skin. Instead her body suddenly chilled, encased in layers of ice. Sizzling magic rolled from each newly formed layer of ice. Kirishimi need not turn her eyes to know where the magic had originated from. Edea had turned her focus from Isho long enough to stop the Dragoon.

Like a wingless bird, she plummeted.

Shards of ice sparkled like diamonds around her as she crashed to the sand. Her vision blurred, a burning white sensation filling her mind as bones snapped from the height and force of the fall.

“Kiri!” Hien pitched himself forward, his feet moving before he could realize what had happened.

“She even has the prince of Doma at her beck and call.” Scoffed the woman, heaving her giant ax to its rightful place on her back. “What a disgrace.”

Isho had reached the Warrior of Lights side well before Hien could, causing the prince to take pause and listen to the woman mock his dragoon. He half turned toward her, brows furrowed and eyes ablaze.

Lani barked with laughter at the sight. “Don’t give me that pathetic look! If I were a betting woman, I’d wager you haven’t a clue who you invite into your bed at night. Kirishimi? The Warrior of Light? Champion? Kilika? My, she has an awful lot of names. Wonder which is truly hers. Which do you see when you look at her? All I see is a rabid animal that needs to be put down.”

Anger burned the samurai’s heart. A flame that raced through his veins and clouded his mind.

“… If you won’t permit me to slay her now, then yer just standin’ in my way.”

It happened in a blink of an eye. Hien had prided himself in fast reflexes, even his talent for the sword came almost naturally to him. But in that mere heartbeat of a moment, all he could manage was his blade against Lani’s withdrawing arm. Her arm which had buried a knife in his abdomen.

How had she moved in such ways? Like lightning on her feet she struck without remorse. An arch of blood fell from her arm where his blade caught flesh but little more. A paper cut compared to the knife hilt deep in his gut. She had even broken through his chest piece. The carapace of a beetle broken beneath the force of a heel. Blood blossomed in the white fur of his robes and welled in his hand.

Lani, nursing her now sliced wrist, scowled at the dazed prince. “You can keep that for now. I’ll be back for it another time.”

His vision blurred. The rain blotted out the fleeting visage of this warrior woman. He could feel his lungs fill with salty air. A slow, exhausting task that left him feeling numb. Who was that woman? His knees buckled beneath him, his body crumpling into the sand. Why did she look like Kirishimi? Faintly he could still hear her voice. The day dream that plagued him and visited his deepest dreams. She called him now, a song that was drowning in the pouring rain and sloshing tide.

“Hien! By the Twelve, Hien!”

“Kirishimi, stop moving!”

“No! Lemme go, Isho! Hien!!”

“You’ll puncture your gods-dammed lung, you fool woman!”

“HIEN!”

Hands, shaking and frail, cupped his cheeks. For a moment he felt warmth, the blood of hers smearing like paint beneath her fingertips. Through hooded, bleary eyes he could make her out against the rolling grays of the stormy sky. Crimson painted her lips and coated her cheeks. But all he could focus on was the color of her eyes. Red like fire, blue like ice. Oh and that intoxicating aroma.

“…Vanilla and cinnamon.”

“Hien! Please, you have’ta stay awake! Listen to me, talk to me, tell me a stupid story! Anythin’ at all!! I swear, I’ll have everyone in Doma call you Shun if you don’t keep yer eyes open!!”

At this, the prince groaned, coughing on rain. A slight smile on his lips. “How… embarrassing that would be…” His eyes fluttered with exhaustion, though he longed to keep admiring the woman hovering over him. “All will be well…”

Kirishimi’s voice hitched with a hiccup, a shudder racking her body. “Well?! It is not well! You are not okay, Hien! We need to get you out of here!! Isho!! Can you carry-”

“Shh…” With what little energy was left to him, Hien raised a hand and waved it off. “Let me… Let me just enjoy this beautiful goddess the kami have blessed me with. If only a moment?”

“Do either of you have any idea how poorly this will reflect on The Scions?” Isho interjected, busy directing a sudden swarm of pirates and shinobi. “We practically murdered a prince.”

“Isho!” Kirishimi snarled. She lowered her head, lightly touching her forehead to Hien’s. “Hien, hang on… I’m beggin’ you.”

“Mmm…. Only if the goddess commands it of the prince.” Try as he might to will his eyes open, he found himself too tired to manage. Again his eyes fluttered, briefly catching a glimpse of Kirishimi’s burdened expression. Tears and blood leaving streaks across her cheeks.

“Of course I command you to stay. Remain in the world of mortals with me.” She hiccuped a response, playing into this silly idea of his.

But her words brought a smile to his lips. Small, but warm. She loved when he smiled. “I will remain at your side always… My moon and stars.”

Somewhere behind Kirishimi he could hear Isho snort in disgust. “You sound as foolish as Magnai. Both of you.”

#|| Untold Stories #|| Mognet #ask||answered #drabble #mmm i suck #this is hot garbage but idc #i'm glad just to be writing again #IS A LONG SHITTY DRABBLE FOLKS #my apologies #but Hien and Kiri are so precious together #just kiss already you toads #LET'S PLAY A GAME OF WHO CAN FIND ALL MY FINAL FANTASY REFERENCES #and a single Chrono Trigger reference #GO #bahaha #tw: blood

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notesinthearchives-blog · 6 years ago

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The Flame Coteries

[You can’t help but double check to make sure no one is watching as you unwrap the incense. As paranoid as that sounds, you know that this is considered illegal by every government that dares to admit that it exists, so perhaps this caution is justified.]

[You light the incense, runes lighting along it as you place it on a holder. The faintly herbal smoke makes you feel drowsy, but you're still awake enough to hear the faint fiery crackle and still primed enough to feel the reality equations kept within the incense start to awaken.]

[You have have the feeling of having drifted off to sleep or near sleep, and when you awaken you have the feeling of being embraced like a child curled up next to their mother. You certain this isn't real- more the ghosts and shadows of things that were once real. When she speaks, and you're sure this feeling or shadow or ghost was once a woman, her voice carries the comforting spices of midwinter wine and the relief of shelter and fire after a trek through a snow storm.]

Would care for a story, O Best Beloved?

[You instinctively nod, not sure if you even could say no to such a cinnamon voice]

This is a story from the strange and beautiful times after Earth was nothing but dust and the first human empires had fallen.

And in these strange and beautiful times, across 9 little worlds in a tiny corner of the Universe, lived the Kafkaesques. A people ever so sensible and quite dull, far too respectable to join the rest of post humanity in their carnival of flesh and science and magic.

And why would they? After all, they knew they were the children of the Gods and made in their image, and that everything would be alright as long as they did as they were told and the right paperwork was filled in.

And the Gods loved them too- for they were a tide pool of stability amid the roiling chaos of post humanity. A little pocket of the God's Homeworld, amidst a horde of barbarians.

But these were the strange and beautiful times Best Beloved, and so this was not to last. For there were other Powers at work: factions cunning and clever; skull faced tricksters cast down from the Land of the Gods.

And it was then that one of these skull faced trickers brought a gift to worlds of the Kafkaesques: the ghost cargo.

Oh! It was clever gift Best Beloved. By itself the ghost cargo did nothing. But when the Kafkaesques found its power soon enough: for the iron cage of bureaucracy could not contain it.

No symbolism could be attached to it, subjective perspectives slid of it like as if it were slickest oil, and to eyes of paperwork it was rendered invisible: the hands of bureaucracy could not cage it any more than they could cage smoke or shadows.

It was not long, Best Beloved, when the gift had ended the quiet in the Kafkaesques' little tide pool of history, for it had brought their ruling powers to their knees.

As the gift began to spread, many Kafkaesques who didn't want to be quiet and sensible and dull anymore saw its potential: they became vandals and anarchists, strikers and criminal.

At their action, food rotted in the streets as warehouses thought empty turned out to be filled with stock invisible to the eyes of bureaucracy; transporting goods slowed to a crawl as ships and trailers were found filled with worthless cargo that may as well have appeared over night; roads and buildings and cities would fill with steadily accumulating cargo that no one had any use for or could fill in the forms to remove.

At the command of the Gods, the ruling powers of the Kafkaesques turned to setting the ghost cargo on fire. But as these are want to do, Best Beloved, the fires got a little out of hand. And those years of fire and turmoil, the Kafkaesques died, and rising from their ashes came the Flame Coteries.

Pyromancers and stellar engineers; hosts to a thousand cults to the Phoenix, to Horus and Ra, and to the Sacred Flame; an armada of blazing cathedral-warships and an anarchist explosion of art and culture and life; when skull faced tricksters came to us again we welcomed them as liberators and greeted them with open arms and warmest hospitality.

And once again, Best Beloved, our trickster gave us another gift: just as they first liberated us from being a pet of the Gods, now they liberated us from the trap of time itself.

And so it was Best Beloved.

Our atomic armadas would sail upon time winds created from the gas giants they had made into stars: our inferno marching gloriously into the future and past...

... Our magician-spies would walk to certain death atop a flaming pyre and walk out in to great fires of London and Rome...

... whilst our warrior-nuns would brand the equations of time ships into every inch of their skin and fearlessly fling themselves into the storms of time...

... The discovery of fire and explosions of Pompeii and Krakatoa would mark the births of knowing, unnaturally clever children- our prophets reborn to spread the holy words of the Flame Coteries to those too far in the past for a visit from the armadas...

... The most cunning of us all changed history so that the Kafkaesques faced their rebirth earlier, and had more territory when it happened. At our height, we were born in a fire that stretched over an entire galaxy...

... And as our birth retroactively became earlier and earlier, we begun to encroach on that dull stretch of time before post humanity: bringing our passion and poetry and star light where ever we went.

But alas Best Beloved! This was not to last. For the gods were angered beyond word: as we burned brighter than they ever could. And so, they declares that our fires be doused where ever found and existence purged from history.

We fought bravely, we fought well, but the gods were too powerful even for us and skull faced comrades. Our home land is lost to us.

But the story does not end here Best Beloved.

Our prophets and armadas are scattered but still here: building khanates and pirate colonies until we can get our homeland back.

We hide in the glare of the stars and in the fiery mantle of planets, in the wishes made upon shooting stars and in the fire and passions that burn in us all.

Even now, our soldiers fight alongside our skull faced allies to rescue our home land from the oblivion the gods consigned it to.

And now, Best Beloved, we live within you.

As long as you remember us Best Beloved.

You'll hear our songs in the roar of the furnace...

Our sonnets in the crackle of the fireplace...

Our war drums in the sound of gunshot.

And we shall remember you.

I promise Best Beloved.

Our carnivals

Our holy orders

Our artists

Our warriors

Will visit you one day

As long as you remember us...

[The shadow fades, the incense having burnt itself out. You are alone, but undeniably warm and comfortable as you slip into sleep]

Link to the archive of our own version is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042054/chapters/40973891

#fan fiction #faction paradox #faction paradox fan fiction

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e350tb · 6 years ago

Text

Steven Universe: Marooned Together - Chapter Thirty-Four

(thanks as always to @real-fakedoors for proofreading)

Whatever one might say about the general competence of the Human Resistance, they were at least capable of barricading a street.

The main street from the museum to the docks, never that wide to begin with, had been locked down into chokepoints and defensive walls made of scrap and wood. At the end of the street, just before the dockyard itself, the Resistance had set up a machine gun post - it’s position allowed it to practically dominate the entire avenue.

As a result, when Stevonnie and their friends emerged onto the road, they were immediately met by withering gun and laser fire. The fusion ducked down, scampering behind a dumpster.

Slowly, they raised their shield up - it was immediately met by a burst of machine gun fire.

“Okay,” they said, “Not gonna be easy…”

“Argh!”

Peedee slammed into the dumpster next to them, clutching his arm. Stevonnie winced and fought their gag reflex - a bullet had gone into his left arm, and the wound now oozed blood. Peedee seemed almost not to notice - he was tugging on the bottom of his shirt with his right hand.

“Peedee, are you…”

There was a loud rip as Peedee tore off part of his shirt, handing the fragment to Stevonnie.

“Tie this ‘round my arm,” he said, “It’s gonna have to be a bandage for now.”

“Peedee, you can’t…”

“They have Jeff,” reminded Peedee, “So yes, I can.”

Stevonnie nodded, taking the rag and beginning to wrap it around Peedee’s arm.

There was a dull clang as Blue brought the crowbar down on the soldier’s helmet. He didn’t cry out or moan, but fell down like a puppet with its strings cut.

Blue stared down at the unconscious man, a strange sense of exhilaration running through her. Pearls did not fight, especially not against authority figures, and yet here she was, resisting them, standing up for herself. It was terrifying. It was obscene.

It was liberating. It was thrilling.

“Mike? What was that noise?”

She heard the footsteps of the other soldier as she returned to the apartment basement. She held the crowbar tighter - just one more. She could do this. Briskly, she slipped behind the doorframe.

The soldier walked in, glancing down at her fallen comrade.

“Mike? The fuck is-”

CLANG.

She fell face first to the ground.

For a few moments, Blue stood there, taking stock of her situation. The terror was giving way, submerged by this strange sense of freedom. If her Diamond could see her now.

No. Not her Diamond. Not anymore.

She knelt down, picking up the soldier’s weapon. It was a short ‘firearm’ as the humans called it - mostly metal, with a big drum sticking out the bottom. An inscription was written on the side - ‘Thompson Machine Carbine.’ She wondered if she should use it.

“Mike? Lauren?”

A voice echoed from outside the apartment.

Yes, Blue thought - it might be worth using.

Captain Franks was marched out onto the dockyard, an eerie sort of finality ringing in the air. Gunfire, shouts, mechanisms moving and destroying - he could hear it all ring out in the distance, dulled beneath his roaring pulse. It kept time with his boots, a metronome of cacophonous pace, like a runner sprinting the last leg of a race with the knowledge the journey was almost over.

His feet fell in sharp steps, disciplined like a soldier.

It was fitting, he supposed, that he would be disciplined like a soldier at the very end, too. He took some pride in it - he knew nobody watching had any respect for him anymore, but he could at least be respectable to himself.

Those human denizens of New Earth that hadn’t joined the ‘renegades’ fighting just a block away had been forced to attend the solemn occasion - the executions of two of the ‘arch-traitors of New Earth.’

There was no applause, no booing, nothing. Those who supported the Human Resistance regarded the sight with quiet approval - those who didn’t turned their faces away, unable to make a sound. The sound of the Captain’s footsteps on the concrete floor was eerie, ethereal, silent but deafening.

Commander Lewis walked behind, flanked by two others, her face set in grim satisfaction as they reached the makeshift stake - really a lamppost. Quietly, her underlings set about tying Franks to the post, while four troopers marched out in front of him, rifles in their arms.

“Captain Lewis?”

Lewis turned. The officer on the left was taking his hand off his earpiece.

“Pro-Gem elements are advancing this way,” he said, “We’ve got them locked down on the main street.”

“Keep them there,” replied Lewis.

She pursed her lips.

“Bring out Fryman,” she added, “We’ll do both at once.”

“You don’t think our men can hold them?” asked the officer.

Lewis shot him a meaningful look.

“Yes ma’am,” he said hurriedly, “Of course, ma’am. Bringing him up now, ma’am.”

He hurried away. Lewis frowned after him, arms crossed.

Perhaps it was wrong to lack faith in her soldiers, her loyal underlings. But as an officer, she’d learned the lessons of experience - and sometimes, that meant showing a little discretion.

Another pillar of dirty water shot high into the air, raining down on the troopers below. Lapis summoned forth another mighty, liquescent fist, ready to slam into the machine gun post - she frowned as it came out much smaller than expected, serving only to drench the crew, not knock them out.

“Come on,” she growled, “Where’s the rest of it?!”

“I think you used most of the sewer water on the museum goons,” replied Jenny, huddled under a crate that had been pushed into the street, “Can’t you gather that gunk up?”

“I could, but it takes time,” replied Lapis, “How long do we-”

There was a long burst of fire - not a ratatatat, but a long ripping sound that made Lapis wince. Across the street, she saw Stevonnie behind a wooden barricade that was barely tall enough for them to crouch behind. The gun fired again, and bullets bounced off the wooden surface - they winced, pushing their shield up to protect their head.

“Stevonnie!”

Lapis bolted across the road. The rip came again, and she heard the cracks of bullets shooting past - crack! Whip! Crack! She dove down next to Stevonnie, huddling behind the wooden panelling.

“Lapis, what’re you doing?” demanded Stevonnie.

“I-I don’t know, you needed help!” replied Lapis.

“You could’ve been poofed!”

“I…”

Lapis shook her head, pushing herself further down to avoid the Resistance’s fire.

“I can’t leave you to get hurt,” she said, “Not again. We do this together, Stevonnie.”

“Lapis…”

“When I said I loved you,” continued Lapis, “I… I meant it! And maybe that makes things different, and maybe this is dumb, but I… I want to be with you, Stevonnie! Because… because…”

Stevonnie nodded, taking her hands.

“...because your my partner,” they said.

“Yeah,” replied Lapis, “And I love you.”

There was a momentary silence, save of course for the sound of battle. Eventually, however, Stevonnie’s face twisted into a grin.

“Lapis,” they said, “Do you trust me?”

Lapis glanced down at Stevonnie’s gem, jaw dropping slightly as she saw it begin to glow. Was this… did they… should she…

Lapis looked back up and nodded determinedly.

“Let’s do it.”

Even for a Lapis Lazuli, gathering moisture from the ground can be time consuming. It’s not hard, not even slightly, but separating water molecules from dirt can be a long job. So it was therefore concerning to the Human Resistance when all of that dampness from Lapis’ first attack simply lifted into the air - or it would have been, had all eyes not been drawn to a far flashier sight.

An amorphous blob of light, swirling and warping beautifully, lifted up from behind one of the barricades. All fire ceased - Jenny, Buck and Peedee gazed up in awe, the Resistance in shock, and Garnet? Garnet was beaming.

The form that emerged was about twice as tall as Stevonnie, with light purple skin, strong, thick arms and legs. They wore a sleeveless high-collared jacket - purple with a thick pale yellow line under the collar and a purple ribbon behind. They had a black belt, and a lighter purple dress over heavy boots. Their hair was poofy and fluffy, about shoulder length, and pale freckles lined their face. Slowly, they looked down at their body, testing their arms, their legs and their face.

They closed their eyes and smiled.

“Beryl,” they said, their voice soft and quiet, “My name is Beryl.”

They looked behind them, at the flowing wall of water slowly rising into the air, and then back to the Human Resistance, still staring in stunned silence. They floated upwards, wings emerging from their back.

“You have my friend,” they said matter-of-factly.

The officer in charge shook his head and pointed at them, his face read.

“What’re you waiting for?!” he thundered, “Fire!”

Beryl threw their hands forward.

The wall of water burst outwards, flying over their friends and down onto the Human Resistance. It swept them aside like bowling pins, sending them hurtling towards the dockyard…

“Ready…”

The firing squad stood before Captain Franks and Jeff, their weapons at the ready. Lewis crossed her arms as she waited for the moment. Franks stared at the floor, unable to meet their eyes - Jeff stared them down, bound fists clenched as crescent moon impressions dug into his palms.

“Aim…”

“You’ll never win,” hissed Jeff.

“Oh, we will,” sneered Lewis.

“F…”

There was the sound of a gate being kicked open, followed by a long burst of gunfire. The firing squad hit the dirt, and Lewis ducked behind a crate.

Blue Pearl stood at the main entrance to the docks, carrying a Tommy Gun. She had just fired it into the air to attract their attention; she wore a somewhat frightened, somewhat wild scowl. She swallowed visibly as the guns of the Human Resistance trained on her, but stood her ground.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” demanded Lewis.

“I… I’m… I’m rebelling,” she replied.

Lewis nodded, clapping sarcastically.

“Bravo,” she said, “Men, open…”

She trailed off, a deep rumbling in the air. The ground beneath her began to shake.

“Oh god,” she muttered, “What the hell, no-”

A wave of brown water smashed through the gate of the dockyard, neatly skipping over Blue and the audience and roaring straight for Lewis and her soldiers. She screamed in terror and frustration, grabbing the sides of the crate as the watery sledgehammer smashed down. For a moment, all was dirty brown - the putrid taste streaming around her nostrils and mouth, the force threatening to tear her free from her only anchor…

Then it was done, and she was lying on the concrete floor, coughing and spluttering and looking up in shock and horror at the figure hovering before them.

Beryl looked down on her, a frown on their face. They seemed not angry but disappointed, even a little frustrated, like a teacher dealing with an out-of-control kindergartener. They crossed their arms and shook their head.

“It’s over, Lewis,” they said, “You’ve lost.”

Lewis scowled, reaching for her gun.

“If you think the Human Resistance is going down without a fight, you’ve got another thing…”

“If you wanna not get shot at with disrupted cannons, I’d recommend you don’t do that.”

Lewis turned around, her eyes wide. A golden ship hovered above the dockyards, its weapons trained on the gathered Resistance. She had seen it once before, in the very, very early days of New Earth - a stolen ship, piloted by a pink human.

The Sun Incinerator.

“God, I can’t believe I’m happy to see Lars.”

Peedee had pushed his way through the crowd to join Beryl, his friends not far behind.

“Never!” exclaimed Lewis, “We will never surrender! We will fight you on the…”

There was a series of clacks, and Lewis looked around. One by one, each member of the Resistance was dropping their weapon and slowly raising their hands.

“...no… no, no, no, no, NOOO!” Lewis bellowed, “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be defending humanity!”

She gesticulated wildly in Beryl’s direction.

“They took everything from us!” she thundered, “They took our home! They took our lives! They took… they took my family! Don’t you care?! Don’t you care about how far down they’ve torn us?! DON’T YOU CARE?!”

“I do.”

Lewis looked up at Beryl. They had lowered down now, and were kneeling down next to her.

“I lost both my dads and my mom,” they explained, “I… I saw them…”

They wiped their eyes.

“I do care,” they said, “I care every day. But then we found each other…”

They glowed, splitting back into two forms, still holding hands.

“I found Lapis,” Stevonnie continued, “And we… we moved on. I’m still sad about it, everyone is, but… we have to move on.”

“But you don’t understand!” shouted Lewis, “You’re a hybrid! A freak! I…”

“Lewis.”

Peedee stepped up, striding purposefully towards Lewis, gun in hand and face set into a scowl.

“I lost everything too,” he said, “I lost my dad. I lost my brother. I lost my truck. But you know what? All these gems you hate - they helped me rebuild my life. That arch-traitor you want to shoot? He was only light I had for a long, long time. So don’t you dare - don’t you dare assume to know who doesn’t care.”

“Fryman, I…”

Peedee raised his gun, pressing it to her temple.

“Peedee, don’t!” exclaimed Stevonnie.

Peedee stood there, finger on the trigger, glaring down at the pale, shaking form of Lewis.

“You take a ship,” he said, “And you leave. And if you ever, ever come near my husband again, I swear to god I won’t be so hesitant.”

He lowered his gun and turned away.

Garnet had just finished untying Jeff - the mayor of New Earth raced over to Peedee, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Peedee! I thought… I thought I’d never see you again!” he exclaimed.

“Jeff, never scare me like that again, okay?” asked Peedee.

“I promise…”

Peedee leaned forward, pulling Jeff into a kiss. The crowd around them broke into applause as they savoured the moment, losing themselves in sweet, sweet relief.

Shaking his head, Franks climbed to his feet. He looked around at the confusion and wreckage, sighing heavily.

“I think it goes without saying that the Human Resistance is dissolved,” he said.

“Franks,” replied Jenny, “That might be the first smart thing you’ve ever done.”

#steven universe #marooned together #stevonnie #lapis lazuli #peedee fryman #jeff #garnet #jenny pizza #buck dewey #blue pearl #lapvonnie #jeffdee

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turtlessuggest · 7 years ago

Text

Beastfolk: Hindfolk

Inspired by the deer class list, here’s my take on a D&D race inspired by these animals

Deer - Hindfolk

“We were made to run. Once it was from those who robbed and feasted on us. Now we run towards our enemies with antlers lowered and courage in our hearts. We are prey no more.”

Zigamzigar The Bloodglutted roared in victory as he toasted his orcish warband. Tonight, they feasted and reveled in the ruins of one of the deer-men’s fragile little settlements. The hobgoblin had hardly gotten his gleaming armor scuffed in the encounter; the antlered weaklings had fled at the first sign of trouble. Not much of a battle, Zigamzagar admitted, but they at least made off with a great many valuables. The Hindfolk didn’t hoard gold or jewels like dwarves or humans, but the rare herbs they seemed to pluck out of nowhere may as well have been with the prices they fetched.

“They may be cowards, but at least these creatures make a fair liquor,” Zigamzigar growled before quaffing down the drink crafted of fermented berries and herbs. Shame he hardly was able to savor it.

Before Zigamzigar could take a second gulp, an arrow pierced his throat with a dull *thwack*, spraying his closest warriors with a mixture of blood and the sweet liquor. As he fell to the earth, choking on his own blood, he didn’t even fathom where the arrow might have come from. He heard no footsteps, no war drums. The next dozen warriors faced the same predicament, their bodies skewered by arrows out of the darkness. Only those with the sense to find some kind of cover lived to hear the piercing warcries of the Hindfolk as the volleys stopped. Only those with such sense lived long enough to see the Hindfolk warchief charge into the camp bearing a massive axe, the skulls of of hobgoblins and bugbears hanging down from it's blade.

The Hindfolk are a relative newcomer to the larger world of thinking beings, only recently involving themselves in the affairs of the likes of men, elves, and dwarves. It is unknown whether they are a natural product of the evolution of Awakened deer or the result of some arcane magic, but already these beings have accrued a sad and bloody history.

From the writings of wood elves it has been gathered that Hindfolk were once a peaceful, nomadic people, largely resembling different species of deer, from diminutive muntjac, to elegant white-tailed deer, to hulking moose, each of whom walked on hind legs thicker and more muscular than what one would find on normal deer. Their hands consist of two strong fingers and an opposing thumb, each tipped with a sort of nail or claw that corresponds to the split hooves of their beastial kin.They are fleet of foot, hardly ever requiring mounts, and are possessed of extremely keen senses. The males commonly have antlers of some configuration during the warmer months, though some species also possess elongated canines or “tusks”. Antlers among females are uncommon, but not unheard of. In either instance they are often decorated with elements from nature, from flowers to beautiful stones to thorny vines. Their furry pelts protect them from the elements, though they have been known to drape themselves in clothes made from flaxen plants or bartered for in the most fringe of outposts.

Living out in the remote woodlands and grasslands of the world, they travel in loose tribes, following trails seemingly only obvious to them, wood elves, and the most astute of rangers. They largely fed on berries, fungi, roots, the occasional fowl to provide certain vitamins, and woodier plants that would seem unpalatable or inedible to many other races. Rarely did they bother any outpost of the other races save in greatest need, relying on the strength of the herd and the knowledge of their elders. For a time, this was all that was needed, and the Hindfolk were at peace.

But the world changes, and the ranges of the other races grew. The Hindfolk quickly gained the attention of the raiding races, the likes of the lizardfolk, the gnolls, and most of all the orcs. The Hindfolk were not rich in mineral wealth, but they were expert gatherers, often in possession of rare herbs and fruits that made for effective medicines or other sorts of potions. They also watched over plentiful hunting grounds, as they themselves rarely took animal prey. This quickly made them easy targets for raiders, who looted their camps and claimed dominion over their woods. In some cases, they were even feasted on as if they were nothing more than venison. With simple stone weapons, they were no match for tempered steel, nor were they particularly learned in war. Even their magic proved weak and rudimentary in the face of the onslaught. They were pushed back in many parts of their range, with hundreds of tribes being put to the sword.

It was fortunate then that they had made friends with the likes of neighboring wood elves. Though reclusive, they had seen in the Hindfolk kindred spirits, fellow lovers of nature and all of it's bounty. When it was clear that the Hindfolk were facing extinction, the wood elves that lived in neighboring lands gathered as many of the remaining tribes as they could. They taught them some of their ancient crafts to create far more effective weapons and armor from the earth itself. They taught them the art of war, especially how to turn their knowledge of their native forests to their advantage. They taught them more effective magics, or at least ways to make the magic of their spellcasters far more effective. Most of all, they gave them hope that there may yet come a day when the Hindfolk could live in their own forests in peace, free from raiders and bandits. This meeting and exchange of ideas is forever known as The Greatest Gift among the Hindfolk, and has forever cemented elves as beings of the highest regard among their people.

From here, the tide began to turn. No more were savage beings facing a slough of frightened deer-people only putting up a marginal defense. Now they faced an army thirsty for vengeance and eager to demonstrate what they had learned. While few of the Hindfolk were physically strong enough to face the likes of orcs or bugbears head on, their knowledge of the secret paths through the forest and delicate footfalls made guerrilla warfare near child’s play with their enhanced arsenal. Volleys of arrows tore through otherwise perfectly silent forests into enemy camps with no warning, often quickly followed by the very ground grabbing raiders and dragging them down. From there, the mightiest Hindfolk warriors, often lead by a warchief, would charge in to mop up whatever remained.

In a simpler world, that might have been the end of it. However in the modern times, things have become more complicated for the Hindfolk. For the orcs, the gnolls, the kobolds, the hobgoblins, they were seldom only fighting the deer-men. On the other side of their front often came the likes of humans, dwarves, halflings, and other less brutal folk, “civilizing” the lands that had recently been liberated from evil beings. Now many Hindfolk tribes find themselves clashing with such new settlements on the rights of each party, though thankfully with words and pen rather than with blades and arrows, as they have found these people less irksome than orcs. For there was one last parting word the wood elves gave the Hindfolk for their fight: “Do not become that which you hate so dearly.”

While traditionally the Hindfolk were nomadic and frequently made temporary shelters as they moved along their paths, since The Greatest Gift some permanent settlements have begun to dot what lands they currently hold. These are often where warchiefs, wizards, druids, and other figures of authority meet to keep their fellows updated on the progress of retaking their land. There is even word that deep in the woods there lies a great Hindfolk city still being built, but if it indeed does exist the deer-men do not speak of it to those outside their kind.

Hindfolk religion tends to be variable, as they have only been truly united in purpose as a people recently. Broadly speaking they tend to be shamanistic and druidic, but specific entities that they worship can range from elemental spirits to specific ancestors to a mysterious figure known as the Stag of the Elder Wood. In most if not all cases of Hindfolk worship, a common thread of caring for the natural world around them winds through many of their beliefs. “We must feed what feeds us” is a common saying and prayer, referring to how the Hindfolk subtley tend to the plants and lands that feed and house them.

Marriage is largely alien to Hindfolk, with courtship often switching between multiple partners within the tribe from year to year. If two males desire the same female, they may invoke an antler duel, a fight to first surrender using no weapons or armor, simply themselves and their antlers. While rearing generally falls to the parents, child raising is often communal, with nearly everyone in the tribe pitching in to teach the young the ways of their people.

Even before the burning of their woods the Hindfolk were a suspicious and shadowy people, and their recent interactions with many other races have not helped in that regard. They are often nervous around people new to them, and even when given to trust they still tend to be wary. Still, they often strive to be fair arbitrators of judgement, and there are some that are held in high regard among them. Elves, obviously, rank highest, excepting perhaps the Drow. Humans, Dwarves, Halflings, and Gnomes commonly rank below them, as sometimes trouble but generally more tolerable. Far below them are the likes of the goblinfolk, predatory beastfolk like gnolls and lizardmen, and most of all the orcs. Even their more level headed progeny, the half orcs, often find themselves the target of Hindfolk ire, as they find it difficult to differentiate them from their pure-blooded betusked parents.

Ability Score Increase: +2 Dexterity +1 Wisdom

Alignment: Hindfolk tend towards neutrality in the lawfulness spectrum, perhaps leaning to chaos in the more far flung tribes. Most are good, though hunger for blood and revenge have driven some of the Hindfolk to dark paths.

Age: Hindfolk age roughly the same as humans, maturing at 15 years of age and often living to 70 years of age.

Speed: Your base walking speed is 40 feet. You are able to keep pace with most swift mounts like horses when running, your bounding strides propelling you at great speeds. You cannot move like this without ample room to build up speed, however, and so cannot use it in confined spaces or difficult terrain.

Size: Generally speaking, Hindfolk weigh less than other races with comparable heights, the larger ones being the exception. Depending on the subrace, Hindfolk can reach around Halfling height, around 3 feet with a weight of 25 pounds (Muntjac and Pudu), to a hulking height rivalling a Goliath, around 8 feet and weighing 500 pounds (Moose and Elk). Most average around 6-7 feet however, weighing around 180 pounds. Those of the 3 feet variety have a Small build, while the rest are Medium.

Darkvision: The Hindfolk’s sensitive eyes work excellently in the dark. You can see in dim light within 60 feet as if in bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You cannot see color in darkness, only shades of grey.

Keen Senses: You have proficiency in the Perception skill

Survival Instinct: You have proficiency in the Survival skill.

Antlers: If the season is right and you are able to grow them, you may lash out with your antlers as an attack for 1d6 +3 piercing damage.

You may also replace one of these abilities with any of the following:

Natural camouflage: Your pelt is mottled and better breaks up your outline. You get a +2 to stealth checks when in natural settings like in grasslands or forests.

Skittish: Even among Hindfolk, your uneasiness seems heightened. Gain a +1 bonus to initiative rolls.

Ace Bounder: Your limbs carry you better than most could ever dream of. You gain proficiency in Athletics.

Hindfolk War Cry: As a bonus action, you can produce the piercing, otherworldly warcry of the Hindfolk, resembling the bugling of elk but much more powerful. Once invoked, each hostile figure within a 30 foot radius must make a Constitution saving throw. If it fails, the enemy rolls at a disadvantage at it's next offensive or defensive action, whichever comes first. This can only be used once per long or short rest.

Languages: You are able to read, write, and speak Common, Elvish, and Hindtongue, a language specific to Hindfolk which is difficult for other races to decipher. It is a primal yet melodic language incorporating the full range of vocalizations that Hindfolk can make.

Subraces:

Demi-Hindfolk:

These smaller members of the Hindfolk race resemble diminutive muntjac deer or pudu deer rather than the graceful white-tailed deer or powerful moose of their larger cousins. They are small and light, excellent scouts but not exactly front line fighters most of the time. Their antlers also tend to be far more stunted compared to those of their larger relatives, and so rarely can be used as weapons.

Instead of the Antlers feature, you gain:

Nimble Escape: You can take the Disengage or Hide action as a bonus action on each of your turns.

Size: At around 3 feet high and 25 pounds, you are of the Small size class.

Greater Hindfolk:

These truly physically powerful members of the Hindfolk race, often resembling powerful elk or moose, are often among the foremost war-leaders of the tribes they inhabit. Though less dexterous than their smaller kin, they possess incredible strength of limb and tenacity in battle, often standing toe to toe with the likes of orcs and hobgoblins.

Ability Score Increase: Instead of the standard increases, these Hindfolk get +2 Strength and +1 Dexterity.

Powerful Build: Counts as one size class larger for matters of carrying capacity and things you can lift, drag, push, etc.

#animal class lists #d&d #I haven't actually played d&d myself but I did do my best to roughly balance these like existing races #and I ran these by a friend who does play #long post

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musicaextraordinaire · 7 years ago

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The moment a musician is submerged within waters that purify and help flourish their brilliance, they become everlasting. They are anomalies and enigmas… But they are also exposed to the soul at the very same time. These artists create bodies of work that are beyond this world and the next. They are what we call "timeless" and "undying"… Undoubtedly, Prince is this musician and this artist. When I think of myself as an individual, I find myself rooting who I am back to themes and emotions such as: Cruel loneliness and burning lust. It is a part of who I genuinely am. Prince is the perfect example of this raging storm that leaves us in awe of its beauty and grace, no matter how thunderous it may get. When I first listened to his 1994 album "Come" I can vividly remember a washing tide come over me. It was full of emotional rawness that spoke to every essence that I was and in countless different ways. It was as if there was no right or wrong way to feel. The unapologetic genius in "Come" is the way it is presented. At the time, Prince was struggling with identity and having a certain security within many different aspects of his life. However, while most people believe "Come" was a "throw-away" album, it happens to be my utmost beloved body of work by this man.

It was that groove-stricken yet straightforward thematic artistry that came along with the album's title track "Come" that set this album adrift into an experience that, in my opinion, only hardcore Prince fans would understand. It started the album and added to its arousal. An eleven minute and thirteen second masterpiece that showcased, emphasized and elaborated upon the incomparable musicianship of Prince. His ability to create remains as one of the most thought-inducing acts this world has ever marveled at.

"Space" would then give a significant depth to "Come" effortlessly with exquisite lyricism and composing excellence. This song liberates those who know what love's potency feels like and lets them relive their passion through every bass pump and drum pulsation within the entirety of this track. Beautiful is an understatement to describe how otherworldly this song is intended to sound like. Beyond its time and beyond any feeling you could ever experience; the euphoria that radiates from the sounds of Prince's voice are angelic to this day.

The blatant craving that is sung by Prince in "Pheromone" evidently adds to the scorching fire going on within him. Through the deepest parts of Prince's mind, he conveys a winding tale of stinging temptation due to such a longing desire and heavy confliction. There is a woman playing a game with another man as he watches on in secrecy. That is how intensity is captured in storytelling tracks; with the injection of undisputed passion. One of Prince's greatest gifts was being able to paint vivid pictures in one's mind by only using lyrics.

Imagine being in an underground club in the depths of downtown Los Angeles. "Loose!" by Prince is blaring through the speakers and you are immersed in the sound pumping through your chest. I believe that this is one of the tracks Prince doesn't get enough credit for. It has such a roaring complexity to it. With that being said, the song's intricacy lies in the notion of Prince himself becoming completely taken over by this raging club scene. And what better way to promote the need for gaining knowledge through the lyrics: "Get your education first, then buy a pair of shoes!" Prince is for the people, make no mistake.

It is to the point where "Papa" begins to play out its ominous first few seconds that people realize how considerably daring Prince gets with certain themes. There is a subtle animosity to this song that abruptly flows into the chaos of Prince extending a lesson to the listener. In this song, there is so much speculation as to how much of it reigns true or not to Prince himself. However, the somberness still remains. The anger is felt through the second half of the song and you can almost hear Prince's words: "And there's always a rainbow, at the end of every rain." that echo through your mind afterwards.

Another specialty to Prince was that he was the definition of the word cryptic at times. If you read the lyrics to "Race", they take you for a trip with the first glance. To me, this track breathes an awareness. Both social and self. Personally, my favorite lyrics sung in this song are: "In the space I mark human, face the music… Cut me, cut you, both the blood is red." And that is a key line as to why I interpret this track the way I do. There is the message of equality there and it's one of the eccentric aspects to Prince that I adore.

To interpret heartbreak is to the effect of confronting an inner-demon, so to speak. Prince was no stranger to the realities of turmoil through a love affair with a woman prior to January of 1993 (when he wrote “Dark” initially.) However, there is such a seething hatred he has boiling in him and you can feel that scorn even through the tone of his vocal ability. When he ventures off into what I consider the climax of this track he sings: "Just as sure as Noah built the arc, that's how sure I am… You broke my heart." it only adds to the intense antagonism he is feeling at that very moment. But in this perplexing twist, he does it gracefully. This song is my favorite off the entire album because it is emotional. Because it says to the world: "I am angry and I am not apologizing for this." But there was soul in it. That is what adds to the enticement. That's what makes it is so beautiful yet intimidating to listen to.

The first words that I can think of after listening to "Solo" is always: Heavenly. I dream of heaven often and I imagine this stunning place with flower petals scattered everywhere and clouds surrounding me. This song is playing in the distance because it is so pure. This track is the wedge of this album. For some reason, it spills a divine energy into this body of work. Not to say the other tracks are tainted in a way, but there is an angelic feeling to how this song is composed. Yet there is sorrow regarding these lyrics. There is a coldness there but not in a disregarding and inconsiderate way. The coldness pertains to how there is loss there. Prince projects his grief through this captivating track. You don't know whether to be blissfully entranced or have a heavy sense of remorse for this man baring his soul to you. (All the shoutouts to David Hwang.)

And finally, it was "Letitgo" that became the core jam-session of this album. The song had every right to be a single. The track ultimately elaborated upon the growth Prince was going through as an artist at the time. It was his classic sound, with newly found influence and inspiration. "Letitgo" definitely is a song only hardcore Prince fans would really enjoy. Yes, it is meant to appeal to the general audience but truly understanding its brilliance is left up to the ones who meticulously listen to Prince's artistry and unconditionally admire it.

In conclusion, I am almost at a loss of words to even describe the amount of adoration I have for Prince's album "Come". For starters… This really wasn't just music, it was a trip. For many music critics and even including huge fans of Prince, this body of work is a "filler", as I mentioned in the beginning. However, to break-down each and every single aspect I thought was significant brings me closer to understanding Prince and his music. I relate to these songs. They bring out something in me which is remorseless for who I am. I am a strong woman of color who identifies with an even stronger man of color and subsequently live through his artistry because I belong there. My mind tells me I am free here and that is what I will hold onto for the rest of my life.

With love, Candy Dhami.

#Prince #Prince Rogers Nelson #COME #album #review #article #writing #music #90's

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cinemameta · 6 years ago

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Dancing on My Own: Euphoria in Absolute Sadness

In the club is where you’d expect to hear Robyn’s tracks booming to the loudest of volume. Much of her music especially those from her Body Talk era match perfectly the chaotic and often times cathartic spirit of the nightclub, affording to those subjected to its sound a quick escape through twinkling beats and anthemic hooks. But unlike a nightclub where a meaningful experience gets easily replaced by the hazy influence of alcohol, Robyn’s music is anything but vapid.

You could throw a dart into her discography and whichever track that dart lands on could still be considered as an electro-pop classic. Robyn after all is one of the greatest pop artists in the millennia though record sales may say otherwise, it’s her impact on pop landscape that argues for her legacy. Her songs carry subversiveness in every well-timed thumping beat as in the cases of Call Your Girlfriend where she takes on pop music’s tired trope of love triangles and gives it an emphatic twists and in Cry When You Get Older where she relies on pounding bass in creating a dancefloor-ready tune infused with some heavy sentimentality. Such subversiveness is founded on her being an excellent operator of paradoxes and perhaps her greatest paradox yet comes in the form of a masterpiece titled Dancing on My Own.

The track opens with brutal synths roaring into life without a room to spare for a warning. The effect is immediate that anyone familiar with the song is quickly greeted with a rush of adrenaline that guarantees for some twitching body movements in the coming seconds. From then on, the track maintains a minimalist sound commanded by the ensuing synths and some occasional drum snares and sparkling chimes. The arrangement invokes an upbeat melody of joyous feeling: a strong invitation to its listener to dance like no one’s watching but the lyrics paint a different picture.

It’s when Robyn finally sings when the song unleashes its monster. Heartache, total unbridled heartache in its purest form. “Somebody said you got a new friend/Does she love you better than I can”. Those opening lines alone are enough to trigger a tsunami of emotions come rushing to engulf you the very moment they’re spoken. Whether the emotions are rooted from something real or imagined, it doesn’t matter; everyone in earshot experiences heartache, though they experience it in their own ways.

The devastating sadness in its lyrical content eclipses the blissful electronic music that soon, it becomes a frenzied battle between heartbreak and euphoria much like the clashing of bodies in the dancefloor all of which are too preoccupied reveling in their own loss to notice anyone else. While other pop songs would use cheerful melody as gimmicky prop to mask its woe-is-me lyrics in a more presentable sound, Dancing on Me Own amps both aspects and goes full throttle until everything clashes into one magnificent liberating release during the bridge as the uber-dramatic quietness gets broken by those rapid firing drum bass. The execution of marrying such opposing qualities specifically towards the end is stunning that in all its confusing glory, you find yourself caught off guard, unsure whether to weep or dance that the only choice left to choose is to do both.

Smash cut to almost a decade after its release, the song has seen itself turned into weepy piano ballad, get used by Lena Dunham in her show Girls and sung in various singing competitions. But much of its enduring presence can be attributed to it becoming a staple in club scenes and nightlife. After all, is there anything more uniting and universal than music and dance? Heartbreak, I suppose.

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vidalinav · 8 years ago

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Part 4: Coherence

Yay, two in one day.

Summary: Nessian bonding and all that jazz! Last part (Maybe)!

Rating:T/M

Words: ~2700

Part 1: Catastrophe

Part 2: Contusion

Part 3: Combustion

Part 4: You are here

Read on AO3

Warning: This is sort of NSFW, so be forewarned. I consider this soft smut, because I don’t really make this detailed. It’s just there.

She awoke to soft fingertips gliding along her skin. A pattern of delicate caresses leaving shivers in its wake. The paleness of the room was alight in moonshine and stardust. Her heartbeat reminded her that she was as tangible as the hope that rose in her chest. Her body was warm, cocooned in a thick layer of blankets, blocking the cold from reaching her. The simple gesture made her body sing.

Nesta lifted her head, though it pounded to the beat of nonexistent drums. She felt like she had been trampled on by some rogue Illyrians, then remembered that the being she fought against was much worse. Everything came back to her in a matter of moments, the knife across her back, the wings that set the world on fire, the bloody end of the creature who welcomed death far more than she did.

Her shoulders relaxed at the memory. She had won. Nesta had mastered her fate; she had looked at the monster in the mirror and had not flinched. She was fae but she not weak or fragile. She was strong and capable, and that was the difference. That was the turning point in this war; she had never been weak or fragile.

The real monster wasn’t her. It wasn’t the power that sometimes seemed to control her; it wasn’t the fact that she seemed merciless and uncaring. The real enemy wasn’t the person who changed, body or mind, it was the person who forced others to. Selfish, ruthless, cruel individuals. Ones, Nesta would take care of and proudly.

But her body ached from the thought. Not now. Right now, she would rest. She wasn’t mentally or physically prepared for any more battles. Her muscles were sore and even moving her arm was a struggle. She managed and, though, she had only moved an inch, it roused the dozing giant next to her.

“Nesta.”

Her head moved at the sound of his sweet voice. She winced from the abrupt gesture. Cassian looked at her, wide eyed, concern painted in his brow. One side of his face was red where he had rested, though he looked like he hadn’t slept well. Or at all. She knew he would have been too worried to sleep, knew it, because she would have been too. They took care of each other.

“Nesta.” He whispered in a reverent prayer.

He shifted towards her, a pull so strong even she couldn’t resist. He rested his forehead on hers and closed his eyes. She could feel the strong beat of his heart and the steady movements of his lungs.

She was grateful to feel them, when everything could have ended so differently. Maybe that was why she felt so composed. It could have been so much worse, but it wasn’t. They were going to be okay, they were alive, they were together.

They would never be the same. But change was a good thing, it was often necessary and always inevitable. Change was progress, and she’d build her life on it. Nesta traced his face with the edge of her fingertips. His eyes reminded her of autumn leaves.

“How could you have done that? Why would you do that?” His voice breaking as he shook his head, clenching his eyes together.

She rose from her knees and slowly lifted his face. Eye to eye, the only way she’d meet Cassian. A warmth bloomed in her chest.

She couldn’t control the tears threatening to spill from her eyes; she invited these feelings with open arms. Cassian, he could see her cry. Cry for the life she had, the life she never wanted and rarely enjoyed, cry for the torment they’d both experienced, cry for the sake that they were together once more. They were not alone, not together. And so, she wept, and smiled, and endured.

She rubbed her thumb underneath his eyes where stray tears had made a path along his handsome face. His cheeks glistened, but his eyes hardened before he spoke.

“You’re my mate.”

Cassian stared at her, waiting. He almost looked down in fear, before Nesta had firmly grasped his face in her hands. Urging him to look at her, to see what he made her feel. Her nose touched his. She closed her eyes and she couldn’t keep the moon from shining along her face.

“I know. Believe me I know.”

She could feel his stare. When she opened her eyes, she saw his had widened. A hesitation, but also a hope. She was full of that lately, there was enough for the both of them.

“I think I always knew.”

Cassian leaned back, grasping her cheeks in his large palms.

“When I turned, and saw you take the blow, I knew it would’ve destroyed my wings. And still, I wished you would have let it hit me. It would have been easier to deal with than having to live without you.”

His chest rose with every word. A truth to build upon. She couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his voice, even her heart seemed to quiet its vociferous roar. Nesta shook her head in refusal, but Cassian continued.

“And when I saw your knees hit the pavement, I swore I’d kill every last fae who tried to touch you.”

The conviction in his voice formed a heat within her that she couldn’t control. Her chest rose sharply. He never once broke his gaze away from hers.

The room quieted, and the silence calmed their erratic heart beats. After a moment, Cassian, once again, rested his forehead against hers. Some part of them had to touch the other, they weren’t ready to let go.

“Are you okay with this? Because we don’t have to be together if you don’t want. I won’t force you to be with me.” His voice solemn and poignant.

He didn’t understand that she had been broken all this time, and he didn’t shun her for what she became. He didn’t belittle her rage or question her motives. He was there every single day, believing in a world of possibilities she couldn’t see. He made her feel grounded and liberated, all at the same time. He had given her wings before her body had.

That day, when he promised to protect her and her sister, and tried every day afterwards to keep that promise, was the day she knew that maybe it wasn’t magic. Maybe it was just two, strong souls that were somehow stronger together. Two bodies meant to fight next to each other.

Nesta’s lips turned upward, her cheeks felt hot. She would have been embarrassed if it was anyone but him. She smiled, mouth wide. Her voice was soft and strong, as concrete as the stars outside her window.

“I only want to be with you.”

Hazel eyes met blue ones, asking a question he already knew the answer to. When Cassian found the confirmation, he was looking for, he brought her in his arms, cradling her to his body. She leaned into the crook of his neck. He smelled like pine and the crackle of embers. When they parted, the temptation to be near each other pulled them in and didn’t let go.

Their lips grazed. Softly at first, gentle caresses and the whispers of breath. But even the slightest distance became unbearable.

The pressure built, mouths giving and taking. A ravenous battle of teeth and tongue. Her hands unwound from his neck, feeling the way he tensed as she felt the strong planes of his body. He lifted her up in a flourish and Nesta steadied herself on the firm lines beneath, her legs landing on either side of him.

“I can feel your heartbeat.”

Her hand pressed against his chest. She could feel the steady pattern. More beautiful than anything she’d ever felt. He was alive. The world still moved, and they still had a chance.

His hands scorched paths along her skin, burning her already feverish body. His heartbeat dancing to the rhythm of hers. She felt his hard muscles under her fingertips, felt the cotton of his shirt. She wanted to feel his skin on hers, felt the ache inside her twitch at the anticipation. She lifted the fabric where it rested, never parting her lips from his for more than a moment.

When she had gotten passed his torso, the shirt caught on the base of his wings. Her annoyance grew at the effort, and Cassian leaned back enough to laugh. She huffed at the sound, even if it did cause a warmth to bloom in her chest.

He leaned in, whispering in her ear,

“I got it, sweetheart.” His voice rough and low. Heat warmed her body at the sound.

His shirt landed on the floor. Cassian’s eyes sparkled with mischief and Nesta’s stomach twisted in knots. He leaned in towards her, his nose grazing the skin on her neck. She could feel his hands running along the buttons of her nightgown. His lips pressed soft kisses there and her breathing hitched at the gentleness of it.

“Is this okay?” he said, as he tipped the top button loose.

Her answer was the incline of her neck, baring her pulse to his sweet torment. Cassian took his time, took every inch of the permission she gave him and played it like a song. His lips traced a path down her body, and his hands followed. Taking her breath and nightgown with him.

When she was mostly bare, his lips found the edge of her breasts. His hands grasping them in a gentle caress, while his tongue swirled patterns along the flush of her skin. She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her mouth.

His lips enclosed around the peak, and Nesta swore she couldn’t stop the heat that pooled between her legs. She tried to stop the ache, tried to calm its roaring head, but the more she writhed, the more she wanted.

His mouth sent prayers down her skin and his hands made paths along her body. She tried to hold on tightly to him or she swore she might have flown away. The little mewls she made only spurred Cassian on, further down the length of her. She could practically feel the pleasure radiating from Cassian at her incessant moans. Nesta wanted to hit him for the smugness, but she didn’t dare make him stop.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispered.

His words only left her breathless, an act she thought was impossible because she was already out of breath. His hands cradled her body close to him.

“You’re strong.” He voiced as his fingers brushed against the part of her that no man had dared to touch.

Cassian was the only one who could touch her like this. The only one who had witnessed her fire and did not flinch.

“You’re everything to me.”

His deft and skilled fingers caressed her flames until they were roaring, heating areas in a breathtaking ritual until the fire was untamable. Fingertips bringing out the beast she trapped under thick layers of ice. It wouldn’t stop and she didn’t want it to stop.

His fire danced with hers, roaring to life as it played and pounced. His fingers took his time, and when Nesta could have sworn she could not be any more aroused, his mouth joined his hands. Cassian held her firmly to the bed as her body convulsed from his kisses.

Nesta could have died like this, she’d be satisfied if this was the last thing she felt. She didn’t feel on Earth at all.

His lips found hers once more, leaving her lightheaded and dizzy. His eyes were big and bright. He held her face in his hands, his brows furrowing.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. I swear from the minute I heard your voice, I loved you. I need you to know that.”

She only heard the truth, only saw the conviction reflected in his irises. She believed every word, like the sky was blue.

“Whatever we do or not do in the next few minutes doesn’t change this, doesn’t change how I feel about you.

And not because of a bond. But because my soul met your soul and it decided that it would fight alongside you, no matter the odds. “

Her smile was her answer, the smile that she could only give him. He was the only one who could make her this undeniably happy, the only one who could silence her thoughts. She’d give him everything, he gave her everything.

“It’ll feel uncomfortable at first, but I promise I’ll go slow.” He kissed her again. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. Just say the word.”

Nesta nodded her head and sounded her agreement. She wanted to tell him she trusted him completely, but one look at him and her body felt encased in flames. When he entered her, the fullness of him left her breathless. And although it was uncomfortable, it wasn't unbearable.

Her body moved with his, and when she thought she could have died from the sheer intensity of it, Cassian’s lips touched her own. A gentle reminder that if they were doing anything, they’d do it together.

When she couldn’t bear it any longer, the heat of him, the stimulation, the looks he gave her and sounds he made, their hands grasped each other, holding on for dear life as they slowly fell and fell and fell.

Cassian’s steady heartbeat calmed her own. Her eyelids shut. Although exhausted, Nesta was not tired. Quite the contrary. She expected his fire to alight hers into utter oblivion. Expected it to roar so high and mighty, no one could extinguish it. But Nesta found, it wasn’t chaos that Cassian brought her, it was peace.

“How does it feel to sleep with a queen?”

Cassian’s bland look made her laugh. His eyes widened at the sound and the awestruck look made Nesta fuzzy inside. Her laugh sounded like rain.

There was a softness to the lines of his face that Nesta yearned to trace with her fingertips, even the look he gave her was warm. His palms caressed the sides of her face, and he rested his forehead on hers.

“You were always a queen to me.”

She smiled at him. Lips meeting lips in a soft and breathtaking kiss. A kiss less wild than the previous had been, but every bit as sweet. When they had parted, Cassian’s grin widened.

“I knew it ever since you kneed me in the balls.”

The sound that came out of Nesta’s mouth could have made demons sing. She shook her head at him.

They were close. She could barely recognize the line that separated one from another. She didn’t want to move away; she didn’t ever want to be parted from him.

She leaned in, kissing his full lips. She couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop leaning towards him to feel the love that warmed her to the very core. He was hers, and she was his, and they couldn’t stop taking from each other, giving to each other, being with each other.

Nesta’s heart played a symphony of affection and promise. If this was what the cauldron gave her, she would happily thank it every day.

Because this, this right here was magic, their hands clasped together was a wonder, and the love that fueled their fire was a miracle. A dream she never wanted to awake from. A moment, she never wanted to escape from.

If being fae gave her a thousand years of this, she would happily be fae for the rest of eternity.

I honestly don’t think this is the best fanfic I’ve ever written but it’s been sitting on my computer for about 3 months now... So it is what it is.

Let me know what you think, and hopefully the next one is better lol It’ll probably be less happy.

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #cassian x nesta #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian #acomaf #acotar #acowar #acotar fanfiction #acomaf fanfiction #acowar fanfiction

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themathrockblog · 8 years ago

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FESTIVAL REVIEW: STRANGEFORMS, WHARF CHAMBERS - LEEDS 2017

Having reflexively purchased a ticket upon seeing the immense line-up for last year’s StrangeForms only to find myself unable to attend, I was thrilled to witness the incredible festival for the first time this year. And what a year it was, making up for missing last year with a wealth of friendships forged, conversations relished and most importantly, great bands enjoyed with that mixture of attentiveness and bewilderment that math-rock always brings. In the early Saturday afternoon at the charming DIY space Wharf Chambers, tepid bursts of sunlight shone into the beer garden as punters gathered in surprising numbers to hear local lads Classically Handsome Brutes open the festival. Whopping guitar riffs and thudding bass made for an unsettlingly crunchy sound; the roaring songs always featuring stop/start stabs both as impossibly hard to anticipate as they were tightly performed. Next followed Lost Ground and a subtle change of pace. The first and most delicate vocals of the festival soared over intricate guitar parts, often contrasting with emphatic bass and complimenting jazz-tinged drum work. The set was emotional and engaging, with a sound more lustrous than the sum of its three-pieced together parts.

Off to a great start! The Real Junk Food Project was serving up exquisite food on a pay as you feel basis, fine pale ales were being liberally guzzled inside a venue with the most homely and vibrant feel. An assortment of merchandise and t-shirts colourfully wallpapered the gig room as everyone gleefully quizzed each other in anticipation of their prospective favourite bands to come.

From a line-up brimming with an assortment of three piece bands, Steve Strong stuck out as a tantalising prospect of hearing noises just as full, songs just as enthralling and some of the best drumming of the weekend. Guitar loops were tightly controlled and effortlessly built upon, stripped back from the mix and thrusted in again. Each time the cacophony had found its place, it was given new life by quick and breathtakingly pinpoint percussive work. A stunning performance and a unique chance to see how carefully chosen rhythmic changes can structure a song.

Back to three pieces, this one less time-signature twisting, more groove-fronted power riffs from Memory of Elephants. A tasteful ear for melody was wrestled with as the bass and guitar interlocked with precision to create beefy math-rock at its best. The balanced instrumentation was evident, as the bass shared as many central motifs as the guitar, both musicians tightly synced as if one brain splitting into four hands, blasting sounds through two octave pedals and smashing your eardrums to pieces one spasmodic riff at a time. ‘Who The Fuck Is Runcorn?’, the closer from their second EP, was the pinnacle of the set for me as each stop-start and stab shifted focus around the stage, from ballistic drum fills to bass thuds to guitar screeches. Drums drove the songs with tasteful builds and insanely tight flourishes atop the ride cymbal. Occasional roars demonstrated just how fun it was to be upon the StrangeForms stage.

I took brief notes for the scarily brutal performance of Fall of Messiah, but they seemed so apt ill reproduce them here verbatim: “A voice so piercing a microphone is surplus to requirement. Sounds like This Will Destroy You thrown in a blender and turned up to 11.” That really says it all, I think. My next memory - of bands, not elephants - was of the hypnotically spacey, painstakingly crafted masterpieces that are Poly-Math songs at full tilt. Perhaps VASA, who I’m assured played before Poly-Math, were so jaw-droppingly awesome that they melted the part of my brain that makes memories, for a short period of time about as long as their set. Not to worry, Poly-Math were here to rescue my fragile constitution with warmly curated prog-rock. Bass and drums interlocked, jolting and grooving freely whilst a guitar funnelled through an expansive pedalboard turned neat riffs into spacey wails. The performance was mesmerising, as hands wandered along the guitar neck as if a man strolling along a boardwalk, only to find himself alone at the end, meeting the ocean in a frantic storm, in layers of rapturous guitar and pulsating beats. Take a standard prog song, put it through a washing machine on a spin cycle and you’ve got Poly-Math at their psychedelic best.

To continue the hypnosis, Gallops took to the stage. Technical issues were overlooked as a patient and jovial crowd took the time to ready themselves, using the respite to mentally prepare for the synth-driven, danceable anthems ahead. The wait was more than worth it. Such a carefully crafted sound pits layers of guitar against layers of synth, colliding in a maelstrom of warm noise so atmospheric and so colossal that it opened up a blackhole and sent them in a time warp back to the 80’s, picking up a few cues from synthpop along the way. Gallops make something like ‘tropical math-rock’, with drum pads crunching out over real drums, battled with and battered in the most rhythmic and danceable way. ‘Tropical’ is actually rather apt, as the smooth wash of electronic textures build and twist, the temperature rises and attendant bodies groove throughout the room; it’s not long before the breeze of a synth sound has spun in on itself and whipped up a tropical storm of electronica and massive guitar lines, warbling like the din of a cyclone. And with that, day one was over. The second half of this review will be written through much hazier recollections, as the Saturday night ambled on into the early hours and the Sunday left most feeling the distinct sting of tiredness. The double-espresso shot of noise everyone needed on the Sunday afternoon came in the form of the fearsome Irk. Post-hardcore mixed with mathy tropes, the guttural, raspy screams of the vocalist splattered out over the most tonally warped, gruesome sounding bass guitar I’ve ever heard. All in all, Irk brought warmth and colour to the pallid faces of the those hungover bodies that had dragged themselves down in time to hear it.

Ear-splitting kept to a minimum, the crowd picked themselves up for the contrastingly happy, upbeat sound of A-tota-so. Three musicians have never looked more in control of every note and drum stroke, as they intricately wound their way around tappy riffs and melodic bursts, before sinking into muddy noisy sections with equal control. Best snare drum sound of the festival goes to this set; what a piercing din was made, what a penetrating crunch from a batter head so tight the sticks pinged off it like a trampoline, atop which thrived a most gymnastic and dextrous display of drumming. Drums often proved more than a rhythmic backdrop for guitars to dance over at this festival, it’s only as much as you’d expect from thoughtful math-rock, but none did so more effectively than that of A-tota-so.

As a math-rock lover born in the flat, tediously homogenous farmlands of Lincolnshire, I used to find myself stranded away from festivals like this, lamenting the dearth of good bands in my area. Enter Bear Makes Ninja, Sleaford’s answer to the void left by the vocal driven math-pop-rockers of yesteryear. Think Tubelord at full ferocity, with harmonies abounding as a most bright and crisp guitar tone gives way to a most distorted one. All the while at the back of the stage, beefy drums were navigated with the most robotic, metronomic precision I have ever seen in such a noisy band, with pounding snare and cymbals laid down flawlessly. Not to mention this was done whilst the drummer simultaneously soared away with lustrous backing vocals. Stunning! Tackling parts this technical and channelling them into a fully structured song with three part harmonies and memorable hooks is a difficult task, but when they get it right, boy do BMN get it right. The ascending hallmark riff of 12345 (a favourite from our review of debut album Shenanagrams) was one of the most memorable parts of the weekend for me, and that is as high a compliment as I know how to give from a line-up so saturated with talent.

There were so many great bands on the Sunday that – although it’s too late for brevity – I’ll stick to my personal highlights. Taking to the floor, in the most literal sense, where Scotland’s finest post-rock, math-rock hybrid band, Dialects. With pedalboards this big and musicians using them as they wield guitars like proverbial axes – chopping and turning through the air with a dangerous energy – there was no room for math-rock this animated on such a stage. Standing at crowd level, guitars swelled with heart warming reverb, mind-melting tapping, frantic riffs filtered through delays and tones purpose-chosen; Dialects are an immense force on this scene, giving every ounce of energy to every song. Through the unique dynamic between the two guitars - one controlling and modulating the riff, one experimentally hacking at and bending strings - Dialects create cathartic songs to lose your mind, and all of your troubles, to. Just bring earplugs and watch out for the stray sway of a guitar neck whirling around (see below) as energetically as the riff it’s bringing to your ears.

Axes return to the stage was as fun a finale to the festival as anyone could have wished for. Remembering the intricacies of songs long since played live was a thoroughly entertaining process to watch; intimate and light-hearted, as cheery and spirited as the wonky riffs and jangling math-rock they willed themselves to construct. Thankfully, the audience had done their homework, urging in each new stab and stall to arise and break with head bobs of great precision. The band had a look of astonishment at the music their fingers were carving out of their fretboards. Twiddly, fast tempo riffs bobbled along over chunky bass rumbles, dipping in and out of different time signatures with formidable control and with a perfect balance between the two guitarists, wrestling with each other and both winning. A euphonic and emphatic finish to the weekend. Overall, my first time at StrangeForms did not disappoint. The music was incredible, of course, of this I could scarcely wish my expectations to have been passed, such was the brilliance of the line-up. But it was the atmosphere of the place I was thankful to have experienced. Here, there and everywhere people discussed the music and the musicians, the sets and the scene with voracious interest and excitement. Why is this scene so generous, warm, considerate and always the nexus of many an interesting conversation? Perhaps it is because many of the audience are in some way involved in the scene, creatively, artistically, from t-shirt designs to posters, PR and promotion, record labels, distros, videographers and writers – the passion is still somehow infectious in a crowd where everyone has already caught the bug. The joy of each head bang, of each pedal-tap induced wall of sound is lost on no-one; unique to this epicentre of musicians, artists and listeners is the feeling that everyone has taken time to totally immerse themselves in the scene. This noisy world is one of few where everyone is so friendly and familiar with everyone else, so buoyed in collective anticipation by a good line-up at the next of many events, from Bristol to Brighton, Leeds to London and beyond; there are no half-hearted math-rock lovers, and few are more passionate than Bad Owls about good music and good people.

Like every band that took to the stage, I’d like to heartily thank Stewart and Kerry and everyone else amongst the Bad Owls team for putting on such a great weekend of music! Words by Jonny Gleadell. Images by Tiago Morelli (http://feckingbahamas.com/author/tiago-morelli)

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arabellaflynn · 5 years ago

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Advent Calendar: "The Cat And The Mouse"

From The Cat & The Mouse: A Book of Persian Fairy Tales, edited by Hartwell James. Henry Altemus, Philadelphia, 1906.

One might wonder why the cat is allowed to get away with being such an asshole here. Other than 'because cat', I mean. The reference to being a "Mossulman" (i.e., Muslim) puts this story in a mainly-Muslim region, and according to Islamic tradition, cats are beloved of the prophet Mohammed. A shorter, much less-murderous folk tale holds that Mohammed had a pet cat whom he loved so much and spoiled so thoroughly, that one day when the cat laid down for a nap on the sleeve of the robe he was about to put on, he fetched scissors and cut the sleeve off rather than disturb it.

I try not to repeat that to any actual cats. I don't want them getting ideas.

According to the decree of Heaven, there once lived in the Persian city of Kerman a cat like unto a dragon—a longsighted cat who hunted like a lion; a cat with fascinating eyes and long whiskers and sharp teeth. Its body was like a drum, its beautiful fur like ermine skin.

Nobody was happier than this cat, neither the newly-wedded bride, nor the hospitable master of the house when he looks round on the smiling faces of his guests.

This cat moved in the midst of friends, boon companions of the saucepan, the cup, and the milk jug of the court, and of the dinner table when the cloth is spread.

Perceiving the wine cellar open, one day, the cat ran gleefully into it to see if he could catch a mouse, and hid himself behind a wine jar. At that moment a mouse ran out of a hole in the wall, quickly climbed the jar, and putting his head into it, drank so long and so deeply that he became drunk, talked very stupidly, and fancied he was as bold as a lion.

"Where is the cat?" shouted he, "that I may off with his head. I would cut off his head as if on the battlefield. A cat in front of me would fare worse than any dog who might happen to cross my path."

The cat ground his teeth with rage while hearing this. Quicker than the eye could follow, he made a spring, seized the mouse in his claws, and said, "Oh, little mouse, now will you take off my head?"

"I am thy servant," replied the mouse; "forgive my sin. I was drunk. I am thy slave; a slave whose ear is pierced and on whose shoulder the yoke is."

"Tell fewer lies," replied the cat. "Was there ever such a liar? I heard all you said and you shall pay for your sin with your life. I will make your life less than that of a dead dog."

So the cat killed and ate the mouse; but afterwards, being sorry for what he had done, he ran to the Mosque, and passed his hands over his face, poured water on his hands, and anointed himself as he had seen the faithful do at the appointed hours of prayer.

Then he began to recite the beautiful chapter to Allah in the Holy Book of the Persians, and to make his confession in this wise:

"I have repented, and will not again tear the body of a mouse with my teeth. I will give bread to the deserving poor. Forgive my sin, O great Forgiver, for have I not come to Thee bowed down with sorrow?"

He repeated this so many times and with so much feeling that he really thought he meant it, and finally wept for grief.

A little mouse happened to be behind the pulpit, and overhearing the cat's vows, speedily carried the glad but surprising news to the other mice. Breathlessly he related how that the cat had become a true Mussulman; how that he had seen him in the Mosque weeping and lamenting, and saying:

"Oh, Creator of the world, put away my sin, for I have offended like a big fool." Then the mouse went on to describe how that the cat had a rosary of beads, and made pious reflections in the spirit of a true penitent.

The mice began to make merry when they heard this startling news, for they were exceedingly glad. Seven chosen mice, each the headman of the village, arose and gave thanks that the cat should at last have entered the fold of the true believers.

All danced and shouted, "Ah! Ah! Hu! Hu!" and drank red wine and white wine until they were very merry. Two rang bells, two played castanets, and two sang. One carried a tray behind his back laden with good things, so that all could help themselves; some smoked water-pipes; another acted like a clown; others played various tunes on different instruments of music.

A few days after the feast, the King of the mice said to them, "Oh, friends, all of you bring costly presents worthy of the cat!" Then the mice scattered in search of gifts, but soon returned, each bearing something worthy of presentation, even to a nobleman.

One brought a bottle of wine; another a dish full of raisins; others came with salted nuts and melon seeds, lumps of cheese, basins of sugar-candy, pistachio nuts, little cakes iced with sugar, bottles of lemon juice, Indian shawls, hats, cloaks and many other things.

Discreetly they bore their gifts before the King of the Cats. When in the royal presence, they made humble obeisances, touching their foreheads on the ground, and saluting him, said:

"Oh, master, liberator of the lives of all, we have brought gifts worthy of thy service. We beseech thee to deign to accept of them."

Then the cat thought to himself, "I am rewarded for becoming a pious Mussulman. Though I have endured much hunger, yet this day finds me freely and amply provided for. Not for many days have I broken my fast. It is clear that Allah is appeased."

Then he turned to the mice, and bade them come nearer, calling them his friends. And they went forward trembling. So frightened were they that they were hardly aware of what they were doing. When they were close the cat made a sudden spring upon them.

Five mice he caught, each one the chief of a village; two with his front paws, two with his hind ones, and one in his mouth. The remaining mice barely escaped with their lives.

Picking up one of their murdered brothers, they quickly carried the sad news to the mice, saying: "Why do ye sit still, oh mice? Throw dust on your heads, oh young men, for the cruel cat has seized five of our unsuspecting companions with teeth and claws and has killed them."

Then for the space of five days they rent their clothes as do the mourners, and cast dust on their heads. Then they said: "We must go and tell our King all that has befallen the mice. We must not fail to tell him this calamity."

Whereupon they all rose up and went their way in deep sorrow; one beating the muffled drum, one tolling the bell; all had shawls around their necks; their tears the while running in little streams down their whiskers.

Arrived where the King was sitting on his throne, the mice paid homage to him, saying: "Master, we are subjects and thou art King. Behold the cat has treated us cruelly since he became a pious follower of Mahomet. Whereas, before his conversion he was wont to catch only one of us in a year, now that he is a sincere Mussulman his appetite has so increased that only five at a time will satisfy him."

Whereupon the King fell into such a violent rage that he resembled a saucepan boiling over. But to the deputation of mice he spoke very kindly, calling them his newly-arrived and welcome guests, and to comfort them vowed that he would give the cat such a chastisement that the news of it should circulate through the world.

Then, observing their grief, he commanded that the dead mouse should be buried with all pomp and ceremony. Accordingly they made lamentation for a whole week, as though it had been for one of royal degree; and having prepared delicious sweetmeats, they placed them in baskets and carried them with streaming eyes to the grave.

After the burial service, the King ordered the army to assemble on a given day on the great sandy plain that stretches as far as the eye can see around the city. Then he addressed them, saying:

"Oh, men and soldiers, inasmuch as the cat has so cruelly ill-treated our countrymen, he being a heretic and an evil doer, and brutal in nature, we must now go to the city of Kerman and fight him."

So three hundred and thirty thousand mice went forth, armed with swords, guns, and spears; and with flags and pennons bravely flying. A passing Arab from the desert, skilfully balancing himself on the back of a swift-traveling camel by means of a long pole, spied the great army in motion, and was so overcome with astonishment that he lost his balance and fell off. Several regiments of mice were put out of action by his fall; but nothing daunted, the army pressed on.

When the army was ready for battle, the King again addressed them saying: "O young men, an ambassador must be sent to the cat, one who is able, discreet, and eloquent." Then they all shouted: "The King's orders shall be carried out! Upon our heads be it."

Now, there was present a learned and eloquent mouse, the ruler of a province, and he it was that the King commanded to go as an ambassador to the cat in the city of Kerman. Almost before his name was out of the King's mouth, he had jumped out of his place in the ranks, and, traveling swiftly as the winds of the desert, he went in boldly before the cat and said:

"As an ambassador from the King of the Mice am I come, bowed down with grief and fatigue. Know this, my master has determined to wage war, and is even now come with his army to take off your head."

The cat roared out in reply, "Go tell your King to eat dust! I come not out of this city except at my good pleasure!" Then he sent messengers to bring up quickly some fighting and hunting cats from Khorassan—the land of the sun—to Kerman.

As soon as the cat's army was ready, the King of the Cats gave them marching orders, promising to come himself to the battle on the next day. The cats came out on horseback, each one like a hungry tiger. The mice also mounted their steeds, armed to the teeth, and boiling with rage. Shouting "Allah! Allah!" the armies fell upon each other with unsheathed swords.

So many cats and mice were killed that there was no room for the horses' feet. The cats fought valiantly, their fierce attacks carrying them through the first line of the mice, then through the second, and many Ameers and chiefs were killed. The mice, thinking the battle lost, turned to flee, crying out:

"Throw dust upon your heads, young men!"

But afterwards, rallying again, they faced their pursuers and attacked the right wing of the cat's army, shouting their battle cry of "Allah! Allah!"

In the thickest of the fray a mounted mouse speared the King of the Cats, so that he fell fainting to the ground. Before he could rise, the mouse leaped upon him and brought him captive to the King. So the cats were defeated on that day and sullenly retreated to the city of Kerman.

Having bound the cat, the mice beat him until he became unconscious. Then the plain echoed with the beating of tom-toms and shouts of joy. Then the King of the Mice seated himself on his throne and ordered the cat to be brought before him.

"Scoundrel!" he said to him, "Why hast thou eaten up my army? Hear now the King of the Mice." The cat hung his head in fear, and remained silent. After a few minutes, he said: "I am thy servant, even to death." Then the King replied:

"Carry this black-faced dog to the execution ground. I will come in person without delay to kill him in revenge for the blood of my slaughtered subjects."

So he mounted his elephant, and his guard marched proudly before him. The cat, with his hands tied together, stood weeping. Upon arriving at the execution grounds and discerning that the cat was not yet executed, the King said angrily to the hangman: "Why is it this prisoner is still alive? Hang him immediately!"

At that very moment a horseman came galloping furiously from the city and besought the King, saying: "Forgive this miserable cat; in future he will do us no harm." However, the King turned a deaf ear to his entreaties, ordering that the cat be killed at once. The mice hesitated, being unwilling, through fear, to carry out the order.

Of course, this made the King very angry. "O foolish mice!" he cried, "Ye will all take pity on the cat, in order that he may again make a sacrifice of you."

Directly the cat saw the horseman, his courage revived. With one bound he sprang from his place as does the tiger on his prey, burst his bonds asunder, and seized five unfortunate mice. The other mice, filled with dismay and terror, ran hither and thither, crying wildly:

"Allah! Allah! Shoot him! Cut off his head, as did Rastam his enemies on the day of battle!"

When the King of the Mice saw what, had happened, he fainted; whereupon the cat leaped on him, pulled off his crown, and placing the rope over his head, hanged him, so that he died immediately.

Then he darted here and there, seizing and slaying, and dashing mice to the earth, till the whole army of mice was routed, and there was none left to oppose him.

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