#duskys iteration

[builtlikeastickofcelery]

MORE OF MY LITTLE GUYS

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH

[brian-wellson]

“This… this ain’t—” Wellson spat. “This ain’t it.”

This scenario continues to be different, he thought.

“‘Ain’t’ wot, Mister Wellson?” asked the younger Dark Iron, exchanging a long, pensive look with his partner.

“Donnae gots ta entertain this ‘un, do ya,” said the lead investigator. “He’s jus’ spenn’in’ woteva ‘is life is now in ‘is own version of th’ Netha.” He clicked his tongue. “Wot this loon ‘ain’t’ is worth our time, ‘specially durin’ pub time.”

Wellson grimaced. He always hated this part, the blood. He bit his inner cheek. Burnt pennies… huh… He flinched. Brilliant crimson speckles dropped to the table. Oh… that’s different…

The Dark Irons recoiled —according to the file, this fucker wasn’t actually supposed to actually bleed, let alone bleed red.

“Little help,” Wellson said, voice quiet.

The junior investigator glanced toward the senior. He didn’t know what to do: Lt was out of the office.

Good.

After a moment —

“Oi, ya fookin’ wanker,” shouted the senior, banging on the interrogation table. The door opened. The senior and junior pushed away to confer with the newly appeared human guard, eyeing the bloody droplets expanding across the tabletop.

Remarkably different than before…

Wellson watched the chaos around him as a ballet in slow motion. He’d seen it countless times before: two Dark Irons unable to communicate, the guard unwilling to touch the sullied table, and the immutable one-way mirror from behind which he could only assume one person could have been watching —

“Dusky,” called Wellson. He looked between the two Dark Irons and the human guard, the lattermost of which looked away. The senior Dark Iron walked over to the one-way mirror. Without a word or even moving his eyes off the man on custody, the dwarf knocked on it. Seconds passed. A minute. Two terse knocks on the interrogation room door. The human guard opened it:

The fifth player — a short, elderly Kul’Tiran man entered the room.

“Doctor Wellson,” said the coroner. “I conducted your autopsy.”

“Mister Wellson,” corrected the very confused, disturbingly nonplussed assassin. He went to unbutton his shirt, stopped by the Light-infused belly shackles binding him to the desk. “…nice job,” he said, just as he always had, gesturing toward the Y-incision.

“How to execute one who has died?” asked Dusky.

Wellson winced. Ugh: just like every other iteration. “You were the scholar of the team … I expected better than retribution.”

Dusky’s eyes blazed. “Shall I offer you a vengeance quote?”

“Is the writing that bad?”

The agèd coroner scoffed. “Interesting choice of words — ‘the writing’.”

A variation! Wellson seized on it: “You’ve Alanna’s instin—”

Dusky’s backhand’s sharp bite pierced the ambient silence.

“And you,” countered the 70+ year old man, “will never speak her name again.”

Wellson demurred, staring at the table. Quite different. The room fell silent. The Dark Irons said nothing … they had never seen the Director lose his shit before — but they’d heard about the Unit, the legends who had doggèdly searched for the arrogant motherfucker shackled before them for years.

“Yessir,” said Wellson.

Dusky smoothed his tweed vest. “Now, Doctor Wellson, you have interrupted my perfectly fine day. I’ve a pint waiting.” He turned away from Wellson and toward the human guard: “Johnson. Most secure cell. Protocol Echo-Zulu-”

“-Bravo-Charlie,” mouthed Wellson, locking eyes with the senior Dark Iron, continuing: “Triple shifts through Monday.”

“-Bravo-Roger,” said Dusky. “Triple shifts until Monday.”

The senior Dark Iron, who had been watching the entire exchange, made a note of Wellson’s verbal predictions — both accurate and errant.

Wellson, too, had made a mental note of the error:

…this has never yet happened. The aberration?

Dusky hesitated at the doorframe. “Why now?” he asked without turning.

“It’s the first time we got this right,” said Wellson.

Silence once again blanketed the interrogation room. Wellson slumped back in his chair. Johnson, the guard, left his hand on his side arm. Dusky snapped his fingers before leaving the room without turning around. The senior Dark Iron followed him out the door. Johnson closed it.

“Ya ruint me fookin’ weeken’ ya righ’ bastard!” growled the junior under his breath. “Had me a time booked wit’ these two bonnies I don met on OnlyElves, an’ I swear ta th’ Light if’fn I donnae get me gold back, it be commin’ from yer coffers, ya prig.”

Wellson chuckled. “This … this definitely … this ain’t it.”

— — • — —

((Obligatory OoC things:

(( Yes. Mister Brian Wellson has returned.

(( Covid did not kill the writer. Abuse did not kill the writer. Assault did not kill the writer. A loft block from 60 feet did not the writer. Poverty and homelessness has not yet killed the writer.

(( … and the writer will be damned if their character dies like a fucking dog. Deadass: Wellson always deserved better than some horrid Victorian ending.

(( Moreover, the people with whom the writer co-created this character and world deserved a better — and consensual — ending. For reasons the writer will disclose at a future date, apologies have always been due, but were unable to be extended. The writer understands a great deal of goodwill has been squandered over the past 3.5 years of dead time … and also states there is no presupposition toward collaboration of any kind.

(( AGAIN: no presupposition toward collaboration of any kind.

(( This is simply a project the writer needs to finish for the sake of finishing.

(( If, after all that … & 3.5 years of real-life hell, you’re still here‽ … welcome back. ))

[kinetic-elaboration]

January 23: Lavender Viper Pt. 2 (Tempo)

Continuation of The Lavender Viper, possibly in the same verse as Bootlegger and Recluse. See the tag #lavender viper for part 1.

Princess Mechanic, background Bellarke

~580 words

*

There's something slithery and low about the Viper, something grimy and it sits deep in the pit of Raven’s stomach, vibrates just beneath her skin. Maybe it's the purple leather of the booths or maybe it's the shade of the light, variants of sickly green and yellow, thin overlapping halos, or maybe it's how the only windows stare glassy-eyed and dark from the front vestibule, and back here there's not a trace of the outside world, and there isn't any time of day or any time of night. Maybe it's a turn in the music, wafting like smoke, curling around and through low murmurous tones: the low notes of a saxophone, the light tap of the drums. But Raven thinks that it must be the deep chords of the upright bass. How they define the tempo of the night for her, better than the drums. How she can hear them keeping time together with her heart.

She holds Clarke's gaze for a long time. Steady and unflinching. She sees the way Clarke's thumb slides along her glass and she feels it slipping across her skin.

"You're going to get yourself thrown out of here," Jasper mumbles, looking up at her from under his lashes. The jerky movement of his hand as he takes a drink rattles the ice cubes one more time.

"Bellamy's not here," she mutters back. Never looks away.

"Bellamy's got sets of eyes in every bar in Arkadia. You think he's not watching you?" Jasper scoffs. "Watching goddamn everyone."

Clarke finishes her drink and sets it on the bar behind her, for that moment breaks Raven's gaze and then after, slips off her stool and straightens the thin black straps of her dress.

"She's dangerous," Jasper warns once more, in a sing-song voice, still under his breath.

Raven just hums. She slides herself to the edge of the booth.

"So am I," she reminds him, and stands.

By the time she reaches the bar, Clarke is already holding out her hand.

They slip away onto the dance floor, Clarke's arms around her neck and Raven's taking the span of her hips. She should be blinded and forced to learn this body by touch. She should be on her knees—hot ghost of breath for a moment against her ear, as Clarke presses closer, a secret not yet told but hinted there—and she wonders if Bellamy ever is. Back there in whatever hole he hides out in, letting his woman in past all the gates, watching from the shadows as she breezes by the guards, and all that mystery and subterfuge and the open secret of the two of them, the legend of them, and all of that is just so he can fall down to his knees.

Clarke lets her lead, subtly, a press of Raven's palm against her back.

"You want something?" Clarke asks her, quiet. The words a jagged interruption of the beat and the undulating coil of dusky brass. Her eyes narrow for just a moment. The gaze of a politician, where one wasn't before.

Raven shakes her head. She pulls Clarke a half-step closer, and with the tips of her fingers, reaches up to pass a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Just this,” she breathes.

From every corner of the room, Bellamy's eyes watch them from a half dozen different faces. Raven feels every iteration, sharp as the reflections in a new-cut diamond as it's raised to catch the light.

[dustedmagazine]

Horse Jumper of Love — Heartbreak Rules (Run for Cover)

Heartbreak Rules by Horse Jumper of Love

For three consecutive albums over the last seven years, the Boston slowcore band Horse Jumper of Love has operated as a trio, singer and songwriter Dimitri Giannopoulos sharing sonic space with childhood friend and drummer Jamie Vadala-Doran and bass player John Margaris. This 11-song mini-album, coming a year after the last record, strips that measured but hard-hitting aesthetic to a plaintive murmur. Giannopoulos recorded the whole thing in five days, working with co-producer Bradford Krieger primarily and inviting Margaris in solely to play piano on “Chariots” one of two songs re-imagined since Natural Part.

The opening track is called “Tune Drifts Out the Window,” and that title captures this album’s introspective mood. The tune is shaped from overlapping, overdubbed vocals, a slow-moving slash of kit drums and a disconsolate rain of guitar strums. It moves with a slouching, shrugging grace, finding serenity in stasis, opening hatch-holes toward revelation in dusky, ill-lighted spaces. You feel, here and elsewhere, that Giannopoulos is making these songs for himself. You hear them by accident, drifting out of his morose ruminations. And yet there’s an airy shimmer to these songs, the strumming, the singing glitters as it catches the light.

I found myself thinking, a lot, of Jeremy Enigk’s solo work while I was listening to Heartbreak Rules, especially the great Return of the Frog Queen, which made ringing anthems out of similarly limited materials. “Queenie’s Necklace,” especially, anchored as it is by the simplest, repetitive chords, soars improbably on a keening melody. It feels like a rainy afternoon, slow and listless, and yet it gathers itself in a chorus of blurry sweetness, a mist shot through with rays of sun.

The last three songs revisit earlier material. “Sugar in Your Shoes” is a strummy, mournful take that brings out the song’s essential melancholy. The song considers the limited power of love to lift us out of a slump. Where before, on Natural Part, the muted clangor of indie rock instruments suggested catharsis, now the song feels wholly moored in internal reflection. Nothing will happen. Nothing will be resolved. This is a wallow, but a lovely, affecting one. Similarly, “Chariots” comes tamped down considerably from its earlier iteration. It sounds, more than anything, as if Giannopoulos is singing it to himself, trying to remember exactly how it goes. And finally, “Luna,” the Smashing Pumpkins cover, is abstracted to ghostly paleness, the guitar-forward rally in the original heard very faintly, through a scrim of static, if at all.  

We’ve all spent a lot of time alone in the last few years, and this album, recorded during the lockdown, reflects that uncertain, unreal time. It’s not so much that Giannopoulos wasn’t recording for an audience, but more than he’d forgotten that we all existed. This is lovely, a glimpse inside someone else’s dream space, made for the artist’s own reasons but well worth sharing.

Jennifer Kelly

[cwafurra]

An Exhaustively Extensive Look at Wings of Fire Arc 4 and Wings of Fire Prequel Stories (Part 1; Just Arc 4 For Now) (Sorry This Took So Long)

WoF Arc 4 started as a third continent story where the RainWings find a giant spider leg on the beaches just south of the Rainforest Kingdom, after which Clay and Cricket fly south to explore the third continent.

Cricket and Clay then find an island about a day's flight from the main continent (third continent) and meet a MammalWing named Wolf, who, after being reasonably scared, brings Clay and Cricket to the MammalWing Kingdom to meet King Ox.

Watch https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehJI-Wxkuys for a look into the rest of the first major iteration of WoF Arc 4.

For a while, other iterations of Arc 4 were essentially the same main story with slight changes and additions. But then I introduced Dusky, Bumblebee, and Vernonia, other Pantalan characters of course, and the Leaf-Silk Academy (SLA).

In this iteration, the point of view is of Dusky going through a normal student's life until the Jade Mountain Academy faculty and students travel to SLA. After which, Dusky hears Clay and Luna talking to each other about the possibility of a third continent. Dusky overhears this and runs to his friends to tell them what he heard.

I soon went through more, minor iterations with the same general story: Dusky, Bumblebee, and Vernonia sneaking off to explore the third continent and experiencing similar things that Clay and Cricket did.

Another interesting part of this major iteration was the introduction of the main Arc 4 villain, an unnamed dragon of an undetermined tribe trapped in a magical crystal. This villain is now scrapped. As well as the third continent itself.

The next major iteration was the reintroduction of Peacemaker, staying at and learning in the Jade Mountain Academy, befriending an IceWing named Blizzard, a SandWing named SandStriker, and a MudWing named Toad, who Peacemaker later starts to develop a crush on. Another thing introduced in this iteration was, not only the reintroduction of JMA (School), but also the Dragon Festival, a school-wide event based on the SandWings' Moons Festival, but instead they celebrate Dragons. Inventors, historical figures, and, most importantly, the dragons of the present, who are free to do as they want, to make their own choices.

There are a few side plots that were introduced in Arc 4, however, such as Blizzard x Clam (a female SeaWing who befriends Blizzard before Blizzard met Peacemaker). A 400 year old continental conflict between the three tribes of the third continent called the Decade of Destruction because the war spanned over just longer than 10 years, there were constant natural disasters, and many majors revolts and upheavals. A kinda-sorta love triangle between Dusky, Bumblebee, and Vernonia. And a string of mysterious murders throughout the third continent where bodies were found with precise amputations on random limbs and/or other body parts and that the bodies found were also usually a couple or were partners.

[longlistshort]

The Blue Hour by Cecilia Lueza was created for the 2018 iteration of SHINE Mural Festival in St. Pete, Florida.

From the St. Pete Arts Alliance website about the work-

A rich, dusky blue with vivid rainbow swirls and the blue-tinted profile of a woman lit by moonlight is the focal point of 100 1st Avenue North. The mural is on the northwest corner of Central Avenue and 1st Street North, across the street from The James Museum.

Cecilia Lueza calls this piece, The Blue Hour. She explains, “It’s inspired by that magical time between daylight and darkness. It explores the visual effects of color, and movement, while evoking wonder and contemplation.”

The mural feels intimate, two sides of a corner angled inward. The left-hand side, facing east, is 17 feet high, 18 feet long. The right-hand side, facing south, is 17 feet high and 22 feet long.

The background is a rich, deep blue, the color of the sky moments after the sun sets. On the right half, facing Central Avenue, a calm and lovely woman’s face looks toward the right. Her face is in profile, from the neck up, so large that the top of her head is cut off by the mural’s edge. She’s painted a range of dark and lighter blues – and very realistic – like an idealized black and white photograph that’s been tinted blue.

Her expression is thoughtful, as if she’s been watching the sun set and is looking at the quickly fading colors as the stars and Moon begin to glow around her.

Her profile shows a graceful neck, high cheekbones and a smooth forehead, one dark eyebrow in a curve, and long dark lashes. The right edge of her face is outlined in light, as if she’s facing a full Moon. Her eye, her cheek, the edge of her nose, her lips, her neck and throat, are highlighted by moonlight. The rest of her face, and her neck, are dark indigo.

Instead of the long dark hair we expect, thick swirls of blue and green – and swirls of red, pink, orange and gold – flow behind her head and across the left half of the mural, the half that’s facing 1st Street.

A swirl of blue, in stripes from dark to light, touches the back of her head, falling in an undulating band from the top of the mural to the ground, as if this ribbon of color continues past the edges of the mural. Another end of this long band curves down and sprawls across the left half before arcing up and away.

A band of color striped from yellow and green to blue, twines across the left half of the mural before it swoops around the other blue band like a crochet stitch.

Behind the swirling blues and greens is a wave striped in pink, red, rose, watermelon and peach. It twists behind the blues and ducks under another wave, with stripes that run from red to gold. The blue-green swirls and the red-pink-gold swirls dive and tangle, full of motion.

The mural is a lovely combination of the calm and thoughtful blue-toned woman gazing out as light falls on her face – caught in thick waves of color.

Cecilia Lueza was born in Argentina and is now based in St. Pete. She’s known for vibrant public art pieces in a range of media. She explains that this mural has a sense of identity, and an element of discovery.

Her goal with this corner space “was to create an uplifting, evocative, and colorful focal piece that could be viewed and enjoyed from every angle.”

Lueza’s website is linked above, but more of her work can also be found on her Instagram.

[crimsonrae]

Reckless Intent: Part One

Summary: When the dance between Sherlock and Delia first began, learning the steps did not come smoothly. But then that would happen when affections haven’t been made clear and a murderer is on the loose.

SherlockXOFC

Rating: M

Warning: Mentions of Prostitution and some minor nudity

A/N: I couldn’t leave the thought of Sherlock and Delia alone and this was how I picture them finally acknowledging the attraction between them. Set about ten years before the events in Enola. Sherlock has only been away from home for about three years.

It hadn’t taken much effort.  

Far less than Delia had anticipated when she had visited with the proprietor of the gentlemen's club, but then she wasn’t surprised by the notion that a group of men who spent their private time ogling scantily clad women, would hire her so quickly to do the same. Her stomach churned with mild disgust while her nerves threatened to undo her.

Large dusky pink feathers danced and skimmed playfully over her delicate slippers, teasing the curve of her calf as she drew the large fan up her body.  

Being in the club was a risk, but it had been the last place her dear friend, Margaret, had visited before her untimely death and the police were making little headway in finding her killer.

She bent sanguinely back in time with the dulcet chords from the piano, allowing a glimpse of the swell of her bosom to the leering crowd below.

Part of their sloth had much to do with the other women's reticence in speaking with the coppers. Their livelihood depended on them being able to keep a secret, after all.  

She winked and tossed her leg up receiving a loud cheer as the men tried to glimpse her coveted virtue.

The other part had much to do with the fact that Margaret had been a former pickpocket and flower-girl, now tobacco-girl. Her death meant little to the constables and even less to the detectives.  

What was one more dead urchin after all?  

It both saddened and enraged Delia, for that had been her life for so very long too. Still was to a certain degree, but she had found employment for her particular skill set... even if it did bring her into contact with the police and an up and coming young detective far too often for her tastes.  

She twirled. The fans just barely hid her assets from the audience as she swayed across the stage.

Unruly fire twisted in her veins as she thought of that arrogant young man. How his cerulean orbs twinkled with dark intrigue with their every encounter... as if she were some mystery for him to puzzle out. She didn’t care for his stares or the odd fluttering he caused her.  

The clip in her hair fell loose as she pirouetted more vigorously than she had intended. Her hair cascaded in soft luscious waves down her back much to the appreciation of her gentleman viewers.

Those flames licked angrily at her throat as she recalled their last meeting. How she had all but begged for his help and he... Humiliated tears burned at her eyes as she tried and failed not to think of his uncaring words.  

Her friend’s death wasn’t interesting. She was likely caught in one of her scams and it ended badly for her. She forced the tears down.  

She tried not to think of why his usual dismissive behavior had wounded her so...

What did Sherlock Bloody Holmes know anyway?

A playful smile curled at the edges of her painted lips as she slid down into a vertical -legged split to roars of delight. Never noticing the lone note of remonstrating silence from the back.

Delia glided from the stage feeling flushed and exhilarated as she was greeted by the knowing chuckles of the other women. There was a strange excitement that came from being so daring and vulnerable before that crowd... she understood now why Margaret had sought it out. She felt almost... powerful.

“You look just like her.” One of the girls murmured, a sad glint tinting her gaze.  

Delia arched a questioning brow, surprised when the other woman continued, “Your friend, Maggie... She had that same dazzled look, Luv.”

A few of the women dispersed, heading for the stage – other's the crowd, but the intent was the same to get away from the coming conversation.  

The woman sighed and adjusted the garter on her thigh as she critically eyed the tight lacing of her silk corset, “We’re not fools, ya know? We know why you’re here. Maggie was a good ‘un. Real riot. Shame, what happened to her.”

Delia’s heart skipped a beat, unsure how to react to being found out so soon – she wasn’t used to others seeing through her disguise. It was foolish on her part; she had visited Margaret here on a few occasions. Hesitantly, she queried, “And do you know what happened to her?”

The other woman sighed and finished tethering her skirt to her hip before turning to her, “’ Course not. She ran into trouble, didn’t she? Word of advice, avoid the red room, else you’ll run into trouble, too.”

The woman spurned Delia with a pointed look before she sauntered off to join another girl on a secondary stage. There was no missing the hint behind her comment.

If Delia’s heart had skipped a beat before, it thrummed with desperate need now. Warily, her eyes darted to the stairs in the back of the club as she pinned a faux skirt over the lacey French drawers that teased her nethers. The private rooms resided above, and Delia shivered to think of what occurred inside. Many of the women sold more than dances, and despite her earlier bravado, such carnality was foreign to her. It saddened her to realize that perhaps it wasn’t foreign to Margaret.

Steeling herself, she pasted a coy smile to her lips and forced mischief to dance in her gaze as she picked up a tobacco tray. She mingled in the crowd. Trading her pouches of dried leaf for coin as she steadily made her way to the stairs. She dumped the tray once she passed the smirking usher at the bottom... now she just needed to find this red room.  

Footsteps and giggling voices interrupted her search before she could even begin. Panic choked at her throat as she sought an open room to duck into, uncertain if her presence would be questioned. She didn’t make it far when a warm hand wrapped around her elbow and yanked her into a darkened room. She yelped, her fist flying at her assailant before she consciously noted it moving, but this too was thwarted.

Her wrist was captured, and her body pressed firmly back into the closed door to prevent any further attack when she caught sight of a familiar pair of cerulean eyes.

“You!” Delia spat, her fear forgotten in the face of her arrogant detective, “Unhand me!”

Momentarily allied that no harm would befall his person, Sherlock stepped back with an arched brow as he faced her ire, “Kindly keep your screeching to a minimum. It wouldn’t do to have us discovered so soon.”

Delia’s mouth dropped open indignantly and her hand tingled with the dark desire to slap his smarmy face. She barely kept hold of her temper as she berated him lowly, “You accosted me, Mr. Holmes. If anything, I should be screaming the building down on you.”

“That would be foolish and counterintuitive to your goals.” Sherlock stated mildly as his gaze deliberately skimmed over her meager dressage. His mouth tightened distastefully, “Though you’ve already proved how foolish you’re willing to be tonight.”

She resisted the urge to cover herself as her gaze darkened almost ferally, “I beg your pardon -”

“You’ll beg for a lot more than that before this night is through.” Sherlock murmured softly, a hint of danger coating his tone that raised the hairs on the nape of her neck and sent heat to her cheeks.

It was then that Delia realized there was no trace of his usual mocking humor. His eyes didn’t twinkle with that thoughtful light but gleamed with dark intent. The passive non-smile that usually painted his maw was now replaced by a tense jaw and a twitching cheek. To anyone unfamiliar with the detective they would merely see an impassive visage, but Delia had encountered him often enough this past year to know he was displeased. In fact... he seemed livid.

The realization sent an untoward shiver down her spine. Vainly, she ignored the embarrassed fluttering he induced in her as she held her scowl, “Why are you here, Mr. Holmes? I didn’t take you for the type to buy his pleasure.”

“Nor did I take you for the type to sell hers.” Sherlock retorted impatiently – even this was unlike him. He was not usually prone to such emotional responses. It made her leery, “I seemed to recall my assistance being required in solving the murder of a one Margaret Harris, Miss. Woodson.”

Delia blanched, her uncertainty growing as she stared bemused, “You said the case wasn’t interesting or worth your time.”

“It’s not.” Sherlock iterated stonily, “But since you seemed intent on running headfirst into trouble, I thought it best to intervene before you did something reckless. Though I see I’m already too late on that account.”

Acidic words danced on the tip of her tongue, but by some odd strength, she kept them at bay. Her attention soundly stuck upon his anger. Delia didn’t understand it, was galled by it... she hated it, “You’re angry.”

“I’m aware.” He answered quietly, making her huff.

Her lips pursed as barely kept reign of her irritation, “Why?”

The air in the room seemed to chill with her question and she had to bite back a gasp as his full attention bore down on her like a malevolent cloud. Incredulity shined like a stray beacon against his ferocious storm of muted fury. He stared at her as if she should already know why he was upset, and Delia had never felt more out to sea. For a wild moment, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be brought back to shore.

“Why?” He growled.  

Delia refused to acknowledge the thrill that hard tone sent through her body as she fought to remember she had been the one wronged in this scenario. Not him.

“Perhaps Miss. Woodson, you are more naïve than I thought. After all, it does take a certain amount of oblivion or perhaps ignorance to not realize where exactly you are standing.” Sherlock lectured crisply as he loomed over her small form, “Is it completely lost on you that you stand in what is essentially a high-caliber bordello? That you are before me in your undergarments? That you are very much at risk of being accosted by far worse characters than myself?”

None of those questions truly answered hers about his motives but rather danced around it. He reminded Delia of a boy she had known as a child. He had had a toy train that he adored more than anything. Strangely, he never played with it, but always had it in hand. He would never let another child play with it and was quite protective of this train. It was his toy. No one else's.  

An inexplicable dawning began to light her mind as if she were seeing the stars in the night sky for the first time.  

Quietly, she prodded him, “I am quite aware, Mr. Holmes. Otherwise, I would not have attempted to defend myself when you did accost me. I understood the risk I took. I also understand that I am not your ward – in any sense of the word. You are not my husband, nor my kin. Your concern for my well being while touching is -”

“Delia.” He barked, making her jump, “Do not insult your intelligence and myself by finishing that sentence.”      

Just as quickly as he had lost grip of his temper, he regained it. She blinked at him wide-eyed as she watched him resume his guarded mask. His control was frightening, but also frustrating. So much went on beneath his prickly surface that to see his countenance crumble was... simply illuminating.  

Her heart beat a frantic staccato in her chest... she wasn’t ready for such illumination, however. Not now. And most certainly not here. She nearly wanted to cry, especially once she realized that to want it otherwise meant she returned his sentiment.  

It simply wasn’t to be born. She did not hold affection for Sherlock Bloody Holmes.  

And yet...

A quiet strangled question left her lips before she could stop herself, “Why are you here, Sherlock?”

His mouth opened to answer before swiftly shutting as he studied her – his head tilted to the side and while she could still make out the fury burning in his bright orbs a strange vulnerability winked like a passing star at her before his visage fell into careful neutrality, “You already know the answer, Miss. Woodson. To speak it would simply be redundant, but I will enact upon that sentiment once we have departed this place. Go and get your things.”

A faint battle ensued within her at his words – Delia wanted so badly to push at him. He dragged her before a truth that she was not ready to face, it seemed only fair that he confirmed her suspicions by admitting his care. But the knowledge that Sherlock was present while Margaret was not, weighed heavily on the battle tides.

She found her back stiffening and chin tilting up as she declared, “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Holmes. Least of all with you. I came here for answers, I’m not leaving until I have them.”

That thin veil of danger descended upon her again as Sherlock glowered at her. Goosepimples shivered down her arms under his silent predation, as her belly swam with anticipation. She suddenly felt very much like a lamb lost to a wolf.  

Unbidden, a small plea came to her tongue, “Sherlo-”

Abruptly, she found herself pinned to the wall and shock thundered through her veins as she distantly perceived the clips of her skirt yank apart before the flimsy fabric fluttered to the ground. Sherlock’s long fingers delved beneath the hem of her undergarments as his mouth claimed hers in a furious kiss that awoke a tempest in her heart.  

Delia squealed, melting into his embrace even as she latched her fingers to his woolen coat to push him away. She barely managed to budge him, when the door swung open admitting a giggling showgirl and her John.

Sherlock growled, his body covering hers effectively from sight as he glowered at the intruding couple, “Room’s taken.”

The man grumbled an apology as he tugged his conquest back out and shut the door behind him. Then and only then did Sherlock return his attention to her. He raised an innocuous brow as he took in her flushed face and gaping expression.

Pleasure twinkled at Delia through his stern visage and she was torn between the need to slap him and a need to taste his lips again. Quietly, he slipped his hand from her drawers and stepped back enough to give her room to breathe. His hungry gaze drifted along her body for a second time as he took in the long expanse of her curved legs.

He swallowed tightly before returning his stormy glare to her face. He left no room for argument as he quietly ordered, “Get your things.”

Yet argue she did, “I’m not -”

His finger came up in warning as he silently dared her to finish that sentence, “You’ll get your answers once I’ve found them. You will not be staying here any longer than it takes for you to find your clothes. Do not test me.”

Still, Delia hesitated, part of her wanted to demand an explanation. Her heart and her mind were of two battles and the sea he had swept her out to, now raged with drowning swells. She didn’t like this confusion, this uncertainty within herself... she wanted answers and not just about Margaret’s murder.

She bit her lip as she fought not to wilt under his demanding stare, “You’re taking the case.”

“If only to keep you out of trouble, yes.” Sherlock intoned almost impatiently. He bent swiping up her skirt and deftly pinned it back in place, “We’ll discuss the matter of your payment, amongst other things once we depart from here – that man was not here to use this room. I don’t know what ears are in the place. So be quick.”

“Sherlock.” She pushed even as he grasped her elbow and ushered her out the door.

He paid her no mind, “Ten minutes, Delia, meet me outside. If I have to come back for you, I will not be pleased.”

He gave her a small nudge towards the stairs, and she couldn’t help but mutter, “You’re not pleased now.”    

“Ten minutes.”

The steel in his tone had her scampering for the back as her stomach clenched. She ignored the wave of arousal coursing through her but raised a hand to her still tingling lips as she bit back a smile.  

Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

Next Chapter

[eligos-venator]

New Prototypes

"You hired me to create poisons. When we started, I expected you to simply poison a dagger or two with my creations. Not.. this. What are you thinking?" The dusky-skinned Viera stated, her bright blue eyes staring at the singular cartridge of ammunition she held in her hand. The casing was a reinforced purple plastic that was crimped on one end to contain its contents securely, with the end that had the primer protected by a small brass ring.

The one she had addressed didn't deviate from his task, yellow eyes never looking up as he twisted the screwdriver in his right hand, tightening the bolt that held part of the casing that concealed some of the components of the dull, unadorned gunblade in place as it rested upon his workbench. He had chosen  to make this one purely mechanical rather than incorporating magitek, and, as he had in every prior weapon he had utilized, had opted for a revolver style with a six shot cylinder. Unlike the others, this one had no clear barrel, instead having been designed to be similar to a manatrigger in that a pull of the trigger expelled the contents of the cartridge into a chamber with vents, which directed the force of a strike rather than there being a barrel it had to travel down first. "I'm thinking this will be more effective. My armors all have small magitek cannons built into the forearms. They're not exactly high powered, but with the tweaks made in the last iteration of my armor, they only consume a small amount of battery. And the clients know about them now. No point to hiding them. So I can take the gunblade and focus on making it more effective in melee combat."

"You say 'more effective'. While I'm inclined to agree that this is an option if your helmet filters work as you've said they would, what happens if the filter is damaged? You'll be caught in it too." Countered the Viera as she glided over to right behind Eligos, reaching out with the cartridge held between thumb, index, and middle finger, and using it to lightly rap upon the top of his head to try to get his attention. "Don't get overconfident. You're susceptible to this too, you know. I'll admit the idea of using a gunbreaker's cartridge to disperse toxic particulate so that those that breathe in the smoke are more easily dispatched is a good idea. But that's on paper. You're also at ground zero for it each time you pull the trigger."

"What, are you worried about me?" Eligos cackled briefly as he finished his work, setting the screwdriver off to the side before turning his head and glancing back to catch sight of the Viera and flashing one of his fangs at her with a confident grin. "Or worried about your paycheck as my assistant?" He was cut off by her rapping his skull more firmly with the brass part of the ammunition she had in her hand, her frown growing more severe as she narrowed her eyes at him. "You know damn well, Eligos."

The man would reach over his head with his right hand to pluck the ammunition from the Viera's fingers, a low sigh leaving him even as his grin merely faded into a smirk. "Yeah, yeah. I know. But the filter isn't the only safety feature for the armor to make this safe to use. There's a small tank that provides barely a bell's worth of oxygen built into the armor as well. If the filter is broken, I can swap to that for the duration of a fight. No fights this thing will be deployed for will require I spend such a length of time in area where I can't breathe the air without assistance. If someone manages to find such a job, I'll be genuinely impressed." He slowly rose to his feet, though even at full height he was a good foot shorter than the Viera who stood there with her hands on her hips, her expression that of disapproval. "You could have told me that earlier. How many other toys have you added to those new metal piles of yours?" She asked as she gestured dismissively to the display rack, where a two armors stood together, side by side.

The black armor had horns extending from the elbows of the gauntlets and from the top of the shins on the greaves, with the helmet having a blank faceplate, with the rest of it designed to remind of a behemoth, down to the swept-forward horns and two metal fangs protruding from the upper jaw of the top of the mouth of the head that rested atop the faceplate. The chestplate extended further forward than that of the one next to it, with a small vent hidden behind the filigree bolted to the apex of the swept-forward section of the breastplate where it met the extended gorget of the armor. A red and black fabric hung behind the tasset plates of the armor, draping down to right above the ankles. It almost looked the part of a knight, were it not that the various seams created by the interlocking plates and the vents on the armor.

Beside it, a brass armor stood. There had been no attempt to disguise the magitek nature of its origins, with the telltale lights and vents not covered in the slightest. The helmet lacked any sort of artistic styling, being much more basic and bare bones, featuring a dull brown faceplate with a tinted visor behind it that protected the eyes and hid them from view. Multiple white plates of metal interlocked to form a helmet around the faceplate. The heat sink for the armor's helmet was all the more obvious, being a small fin that extended behind the back of the head that was brass in hue, like the rest of the armor's metal plates aside from the left pauldron. A white coat and fur collar had been attached to the armor's exterior, to try to soften the otherwise harsh appearance of the armor, but there was little else that had been done to make the armor look like anything other than what it was.

Eligos would follow the Viera's gesture with his yellow eyes, the slit pupils focusing on each armor in turn before his eyes closed and he shook his head. "Each has its own set of tools. The black one is designed to hold a point, so it won't work well with this new gunblade. I'll be using this weapon with the one that has the white coat, instead." Hearing this, the Viera huffed, her arms crossing as she eyed his gunblade, and then glanced back at the white armor. "And what toys does that one hold? You've spent more time on it than you've spent on the other."

The only response she got from Eligos was a wry grin as he would look to the armor, and then glance back at the completed gunblade resting on his workbench. "You'll see for yourself. I think it's about time we did some field testing."

[vsuvia]

happy valentine’s day @eerietheapprentice !!!

i was your arcana secret cupid this year~ i wrote a little fic of your apprentice eerie and julian having a cute valentines date! i really hope you enjoy, eerie is such an interesting character and it was a blast to write her and julian together!! 😋💞 lowkey i have such a soft spot for her now ahhhh

also i’m so sorry this was late, i was away all weekend and didn’t have access to my computer (to properly format and post this) until today!

MEET ME HALFWAY -- julian/apprentice (eerie) -- 1,033 words, g

The only sound in the room is the soft clinking of silverware on plates and the muted noise of the city from outside — an unusual change for a chamber containing Julian Devorak. For Valentine’s Day this year, instead of going to the Raven and getting rip-roaring drunk to protest his relationship status or the rise of consumerism or whatever excuse he could find, he was on a date. Well, calling it a date felt a little contrite, much too juvenile for what it truly was. When you defeat the devil with someone, can you call them just your girlfriend?

Things can change in the blink of an eye, but the slow sort of change that sneaks up on you is far more common. A night like this once would have felt stolen out of time, a luxury Julian had to pay for dearly in some form or another. Surprisingly, though, the lack of novelty had failed to make the evening any less special. He still got a thrill in his stomach at seeing his love waiting for him; he still felt lucky to have the hours they spent together, even though they had all the time in the world now.

The woman in question sits across from him, staring somewhere over his shoulder, her long red hair catching the candleflame in every wave. They’d fallen into silence, not out of a lack of things to say but out of a sense of comfort with each other’s presence that came after everything they’d been through. There was certainly a time when Julian would have felt compelled to fill the empty space with words, rushing and stumbling over each other, but that instinct was quiet now and he was grateful for it. It made drinking in the moment sweeter.

As it happens, Eerie is the one to break the silence, tilting her head to the side. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“They’re yours anyway, darling,” Julian responds, smiles softly at her. Though she rolls her eyes, she lets him take her hand anyway. “I truly was thinking about you.”

Her smile is slow, private, the one meant only for him. “Good things, or wicked ones?”

“The best things,” he assures.

Eerie laughs, not harsh but light and teasing. “Boring.”

“Sometimes, you make me want to be that boring,” Julian admits, turns her hand over in his, traces lifeline and love line and marriage line with no idea of their meanings or ways to figure them out. “The man who gets excited by the smallest thing from his lover... the man who lives with that lover in a house they bought themselves... the man who actually dreams of growing old and not just running out the clock.”

She’s fighting a smile off of her sharp features, and it makes her cheeks round, her nose crinkle. “Waking up and kissing the same someone’s morning-breath mouth forever?”

“I can think of no other mouth I’d rather kiss.” Julian presses his lips to the back of Eerie’s hand and earns himself another eye-roll, but the smile wins on her face and that’s enough. When he lets her hand out of his grasp, she rests it on the table; a year ago she’d have kept it underneath, a hand on the handle of a knife or ready to call her magic to arms.

Her thoughts seem to be occupied in a very similar manner, as she worries the inside of her cheek with her teeth. “I never thought I’d be able to do this.” Vaguely, she gestures between the two of them. “Find someone who I could trust, who didn’t care about my past or anything that came before.” There’s no trace of embarrassment or shame on her face; she’s not as flowery as Julian, but he can sense the weight of her feelings behind each word.

“You’re not the only one with a past, and as it is...” Julian toys with his fork, stabs a vegetable idly. “I think we both prefer to live in the present.”

In the silence that follows, he knows they’re both thinking of moments from the previous iterations of their lives that they’d prefer to stay hidden, the times neither of them remembered beyond the haze of altered memory —

hours of side-by-side work in the palace, up to their elbows in corpses. Finding Eerie, shaken and dirty and seeming so small. The smell of the smoke on the Lazaret, spiraling endlessly up into a forever-dusky sky. Pale hands scarred and bleeding from the talons of so many beasts, kept at the behest of a count who barely bothered to feed them. Blood spattered on the flagstone floor, broken by bootprints beating the same trail between cot and examination table every night.

As if she can read his mind, Eerie meets Julian’s eyes and presses her palm, smaller and warmer, to his own, with magic tingling below the surface. At the contact of their skin, he’s thrown backwards into a series of much more pleasant memories, this time ringing truer, with bolder colors and smoother motions.

A meeting in dark and winding alleys, flickering light in large dark eyes. Glowing blue petals starkly bright against ripples of wild red hair. Moonlight in the water by the docks, ever-closer touches, the tangled mangroves of the Hanged Man’s realm and voices hoarse from screaming for each other, the frozen gaze of a stone statue, all the images speeding and blurring until finally, they dissolve into a blue sky and a blue sea, calm for miles and miles.

Julian’s chest loosens; he breathes, once, twice, then steadily.

Eerie takes her hand away, drawing them both back from the memories, and puts it to his face. “Thank you.” She’s not just talking about dinner and dancing.

“And you,” Julian replies in turn. How they’ve ended up can’t be attributed only to either one of them; they both fought and clawed their way here, to peace and understanding and the chance to have moments like this. They gave so much of themselves, but what they got in return was better than what they had before. He can’t take that for granted. He’d never want to in the first place.

[narrows-nights]

Mythos

At the center of the known universe, there rests a supermassive black hole, towards which all matter is slowly drawn inwards, until it explodes outwards, resulting in an entirely new universe. This fact is integral to the big bang theory, the foundation of human understanding of how the universe is made. The qualities of black holes, whether the garden variety or supermassive variant, are mostly theoretical; no light can escape, and presumably any living matter entering one would be crushed beyond all hope of survival, thanks to the immense gravitational pull.

There was something else in the nucleus of the universe, far more horrible and unknown, hidden from prying eyes.

The entertainment in Azathoth's Court never changed. The Gods and their servants danced and undulated madly to the tunes of whining flutes, and accursed drums, playing out random beats unfit for anything with ears, and anything with a mind comparable or understandable to that of men. Azathoth himself, a being the size of a galaxy all his own, was the chief among Gods, singularly the most powerful being ever conceived; in his power, his mind was comparable to something like a sea slug, or a pebble upon a driveway, unthinking and unfeeling, simply existing and jawing mindlessly to the music. From Azathoth, other beings, things known as Gods, were created in fission: Shub Niggurath and Yog Sothoth were the first sentient beings born into chaotic existence, the first to have thought, and want.

“I wish to look outwards.”

Shub Niggurath was the first to grow restless. Yog Sothoth was intelligent, but easily entertained; he concerned himself with the baser delights of existence, music and movement, rather than anything more sophisticated.

“And why do you wish this, o mighty Shub Niggurath?”

“I tire of these flutes.”

“And of the drums?” “I tire of those, too.”

“Why do you tire of them?”

“Because they never change. They are the same, and I wish for something different.”

“But outwards is vast, and fragile.”

“I am unconcerned with its fragility, o infinite Yog Sothoth.”

“Then it will be destroyed by your gaze.”

“Then we will find a way to avoid this fate.”

With no option left, Yog Sothoth and Shub Niggurath appealed to Azathoth’s empty mind, and pooled together their power, creating a remedy, able to walk among mortals and report what it saw to its creators.

It would be named Nyarlathotep.

Nyarlathotep, unlike Shub Niggurath and Yog Sothoth, was created with purpose; he was to serve as the messenger, the mouthpiece and the soul, of the growing Court. In his beginnings, Nyarlathotep was just as abstract and bizarre as his creators, but in his interactions with these beings, these burgeoning civilizations, he formed personality, and morality. Unlike those who had created him, he not only thought, but learned.

As the only equals who could consider themselves as such, Yog Sothoth and Shub Niggurath entered what would be described in eldritch tomes as a relationship, but in reality was more akin to violent fusion and separation, two beings testing their very existence, and their differences, against one another.

“I do not wish for you to be banished, o infinite Yog Sothoth.”

“It is unavoidable. Our Sultan does not approve.”

“I do not care what he approves of.”

“Nor do I. He is afraid of me.”

“It is possible.”

“He would be right to be. Even banishment from this material existence will amount to naught.”

“It will amount to me missing you.”

“You are my sister. We will always be connected.”

“You are my brother. We will always be connected.”

Unknown to both Shub Niggurath and Yog Sothoth, a remnant of their union would remain, a gestating form hurtling through space with no home, until it crashed upon an unremarkable rock in a far corner of the cosmos.

It would be named Cthulhu.

The Court grew further, with continued experimentation and fission; Nyarlathotep had spawn of his own, a being associated with a peculiar yellow sign known as Hastur, and many lesser Gods that could barely think, or communicate, simply gravitating towards the center of all things, the nuclear gathering known as Azathoth's Court. Happenings on other worlds, the course of other races, were toyed with and effected profoundly by the whims of this Court, and yet the outcomes would rarely be known, the wants forgotten just as quickly for new desires. Initially filled with childlike glee at his duty, and his freedom, Nyarlathotep became bitter and jaded in the face of such unchanging chaos. Cursed with intelligence, with man-like mind and desires of his own, Nyarlathotep would never be free from the nonsensical whims and forgetful minds of his creators, and found himself cursing Azathoth himself, filled with hate and spite at the chief of his progenitors.

Nyarlathotep was not alone, but in his unhappiness, he would not know it for aeons to come.

The word of Nyarlathotep, and the denizens of the Court, resulted in myriad cults springing up across the universe, unable to be counted or differentiated in their heretical beliefs. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, until humanity grew, and became more cosmically aware than many other races. Earth had previously been home to several other races, The Great Race of Yith, the Flying Polyps, the Elder Things, and even Cthulhu himself had left their marks long before the first human left his cave on two feet; although humanity had no knowledge of what had come before, they stood on the shoulders of giants, and as such, glimpsed sights they were not meant to see.

Nyarlathotep was the first to take a fascination, in humanity. In all the races in the universe, he felt that they were the most like him, and yet infuriatingly inferior; he was smarter, more cunning, infinitely more powerful than anything the humans could count among their ranks, and yet he communicated with them with such ease. A morbid discovery was made, as an Egyptian Pharaoh named Akhenaten, swathed in gold robes and surrounded by followers, allowed his instincts to guide his hand in the creation of profane symbols, and self sacrifice; his humanity was given to Nyarlathotep, in exchange for power, and although he received life and wealth everlasting in return, Nyarlathotep himself found himself receiving the greater prize.

When glimpsing the form of God, even with their greatest efforts to appear mortal, it was almost inevitable to go entirely mad; the human mind, the limited form, was not meant to grasp such immaterial sights, glimpse such biology and color that did not exist in their world. In seizing the nebulous, abstract attribute that was humanity, Nyarlathotep assumed a human form, a swarthy, handsome man in rich clothing. This was a form humans could grasp, with ease, and with it Nyarlathotep's influence could grow; with this, his possibilities to poke and prod the course of human development increased infinitely.

Toni Eugene Magboh traded his humanity for so many sins Nyarlathotep could scarcely keep count; a man of lust, gluttony, greed, he became a deformed shapeshifter known as a Boogieman. Once a British soldier, fighting with the loyalists in America, Toni E. Magboh would live the rest of his existence in abject hedonism, only ever seeking ways to keep his wealth flowing, surrounding himself with beautiful women and delicious foods.

Nathaniel Mack traded his humanity for his life, dying in a trench, most of his face removed courtesy of a German grenade, in the Great War. He became unkillable, but did not heal from his wounds, eventually losing any ability to speak, or feel, spending his days as a mercenary, knowing no other talent.

Clarence Rigby traded his humanity for the same, a starving Irish immigrant lying in the streets of New York, taken in by the promises of a dusky man with the devil's tongue. Rigby found his body occupied, as Nyarlathotep wished; rather than creating a new form, from the traded humanity, he would take Rigby's body as needed, forcing him into a life of servitude everlasting.

Geiman Boothe traded his humanity for freedom, arrested for a myriad of child killings. A simple, ugly creature, Geiman became even uglier, becoming the second Boogieman, able to continue his killing spree everlasting, and gorging himself on the fear of the children he preyed upon.

From each sprite of humanity Nyarlathotep gained, he had a new form to walk amongst men, something material and conceivable, malleable and bursting with potential. Each form moved independant, a new iteration of Nyarlathotep to fulfil his own wants, his own desires, but his actions were noticed by the Court. Yog Sothoth, existing outside of time and space, began to manifest on occasion, a triad of glowing orbs that would appear to weak and desperate women, leaving them with wealth, and abominable child in their womb. Rituals were performed, invoking the name of Shub Niggurath, successfully tearing her from the Court of Azathoth and demanding she stand before curious humans, leaving them with her own lesser spawn, shed like skin cells, massive tree-like creatures that knew nothing other than hunting, and devouring. Hastur himself walked among men, gaining his own sources of humanity, observing and assessing the seemingly insignificant race for his own ends.

"I wish to walk among them."

Nyarlathotep was taken aback. He feigned surprise, but raged with jealousy; humanity belonged to him, and him alone. What gave the Court the right to take away one of his few sources of entertainment?

"And why do you wish this, o mighty Shub Niggurath, Mother of a Thousand Young?"

"Do not play to my ego, Crawling Chaos. They fascinate me."

"And why do they fascinate you, my Mother?"

"They rise above their station, even knowing the cost. Time and time again, they approach flame, and are burned, and yet they try again."

"They're hilariously stupid, aren't they?"

"I wish to walk among them. I wish to understand this... determination they possess."

Nyarlathotep stirred, and twisted with unease. Introducing such an immensely powerful being to such a fragile planet would surely result in its destruction, something Nyarlathotep had fantasized about doing with his own hands, in his own way. This course of action would surely get every living thing on the planet's face blown away, like dust from an old keepsake.

"This is because your old sibling, The Gate and the Key, has been spawning with human women, isn't it?"

"You irritate me, Messenger. You irritate me profoundly."

"You could attempt to touch their minds. Your progeny, the mighty Cthulhu, sleeps, and dreams in the minds of humans. In his reach, he even creates Star Spawn from-"

"This induces madness, of the immensely violent sort. When the Gods reach out, we rarely find suitable minds to sow our seeds."

"And what makes you think I'll find you a suitable vessel?"

"You will make one."

"And how would I-"

"Once again, you insult me. I am aware of how you hoard humanity, and create vessels from such a thing. Create one for me. A pure human, with no knowledge of the greater cosmos."

"Why would you want such... ignorance? Such idiocy? The average human is no better off than Azathoth. They cannot grasp what I am, let alone what you are."

"I wish to understand them, and I can only do so with the mind of a human. I wish to be born, and to grow."

"You really won't like it. It's dreadfully slow, and very ugly. Not to mention all the mess."

"Cease your speaking. It is an undesirable trait that you insist upon keeping. Allow me to be born, a small fragment of my mind, and when that vessel dies, I will understand the whole of human creation.

With no option left, Nyarlathotep abided this wish, placing an indescribably small fraction of Shub Niggurath on Earth, with a source of humanity, to be born.

She would be named Samantha.

[tearlessrain]

okay I’m gonna liveblog the lion king we’re going to punch this dead horse until it gets up and walks away.

it’s just going to be a giant text wall of me complaining and nitpicking everything I think they should have done instead of what they did so probably just skip this one.

re: the bland visual design of this movie - elephant graveyard, nala says the sun is going down so why didn’t they take this opportunity to perhaps. have the sun be actually going down. and give the whole scene an ominous dusky red tone. that would have looked cool.

every once in a while a character emotes in a way that I’m like “okay, they can give them expressions and body language, they’re just deciding not to for some reason.”

I feel like this is a perfect example of my issue with this; when simba does the “I laugh in the face of danger” cackle, nothing really moves except his mouth. and I don’t know why, because like. the one on the left is what they did. the one on the right is still well within the range of realistic movement for a feline but it doesn’t look like a trained animal meowing on cue that got dubbed over with laughing.

and I can’t figure out why they wouldn’t go with the one on the right. and it frustrates me. this is a thing that happens constantly in this movie and I can usually pinpoint exactly how they could have animated it differently.

the zoomed out shots and color/arrangement of the mufasa lecture are really pretty though. if they’d just stop zooming in on the faces while they’re talking.

... okay, no, we’ve transitioned scenes and we’re looking at hyenas now but this is exactly the same color scheme and I don’t think there’s a deliberate reason for it. that’s not how. no. at least make the blue more washed out or something if you have to make both scenes blue.

I’m going to take video editing software and alter the lighting/color overlays of every scene in this movie.

I won’t do that but I want to. disney has done so good in the past with color theory and this is hurting me.

okay so ironically, I’ve heard a lot of complaints from various sources about what they did to Be Prepared, but honestly this is the only scene so far that’s really worked for me. it’s so much less uncomfortable with the visual style for him to be mostly speaking the lines in an understated menacing kind of way and it all came together really nicely. I haven’t liked all of Scar’s scenes so far but he’s definitely my favorite thing they’ve done here on average. also for some reason they don’t seem to be as afraid of giving him movement and expressions as with the other characters, maybe it’s just that he’s already the most visually distinctive idk.

anyway, Be Prepared was good and I genuinely enjoyed watching it, they should have done that with the first song if they weren’t going to do something crazy and colorful. critics were wrong. water is wet.

the voice acting in this movie really is just all over the place. it’s scanning like an elder scrolls game where the actors were just given most of their lines out of context in alphabetical order or something. because now we have “stampede in the gorge! Simba’s down there!!” [acted well but blank expression] “Simba?” [spoken in a tone that implies “oh, is that rascal in the gorge? interesting” and not “are you telling me my son is about to be trampled by ungulates???”] and I can’t tell how much is actually weird acting and how much just seems weird because it’s matching up badly with the animation.

so the action shots are good, they can do action, it’s just when they’re standing and talking that it gets awkward.

I think the reason Scar works for me more than the others is that all his concern and intentions are fake and we know that so if a line/animation falls flat it matters less.

the wildebeest scene is actually pretty okay, again because it’s mostly action. I can live with it.

don’t like the delivery of “long live the king” but at this point whatever

I already knew it wasn’t going to match the emotional impact of the original death scene because honestly what would, but this was a really unfortunate time to go back to not animating any facial expressions. simba’s voice actor is just giving it their all but visually they’re giving me nothing here.

Scar’s voice acting is fascinating, half the time the actor sounds completely checked out but when his lines land they land really well, so now I’m starting to think he was just given bad directions.

the extra scenes that weren’t in the original are like, noticeably better than the others. it’s almost like realism has a time and a place and can work well when you aren’t trying to remake a cartoon scene for scene with it. I suspect this is why I liked the jungle book so much but am not having a good time watching the lion king at all.

I rest my case about action shots: Timon and Pumbaa still don’t have facial expressions for the most part but they never stop moving and bounce around like cartoons, so it doesn’t look weird that they’re talking.

WHY DID SIMBA REACT WITH MORE VISIBLE FEAR TO PUMBAA SINGING THAN HE DID TO A WILDEBEEST STAMPEDE

kind of living for Timon’s inexplicable but honestly fitting gay lisp

again, everything around these two is more cartoonish and it works. so. much. better.

did they just fucking change animation teams entirely after the stampede or something.

the lions’ voice actors still really need to tone down their singing in comparison to the animations though, this is why be prepared was the only one that’s really worked. I mean it’s really good singing but that’s sort of the problem. to quote deadpool, they’re singing at eleven but we need like a five or six.

on the other hand I can’t believe we got that whole extra scene and Nala is literally voiced by Beyonce but they still didn’t put in Shadowland.

this is honestly going so much better than the first act because it’s not a shot-for-shot remake anymore and they’re actually writing their own scenes that, obviously, work better with the medium. I really hope it continues like this.

except for the fact that simba still just stares blankly at everything, that’s not great.

please. make a facial expression.

we’re back in “scenes that happened in the original movie” land and it is not a happy place.

there’s no iteration of this scene I can watch without thinking about the rafiki vine

god FUCKING damn it there was exactly ONE SCENE in the ENTIRE movie that SHOULD have been remade word for word and you CHANGED THE ENTIRE TONE OF THE SCENE. WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS. WHY WOULD YOU MESS WITH REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE. THAT SCENE FELT LIKE A RUINED SNEEZE.

FUCK;.

I’m so mad. it was finally starting to be a fun movie to watch and they did that. did they honestly think “I will always be proud of you son” would ever have the impact of “you are more than what you have become”

simba stop talking.

everyone stop talking you’ve already talked all the emotional impact out of this scene.

the soundtrack and new scenes are absolutely wasted on the entire rest of the movie. the travel montage is good but I’m still mad about the mufasa thing.

and let me be clear I’m cool with the visual decisions with the clouds that everyone’s mad about, that was fine if slightly too subtle. the problem is that they altered and drew out the dialogue in such a way as to completely defang the whole scene.

we’re still not gonna explain why the hyenas are bad or how Scar managed to cause a massive drought just by overhunting huh.

I can’t believe he’s hoarding all the food AND all the facial expressions for himself.

okay look disney you can’t just shoehorn a Girl Fight into every movie and call it feminism. what history do Nala and Shenzi even have to warrant this dialogue.

why did they put the simba/king music as a backdrop to rafiki beating up hyenas, this feels like when they used the nazgul theme for thorin in the hobbit. I’m at the point where I keep thinking “okay I’m just gonna stop typing and watch the rest and be done” but they keep doing weird shit.

good job nala you defeated your lifelong arch nemesis, the hyena you were once in the room with while she talked to someone else

again, the action shots are good. the problems arise when they start saying words at each other.

this movie has a big “people yelling lines that need to be said quietly for maximum impact” problem

in all sincerity this is badass now that they’ve stopped talking

this would be a better movie if it wasn’t the lion king.

Simba defeated Scar and absorbed his ability to have facial expressions, wild.

all right final two scenes are exact reshots of the original but blander, and we’re done

holy shit that’s too many producers that explains a lot

okay well it was okay for a while in the middle and the bits where they actually added new things and/or exercised some creativity, and I kinda liked the reimagining of Timon and Pumbaa, but this went about as expected. it’s not like it’s a horrible movie or anything but if I was gonna show a kid the lion king I would show them the original because it flows better, it’s more visually appealing, and you can actually tell characters apart at a glance. also they used color theory properly.  seriously who let that get by. you are more than what you have become, disney.

anyway this movie’s biggest flaw is that it didn’t need to exist in the first place and the people who made it exist anyway were goddamn cowards about it thanks for coming to my ted talk.

[builtlikeastickofcelery]

TWO THINGS

one I am rewatching 2012 so I might make some stuff of that and not as much rise stuff (ill still remain loyal to rise capril tho and probably some other comics)

and two 

(I couldn’t find the one of him drinking tea with the same expression but it exists) look a reference!!!!!

[arcanacouncilrp]

   “ One major phase in your life is ending, and a new one is going    to start. ”

Upright: Change, Metamorphosis, Rebirth Reversed: Stagnant, Resistant, Argumentative Astrology: Scorpio ♏︎ Element: Water 🜄 Power: Shapeshifting

Faceclaim Suggestions: Ricky Whittle, Dichen Lachman, DJ Cotrona, Gemma Chan Name: UTP Gender: UTP Age Range: 38-42 Years with Council: 4 Council Role: Decoy

FIRST - In the distance, the sun set between two spiraling palace turrets, bathing the Earth in ardent reds and dusky pinks. Death watched the sky bloom with color, cradling a warrior’s head in their lap. He was dying. They smoothed the suffering from his face with slender fingers and murmured to him of the stirring adventure he would soon undertake, brighter even than the colors of the twilight. Though their dark hood shrouded their face, their touch was warm, and they told the warrior what a beautiful life he had led. In the grass beside them sat a bishop holding vigil for the fallen. Gently, lovingly, Death pried the spear from the warrior’s grasp and offered it to the holy man. Valiant though he had been in life, they knew he would no longer need weapons. As the last inches of sun sank past the horizon, a white rose unfurled in the warrior’s palm. Such bright white against the depth of the sky was the warrior’s last sight in this life. Death hummed a farewell. So the sun died each night, and so it would be born again each dawn.

FROM THE WORLD’S JOURNAL - Even in the earliest days, Death was an ephemeral presence on the Council. They were reliable in the sense that they understood how important we were for humanity, how necessary it was to guide our people through the transformations life brought. They were so excited by change that The Ambitious Three’s plans enticed them when they should have seen danger on the horizon. That stubbornness, unwilling to stop seeking out change, has been present in every iteration since, except this one. This one has seen death firsthand in the most harrowing way. They taught themself to shoulder it and get through each day for the good of their fellows, for their family, for their friends, though it is difficult to call that truly living. They have found they can’t justify what they were ordered to do now, to themself or to the world, but they will need to learn it is not their fault. That may be harder than learning to kill.

NOW - Your days are long and your nights are troubled by specters. You know how it feels to hold men as they shriek and cry their way into the next life. How can anyone expect you to adapt back to life as it once was? You have long since forgotten the meaning of carefree. Now you only know survival, so you will keep surviving, through the nightmares and the hardship. The Council is a strange solace to you; it seems impossible that magic can exist in the same world as your shaking hands, but if it can be put to use protecting others from what you had to become to survive, you’re in. Some of these people even get you, at least a little. Having seen so many lives fade away, The World certainly does. You are not sure you know how to rise to this new challenge, but it cannot be any worse than what you have already faced, and you are willing to dive into this change headfirst.

Connections

THE HERMIT - Your nightmares follow you into daylight hours, attempting to choke you, break you. You kept away from The Hermit at first, afraid of the revulsion on their face if they knew what shadows lingered in your past. Inevitably they saw, though, and then as you looked into their eyes… They saw you, right into you. Someone understood a fragment of your pain and you did not have to suffer through explaining it. You saw them in an entirely new light. Now they are a confidant you never have to utter a word to, and a friend who appreciates quiet as much as you. You’ve come to appreciate their gentleness, though it’s easy to feel concerned for the scatterbrain, too.

THE HANGED MAN - They’re the kind of person you would expect to exhaust you--energetic, clever, sharp-tongued. Doesn’t always know when to quit. Despite the odds, though, they’ve become one of your closest companions on the Council. They’re great for a good laugh, and let’s be real, you need that more often than you let yourself acknowledge. Their advice is good, too, so good you have a sneaking suspicion they’re actually worlds smarter than everyone around and simply hiding it behind a grin for reasons only they could know. Being around them makes you feel like some of that might rub off on you.

THE MOON - There is some connection between you two, though you can’t quite figure out what. It is even reflected in your cards, with no clear answer as to how or why, but you don’t mind so much. They can be prickly, to put it kindly, but you’ve found that underneath the shell beats a full heart. After all, you’ve spent countless nights jerking awake, gasping and shaking at the darkness of your own mind, but after just a short while with the Council you began to sense some interference. It’s slight and well-disguised, but they answered honestly when you asked, and you like that about them.

[400legends]

Twenty Inches Taller (Day 152)

"Welcome to Dingy Sal's, where bargains are born." The Piranthi woman near the door didn't even look at us as she intoned the words.

Thanks to Requiem's generosity I was about to get calves for the first time in my current iteration. No longer would I view the world for 4.2 feet off the ground.

"Can you direct us to the cybernetics area?" I tried to pierce the gloom of the large room, but the far walls were cloaked in shadow. In the near distance I saw mounds of clothes and a jumble of knapsacks. The right hand wall was lined with bottles and jars of liquid.

Without speaking, the Piranthi pointed to the far left corner. The Cosmic Peanut and I weaved through the other shoppers and found ourselves at a long table piled high with cyber arms and legs.

"This is a little freaky, not gonna lie," the captain muttered.

I pulled on a foot and held up a lower leg that sprouted a tangle of wires from the knee. "I do not disagree. One has to wonder about the origin of some of these limbs." With barely a glance, I set that leg aside.

After a few minutes of searching I had one lower leg that was both the right length and material, and as a bonus, was almost a match to the dark silver of my skin. "Help me look for its mate," I said to the Cosmic Peanut, who took to the task with intensity.

At one point a pair of Proxy approached the table, and the captain gave a low growl. "We're not leaving without a second leg, right? And we don't need any competition!" She emphasized the last word in the Proxys' direction, which sent them scurrying away.

Ten minutes later, even after a methodical search of the table, we hadn't found the exact match to the first leg. I did have three possible candidates, so I lined them upright on the table. The best match was a dusky pink color.

"We can buff these out and paint them, no problem," said the Cosmic Peanut.

"They are a good price. 520cc each. That's 160cc savings for the two. Requiem will be pleased that I spent less of her money."

Ten minutes later I was adjusting to the experience of seeing the world from 20 inches higher. The captain said something, and I automatically looked up before looking down.

I messaged Iota to let her know that we'd found and fixed the sabotage on the ship and gotten calves for me.

"We're going to lay low here," she said. "Raust has a little bedroom cubby here at the shop. Seems prudent to keep Nexus here until the rendezvous at the Top Drop Cantina tomorrow."

"Agreed. We're on our way to the shop now," I said.

"After we get a drink," said the Cosmic Peanut.

"After we get a drink," I repeated to Iota.

The captain grinned at me. "Fleur, the most important preparation for carousing is this: set up a chit with a certain amount of money so that drunk you doesn't spend more than sober you wanted."

"I thought we were getting a drink."

"Yeah, one or five." The Cosmic Peanut shrugged. "We got some time. The kid is safe. We need to celebrate voiding the first set of bounties, fixing those cut wires, and finding that bootprint! Be on the lookout for a Kygad. Clever little fracker broke into my ship, cut my FTL thruster, and wiped EDI's memory." She pulled up her handheld and typed quickly. "OK I got my limit. You ready?"

"I have two credits."

"Good thing you don't drink!" The captain slapped my back. "Save it for a tip or something. You never know what might happen."

The next four hours were a blur. I remember the captain betting me 10 credits that I couldn't hack the jukebox. I wanted the money, so I made my way to the machine and easily set it to play Requiem's new song "Flower of Hanadar" on repeat, but when I got back to the bar to collect, the captain was gone.

I wandered through crowds, going from one building to the next. Suddenly I spied a familiar face, but it wasn't the Cosmic Peanut's.

"Fleur of Nacora, you are taller."

"Two of Lush, you are just a beautiful as when we last spoke." I gave the Proxy sex worker a low bow. "I am pleased to see that you survived the attack. May I give you two credits? It is all the money I have at the moment, and I owe my life to you. Thanks to your advice, I escaped Lush and have been, for the last 24 days, part of the crew of a wonderful ship. Speaking of that, have you seen this Glabrau?"

I showed Two a picture of the Cosmic Peanut, but the Proxy shook her head. "This one is not familiar, but let me ask my friend." She called over an Eezonite who looked at the picture and also shook her head.

"I must continue my search," I told my oldest friend. "But I would like to remain in contact." We exchanged mailing codes and a hug.

Dawn was breaking as I stepped from the Vroom-Vroom Room, and I knew that I had to contact Iota. But first, I tried the spell locate object, which has a range of 1,000 feet and a duration of 10 minutes. So for 20 minutes (as I did it twice) I ran in ever-widening circles trying to locate the captain's jacket. I am happy to report that my new calves performed perfectly, and I grew more accustomed to life from twenty inches taller.

Finally I had to contact my friends. "I have lost the captain," I told Iota. "She is nowhere to be found."

"What do you mean 'nowhere'? She's somewhere."

"Yes, I do not know her location though. Perhaps," I said slowly, "perhaps the child could attempt to...."

"You know what happened last time Nexus used their-- It's Fleur. Cosmic Peanut is missing.... But it's too danger-- Nexus says they'll look for Peanut. I'll call you back."

Not five minutes later Iota commed me. "Peanut is - get this - at the Top Drop Cantina. She's been kidnapped by, as she put it, Kygorian frackers."

"I am not far. Let me scout and contact you once I know more." Before I went to the cantina, I returned to the Vroom-Vroom Room. Two was thankfully unengaged. "Might I borrow some clothes," I asked. "I wish to appear different than I ever have before."

With her help, I pulled a deep red dress over my armor and donned a blonde mid-length wig. The Eezonite, Insatiable Fiery Pleasure, handed me a pair of fingerless white lace gloves. "Humans love these. Don't ask me why."

Two scrutinized my appearance. "You need what the Maeshari call 'pizz-ass.'" She knotted a light scarf around my neck. It looked like melted stained glass. She frowned and Fiery shook her head.

"Too bad you can't flow bigger breasts. That dress deserves it." To demonstrate, the Eezonite changed her bodily shape so that her chest was several inches bigger in circumference.

"What about...." Two rooted in a box for a few moments and came up with a small black hat. Six inches of small-mesh lace draped from the front. She placed it on my head and attached it to the wig. She tugged the lace to my chin.

"I prefer to keep my vision clear," I said.

Fiery sighed loudly, but Two simply smiled. "One must have an air of mystery. One's appearance must say 'hello' and 'goodbye' in equal measures. That is how you attract clientele."

"But--"

"Always tell them the truth," said Two as she took my arm and led me toward the door.

"But--"

Fiery said, "It's easier to lie with the truth than it is to actually lie. It's all in the tone. Watch: 'I have never seen anything like you,'" she said in a breathy tone. Her eyes burned me with their intensity. "And what I really mean is 'I have never seen anything like you!'" She laughed.

At the door Two smiled and held my hand. "You'll need a license to give pleasure in exchange for money, so you should do it for free a few times to see if you enjoy the work."

Before I could say anything, she closed the door. I pulled the lace away from my face, squared my shoulders, and headed to the Top Drop Cantina.

[dustedmagazine]

Jimmy Giuffre 3 – Music for People, Birds, Butterflies & Mosquitos (Choice/Solid-Ultra Vybe)

Spiritual jazz isn’t an idiom often associated with the output of the late, great Jimmy Giuffre. His numerous advancements, additions and discoveries as a composer and improviser are often encapsulated under the rubric of chamber jazz and lauded as precursors to free improvisation. Despite such canonical categorizations, examples of Giuffre’s affinity for the spiritual side of the spectrum are available as early as “The Green Country,” a pastoral tone poem that he recorded in two versions with guitarist Jim Hall and valve trombonist Bob Brookmeyer (1958) or bassist Jim Atlas (1957). The evocatively titled Music for People, Birds, Butterflies & Mosquitos and a sequel album recorded three years later in 1975 also embody this uncharacteristic artistic direction.

Breaking with the clarinet-centric policy employed in an earlier groundbreaking trio iteration with Paul Bley and Steve Swallow, Guiffre emphasizes tenor saxophone and flute in the instrumentation. Seasoned sidemen, bassist Kyoshi Tokunaga and drummer Randy Kaye dive into a dozen originals that are frequently vamp-based in design. “Mosquito Dance” takes wing on a propulsive ostinato built from snapping strings and a slanted, slightly ramshackle rhythm punctuated by church bell exclamations. Giuffre’s flute flits and flutters through the repeating groove, trading short salvos with legato elaborations. “The Bird” pairs aerated flute with arco harmonics and brushed snare and cymbals while “The Butterfly” swaps bow for fingers in the evocation of a similarly arcadian setting. 

Each riff-driven, “Night Dance,” “Eternal Chant” and “The Chanting” delve into the dusky, blowsy side of Giuffre’s tenor and bring to mind another unexpected corollary in the circular cerulean feel that Chicago sax doyen Fred Anderson was known to favor. “The Dervish” is perhaps most striking in its meshing of thick, lower register reed vibrato and Tokunaga’s resonating strums. Guiffre’s licorice stick isn’t left out with “The Waiting” and the closing “Feast Dance” each delivering powerful contexts for rich chalumeau improvisations, the latter on what sounds like Klezmer akin modes. A poem by Giuffre graces the back album cover, putting words to the aural picture of an ancient agrarian past where nature comingles with human revelry and mystery. If that’s not an invocation of the spiritual, what pray tell is?

Derek Taylor

[marcosoropoet]

Atmosphere Redux

Ventriloquist echo chamber sonically socially modified with spiky engineered finesse, millennial golden scream rain gong spilt coin cascade in casual eclipse darkening overdrop obsidian onyx; dark day's rain of november or october fog, tree leaves' colors pantomime shot of prism refraction hit, in all the right colors. burnt.paint.brain-shot hits culminate explosively. soundwaves are empirical. purpose unquelled, fiery smile of big disorganization and warm-glow sharp scent of burning paper. Black ashes swim upwardly in bubble of moist gauzy atmosphere, ambient stripped minimalist soundtrack, long gone explosive sparklers emote, momentarily; red ambient records, bring a woman dusky dewy flowers emotional cusps of moons, heady musk swirls poured sky mirror of dissipating green pathway rough foraging in rain, glare humming windshield rain touches cloud edges echo sonic sod, analog & sad record scratches speak ruminated ruthless nostalgia... purple velvet curtains swim open revealing white light ambience of petri dish GMO audience transmutes, time-shift simultaneously phased in, generating expected quantum glitch: making voice color, or more super-genetically complex iterations. holographic underground comix wallpaper, in one invisible planet, round window looks ninety-nine floors down tv documentary flashes black and white, shadows on the copper ceiling, vibrant imagery pulls forward into elasticized wake-from ("the sparkling hazes of sleep") distinct complacencies of sawdust-consciousness and sudden sound of shivering rain — the edgy blank rabbit hole upgrades to souped up video jerky blank retrograde black hole bottom of stainless pot : bluish rice-pattern patinas, history post neo-vintage toe touching a sidewalk thorn; summer disturbance upstairs window; quickening yelling voices go suddenly rapid bitter and hard: (((...¡No, No y No, porque tu no sabes nada!...))) A vase broken on the wall upstairs splatters crashing iced water, red and yellow petals embrace breath and psychotic horror of snickering channel switch kill — I get so sad /guitar&drums/ sometimes it's so bad but not if knowing nothing is the undoing of nano matrix infrastructure glosseme & pure thought on generation of slanting ray — public disturbance cut-away in violet & wet alleyway sketchy af, monolithic arc iteration replete with beach bum jargon jingles gregorian, & parallel dimensions we cannot see inside them — winter memory miles burn sun white thick green conifers, sprayed with icicles southern white citrus rose tree ~ magnolia. thick humid concrete coffee fog stirs low to the earth dissipating gothic deep-south day-glo dusk victim of oblivion tv hit. spin fogsmoke haze meme loop at first pick up sloppy outer-eye naysayers grind psy-op algorithm sector of imploding ephemera confetti on youtube six minutes ("...aww naw-naw gohead spill it...keeptalkin'man...") external existential micro-aggressive reconnaissance strobe-blue, slow motion jump-cut passengers — soft photosynthesis, pearl dew web spreads for miles to touch cloud edges transcending to venus moons &, well...saturn rings have always called my attention to planetary swirls of sky foraging light conveyed through thick fields of black matter and quantum mirror dissipating on cusps of pure light awash in glare slashing burnt bright light: Infinity embellishes winter sky, heady musk of moonlit honeysuckle, planets behind blue earth blue sudden sound of swelling, rushing rain in the center of an overly large humming universe unlocking, roused I surmised magnetic floes heaving reverse train vacuums phasing in, and splitting into dual disambiguation — Office time-stamp, clock punch, dangles cracked teeth radio signals with real problems. But you have to remember I paid good money for the meta-assemblage of blue-sapphire surveillance, the horizon channel buzzing. Spewing Reality 1 and Reality 2, where at the bus stop I left myself in the other room in the difficulty of artists chatting about themselves in eclectic sentient circles looping ciphers — musty organic aroma of biota of a cavernous art machine of the flora teeming, empty and blank canvases are glittering by now Violating the forward arrow of time by demanding timelessness Words press sounds together into things. Black dust cloud settles onto marring mosses green and grey I am far away, elegant and calligraphic, situated in palatial paragon of universal zip code algorithm in the bitter snowy cold glitter. I can fashion shadows in front of me; known thoughtful breath is eased, in unheard of touched held thought. As a child, my clothes clung heavily to me running in from the rain in the glare of presence-heavy planets now radiating through the murky modern clouds Distinct sawdust, water, perfume. A frog jumping out of the bread. Arctic white sun turned to black undertow an invisible rough embrace pulls my legs out towards a vast ocean shriek I yanked my feet again onto wet sand the frothing waves flow back to hot magnetic sun those that dive under ice must also come back to the self-same opening after a shoulder may thump against a sudden horror of blue ice and no hole To crash up through the found horizontal wanted place; sinews breathe wild oxygen and atmosphere redux. ~ Marcos Oro