#hazy-skies art

[hazy-cosmic-skies]

[an-idyllic-novelist]

100 Milestone Event - raiden taeemon with mitsuri!reader! short story 🍡

Here it is everyone, the milestone event for reaching +100 followers! This is also part two of another milestone on my yandere blog!

The link will be here, so definitely check it out first before reading this one! Special thanks to @deathmetalunicorn1 for helping me with the sections I was struggling to write. Not gonna lie, Raiden’s dialogue is a bit hard lol. So with that being said: sit back, relax and enjoy! :)

warnings: canon divergence of manga, violence, strong language.

The moment Raiden Taeemon witnessed the strength of a Hashira is a memory he would never forget.

In Valhalla, there were many activities to entertain the masses such as gambling or martial arts tournaments, but sumo matches have been providing just the right amount of spectacle and violence far longer than any known sport. Even gods had become sponsors to certain dojos, providing funds for more equipment and so forth. Raiden was content with his lifestyle, fighting against strong opponents, eating good food and followed by having some fun with a few girls depending on how much alcohol he drank that night.

Then sumo wrestlers began disappearing from the dojos, one by one. Their remains would be discovered the following morning, torn asunder and…half-eaten. The sight frightened the customers so much that they didn’t dare go outside unless they were absolutely certain that the matches would not last beyond the first rays of the sun setting across the hazy blue skies. Even the gods had begun to worry, believing there was a serial killer on the loose…if you can call withdrawing their sponsorships an expression of anxiety. The masters of the dojos even began restricting the fighters to a curfew, forbidding anyone from going out into the night lest they face expulsion.

But Raiden was tough. He had been the strongest sumo wrestler of his time. He could take care of himself. If someone wants to come after him, he’ll return the gesture wholeheartedly.

After an evening of drinking, he took his usual stroll back home when he heard someone call out to him. Confused and half inebriated, Raiden looked over his shoulder and saw a shivering, drooling, decrepit old man with a large lump on his head. At first he thought something was wrong with him…but that concern changed to alarm when the man split his body up into four younger versions of himself with fashionable robes, fangs, and possessed weapons. One of them even had wings and talons like an eagle!

One of them opened his mouth and released a loud screech with enough strength to make Raiden’s head spin and catapulted him into a building. As he stumbled to get out of the debris, the one wearing red robes thrusted his wooden staff into the ground, lightning bolts spitting from it. Raiden screamed, white-hot pain pulsing through his body.

“This is supposed to be the strongest one in this district? How lame!”

“Shut up and finish the job, Karaku! We cannot be seen or else they will come! We cannot go back to that place!”

“Come on, it’s been so long since we’ve played with our food~!”

For the first time in his life, Raiden felt fear. He did not know what these guys…this thing was, but he had to get away. He had to get away or he might die again.

“I’ll finish it. Do not worry, human, your death shall be quick and painless.”

Raiden’s eyes widened as the one dressed in blue charged towards him, wielding a halberd with an apathetic expression. Yet before the weapon could put a hole in his chest, it flew out of his bronze hands with a loud ‘crack’.

“Geez, of all the demons that had to be causing trouble in this place, it’s you guys again?!”

The sumo wrestler whipped his head towards the rooftops of the building, seeing a young woman with braided pink-greenish hair and dressed in black, [Eye Color] orbs narrowed and face pouting as she wielded….a whip? Behind her were two other individuals. A kid in a checkered haori…and a little girl with a piece of bamboo in her mouth?

He watched them leap into the air; the kid unsheathed his sword and went straight towards Red, the girl charged at the green-robed one he assumed was Karaku, and the woman targeted the blue one that was right in front of him.

Neither opponent was giving an inch in their fight, and Raiden had to admit that the kid and muzzled girl were doing remarkably well….yet it wasn’t their unusual sword style or hand-to-hand combat techniques that caught his interest. It was the woman who had torn off her opponent’s arm as soon as she flipped him over her shoulder, knocking him into the ground with a loud ‘crack’.

The blue-eyed demon opened his mouth to scream or release an attack like the yellow one, but she swung her whip across his neck, decapitating the bastard.

Wait, where is the yellow one? Hearing a loud screech, Raiden whipped his head up to the nighttime skies and saw the demon's mouth stretching. The wrestler watched in horror as sparks of electrified air were being collected into a whirling sphere. And the target of the attack was none other than the little lady.

Somehow, he’d been able to force his aching body to move from the debris and bolt towards her, pushing the lady as close to the ground as possible without crushing her, using himself as a shield to absorb most of the attack when it came at them.

The last thing he remembered were his ears feeling wet and the woman’s worried face and… she was saying something to him before he lost consciousness.

He didn’t know what it was, but he hoped it’d been a ‘thank you’. It’s not everyday he got to protect a damsel from a demon, even when she could stand on her own ground.

As Raiden slowly came too, feeling the familiar padding of his futon, he groaned deeply, unable to open his eyes. A headache throbbed painfully through his whole head, making him both dizzy and nauseous.

He couldn't remember the last time he had a hangover this bad as he was slowly able to open his eyes, wincing at the light peeking through his window. His other senses slowly came back to him as the throbbing in his head slowly dulled. Raiden shifted and instantly froze, feeling his whole body seemed to be on fire yet so heavy at the same time.

As the minutes ticked by, Raiden was slowly able to sit up, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his head, but his movements were stiff, almost like he was restricted, looking down to see bandages all over his body. His mind drew a blank, not remembering getting hurt and like a switch was flipped at that word, hurt, what he could recall from the night before came rushing back to him, making him fall back against his futon as his headache returned full force.

Shit…what the hell even happened? All he remembered was having a good time and then the weird old man…

Raiden’s eyes widened. That’s right. The old man turned into four demons! And then there were those kids…and that woman. The woman with hair that looked like sakura mochi and had the strength of a bear.

Head spinning, heart pounding, his mouth stretched into a grin as the memories from last night came back in full force. He had a preference for the larger ladies, but he’s always been flexible~.

Rengoku had told you countless times that if you ever crossed paths with Hantengu in the Bifrost, never confront him alone. He nearly lost his life against the Upper Moon Demon at the Swordsman’s Village if it hadn’t been for Tanjiro, Muichiro, and Nezuko. In all honesty, he thought the demon would no longer exist once his head had been cut off. But he is still there, in the Bifrost, and he escaped through a tear in the barrier.

He tried to consume as many strong humans as possible to regain his strength, though his efforts drew in unnecessary attention and that’s how he got caught. Tanjiro was able to deliver the final blow to the main body, and everything else went well….although no one had anticipated the damage done to the sumo wrestling district.

Oh goodness, what was going to happen? You knew Tengen and Rengoku loved to go there and watch the matches, especially when Raiden Taeemon was participating, but now it’d take weeks to clean up the mess! Gah, you failed on your second official mission as the Love Hashira! One more strike, and the Master’s gonna be so mad he won’t let you be part of the Demon Slayer Corps anymore!!

You sighed heavily, trudging through the streets with a heavy heart as your crow flew high in the skies above. You had completed another shift in the Bifrost, followed by an investigation in regards to another possible demon sighting in the northern areas of Valhalla.

Although everyone had reassured you that no one was seriously injured that fateful night, it still bothered you tremendously. You had offered to donate the money made from selling honeycombs at the farmer’s market towards the reconstruction of the district, but the Master told you not to fret.

You did what you had to do, and minimized the casualties as much as possible. Rengoku has taught his apprentice very well. The compliment still made your face flush with happiness…though, to your embarrassment, not as much as when you brought that handsome fellow back to his dojo. Raiden Taeemon. You rescued Raiden Taeemon from a demon and treated him in his own room!

Oh, you were such an awful woman~!

Feeling your face redden in embarrassment, you slapped your cheeks together. Pull yourself together, [First Name]! There’s no need to reminisce about the past ‘cause it’ll make delicious food go sour in your mouth! And it’s time for lunch anyway, just think about what you’re gonna order and worry about everything else later unless there’s an urgent message from the Master!

Nodding to yourself, you quickened your pace and found a restaurant with the wisteria symbol stamped just beneath the sign. If a Demon Slayer needed a place to stay or to eat, the establishments that carried the Master’s symbol were trustworthy.

You could relax here without worrying about a demon or paying too much out of your pocket, although you secretly snuck in a hefty tip to the staff for working so hard to accommodate your…quirks. Yeah, quirks, let’s go with that!

Smiling brightly at the familiar faces of the employees, you greeted them enthusiastically and wished they had a good shift as you followed one of them towards the back of the restaurant. This place still catered to other customers, so you always reserved a room for yourself to enjoy your meal in privacy.

Being gawked at for having unusual hair or how much you ate on a daily basis brought back unpleasant memories.

You squealed joyfully at the lacquered oval-shaped table, covered with every single item on the menu plus their best-selling herbal tea! You thanked the staff member profusely for their hard work in the kitchen, promising to enjoy the meal to the fullest!

The employee - a kindly older man with four children and one grandchild - smiled serenely, saying it is the least he and his family can do for the people who saved them long ago, in life and death, from demons. If you need anything, just let him or someone else know.

Upon bowing to each other, he left, closing the door behind him. You wasted no time in giving your thanks to this lovely banquet and began eating to your hearts’ desire. But an hour later, however, a knock came at the door. It was the old man again, but he sounded…worried.

You blinked. Huh? You didn’t remember asking for thirds! You just did that ten minutes ago! Concerned, you allowed him to enter, immediately inquiring what was wrong, what could you do to help.

He swallowed. “That is….there is a man who insists on asking about the ‘cute little lady with hair like sakura mochi’. I told him I knew whom he was speaking about, but politely asked him to leave because you were not to be disturbed. But he is insistent on…sharing this room with you for lunch. What should I do, Lady Hashira?”

You frowned. It wasn’t too unusual to have some rowdy customers walk through these doors, but not to this extent. Perhaps…the person who is giving the owner such a difficult time is because the man has some information he would like to relay to the Demon Slayer Corps? It would make more sense to go directly to a Hashira than pass a message to a kakushi.

You nodded your head to the owner.

“It’s all right, let him come in. Whatever he wants to eat, please add it to my bill.”

The owner’s silver brows pinched beneath his hairline as he frowned. “As you wish, Lady Hashira.” He bowed and quickly left the room, closing the sliding paper door behind him.

Humming softly to yourself, you sat yourself back down in your seat. Some of the employees appeared from behind, quickly and quietly removing the empty plates and rushing back to the kitchens.You thanked each of them for your hard work, smiling softly as you began pouring tea into two earth-brown ceramic cups.

One for yourself, and one for your guest. In your humble opinion, there is no better beverage to have mid-meal than freshly brewed green tea.

Just as you finished pouring the tea into the second cup, the door opened again.

When you looked up to thank the owner for complying with your request, blood drained from your face and your heart somersaulted in your throat. Standing behind the quaking owner was a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a dark blue yukata and wooden sandals. White highlights stuck out of his dark brown hair, which was tied back in a ponytail. And he was grinning.

This is Raiden. Raiden Taeemon, the man you had saved from Hantengu and patched up his wounds like the lascivious criminal you were. Oh no, did he figure out what you’d done? Wait, did he even remember that night?! His breath smelled strongly of rice wine when you carried him back to his dojo! You thought for certain that he’d been too intoxicated to realize what happened!

“Hey, there.” He purred softly.

You swallowed. “H-Hello.” You said. “I hear that you wished to speak to me. May I inquire why?” You tried to keep your voice neutral and calm so as to not show that you were nervous. Your palms began to sweat as he took a seat at the table. Raiden beamed, his smile revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“I wanted to thank you!”

But you did not hear him. You were still under the assumption he was angry as you quickly backed away from the sumo wrestler, your forehead and hands resting firmly on the wooden floor in the position of the dogeza.

“I’m so sorry!” You blubbered. “I’m sorry you got hurt! I wasn’t strong enough to handle the demon on my own and you got hurt trying to protect me!! And there was so much damage to the b-buildings! What if you can’t have matches?! What have I done?! I’ll pay for all the damages somehow, I swear it in my honor as the Love Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps!”

“W-Wait a sec, little lady -”

“But to make it even worse, I entered your home without your permission, and I even touched your body so I could patch you up! Oh, I should have done more! What was I even thinking about being a capable Hashira when Rengoku recommended me to the Master to take up the mantle! Now all the good vibes from lunch are gone!!”

You squeaked as you were suddenly lifted up from the ground, your face being gently cradled by calloused palms and being pulled towards Raiden’s face, chapped lips being pressed against your mouth. Raiden Taeemon was kissing you.

Heat immediately flooded into your cheeks yet you did not dare move, just staring at this man in disbelief. When he pulled away, he smiled at you, tilting his head to the side. “You okay now?”

Your immediate response had been knocking him back into an adjacent wall and turning away to hide your smiling, flushed face. To think you had your first kiss with a strong, handsome man! He did surprise you with a warm laugh, standing up and brushing the dust off of his yukata.

“Sorry about that! You were rambling and that was the only thing I could think of to calm you down!”

When you informed that he was in fact the first person to kiss you like that, he looked at you, completely stunned at your confession before grinning.

“You’re pulling my leg! There ain’t no way a woman as stunning as you hasn’t been kissed before!”

But you remained silent, unable to form any more words beyond the truth. You were never a very good liar. He then surprised you when he lowered his head to the floor, profusely apologizing for putting you in such an embarrassing position.

You quickly forgave him, saying that he did not know in the first place, and in fairness, you had believed that you would not see each other again after that fateful night. You did, however, emphasize that he did have to take responsibility for his actions.

He laughed warmly, jabbing his thumb against his chest. “I’ll do just that then! I’ll marry ya, if you’re willing to be with someone like me!”

You beamed. “Better yet, how about we have lunch together while we’re here? I did say that whatever my ‘guest’ would like to have would be paid by me! And the food here is absolutely delicious! You simply must try their spicy dishes and sweets, if you have a sweet tooth!”

The rest of the afternoon had been lovely, sharing dishes and sharing stories about each other. Not wanting to repeat your parents’ mistakes, you were upfront with Raiden about being a Hashira…as well as being the eldest daughter of the ocean god Poseidon. There were going to be risks if the two of you moved forward….including the possibility that you might not come back from a mission, or even a routine patrol in the Bifrost might get awry.

But to your surprise, Raiden wanted this. He wanted you, a woman who had once been told by a former suitor that only a wild animal could love someone with odd-colored hair and a big appetite.

He did not care if you were a human or a god; what mattered to him, more than strength and beauty, was honesty and kindness.

And you could not be any happier.

Bonus Content:

The last thread of Hades’ patience snapped when his little brother demanded to have [First Name] removed from the Demon Slayer Corps in his palace, after he’d just told Poseidon that she was doing well under Ubuyashiki’s watchful eye.

When he heard about his niece's promotion, Hades was obligated to tell Poseidon the truth about her whereabouts. Obviously he was not taking it very well.

However, Hades will not tolerate being disrespected in his own domain.

The lord of the underworld glared at the tyrant of the oceans. “She may be your daughter, but she is still the Love Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps. You know damned well I cannot replace skilled soldiers at the flick of a wrist. It doesn’t work like that for this organization. I’m sorry, Poseidon…but you brought this outcome upon yourself. If [First Name] wishes to see you or talk to you, she will do so on her own terms. Do not push yourself into her life again, you’ll only make things worse.”

Hades admired his brother’s kingly qualities, he truly did…but when it came to matters about his eldest daughter, Poseidon was extremely overprotective of her. He could be…irrational.

It was a good thing he’d concealed the wedding invitation moments before Poseidon came here. The god of perfection would never allow his child to marry a human, even if he were the strongest sumo wrestler in history or treated [First Name] just as Hades treated his wife Persephone: with respect, love, and honor.

Poseidon could care less about Amphitrite. Reputation is all that mattered to him; and because he valued that so highly, the price had been paid with his daughter’s ‘disappearance’.

Too little, too late.

Taglist:

@potato-studez-hungryformore

@mallory-a-bond

@hansel-the-pierrot

@bre99-blog

@mortemorii

@myrisan-melodies

@nooneknows8976

@puffy-bangs

@onecantsimply

@nunezs-stuff

@praisethesuuun

@thatstrangesheep

@zodiacs-web

@the-dumber-scaramouche

@themoonisrising

Honorable mentions:

@deathmetalunicorn1

[koma-art]

art raffle prize for @dark-hazy-skies! just shane and his lil chicken buddy

[drewharrisonwriter]

Lifeline - Ch. 5: Out of the Frying Pan

Pairings: Dieter Bravo x Female Reader, referred to as “Honey” 

Series Summary: After basically being dropped and rejected by every PR agency in Hollywood for being such a huge liability, Dieter Bravo must work on resetting his public image in the most unexpected ways.

Author's Notes: I have been working on this fic on and off for the past year, and this story is a little personal to me. Yes, I am trauma dumping in some scenes lol but I also want to say that there will be so many unrealistic things about Hollywood, actors, and PR/Marketing agencies here, to which I apologize.

Warnings: Angst, a little drama, lots of flashbacks. More warnings to come as the story progresses.

Read this on AO3 | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Dieter spent the rest of the weekend drifting through his spacious Sherman Oaks home, a place that now felt more like a cage than a sanctuary. The house was filled with the echoes of a life he was trying—and failing—to put back together. He wandered from room to room, aimlessly flipping through scripts he couldn’t focus on and scrolling through social media feeds that only deepened his sense of isolation. The events and appearances were starting to feel like a routine, but the moments in between were unbearable. Dieter’s thoughts kept circling back to the gala, replaying every second of Honey’s smile and Phil’s hand on her back.

He tried distracting himself with old habits, but every familiar vice felt hollow. By Saturday afternoon, Dieter was staring at his phone, debating whether to call someone—anyone—to break the monotony. But he knew Mitch would hear about it, and he wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. So he settled on the one thing that still gave him some sense of purpose: art.

Dieter had always been drawn to art, sketching, and painting whenever he needed an outlet. It was something he rarely showed others, the way he kept his love of music so close to himself, it’s a space within his own space where he could express all the things he couldn’t say or sing out loud. 

When he saw a post about the weekend art class at the community center where he spent creating Mother’s Day cards with the kids a few weeks ago, he grabbed his keys without a second thought, convincing himself it was just boredom. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go, and teaching kids art sounded like a better use of his time than staring at his empty walls, waiting for the hallucinogens to kick in and change him. 

When he arrived, the room was already set up with easels, watercolor palettes, and brushes laid out neatly on the tables. The instructor, a kind-faced woman named Maria, welcomed him with a smile, thrilled to have an extra set of hands. The kids were buzzing with excitement, chattering about the different techniques they wanted to try. Dieter slipped into the familiar rhythm easily, helping mix colors and showing a few kids how to blend their washes for soft, dreamy skies.

“You’re really good at this,” Maria remarked, watching as Dieter demonstrated a simple wet-on-wet technique to a group of wide-eyed kids.

Dieter shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Thanks. I used to do this a lot… it’s been a while.”

He found himself losing track of time, immersed in the act of creating something beautiful out of nothing. The kids painted flowers, sunsets, and abstract swirls, each one pouring their imagination onto the paper. Dieter worked alongside them, his brush moving instinctively as he let the watercolor flow. Without really thinking, he began to paint a silhouette—a figure standing alone, surrounded by warm, soft colors that bled into each other like a hazy memory.

As he painted, the figure began to take shape: a woman, standing at the edge of a field, her back turned as if she were walking away. The scene was familiar, almost painfully so. Dieter’s brush moved more deliberately now, adding delicate touches of light and shadow. He painted her hair catching the sunlight, the faint outline of a red dress that bled into the sky. It was Honey, captured in the soft, dreamlike hues of his memory.

When he finished, Dieter stepped back, staring at the painting in silence. It was both the best thing he’d ever made and the most bittersweet to look at. The image of Honey standing alone, forever just out of reach, hit him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t meant to paint her, but there she was—etched in every stroke, every wash of color, every suppressed feeling he couldn’t let go of.

He took the painting home, propping it up against the wall in his living room. Dieter stared at it for hours, unable to tear his eyes away. It felt like he was staring at all the things he’d lost, every mistake he’d made, and every moment he wished he could take back. He wanted to call Honey, to tell her what he’d made, but what was the point? She had her life, and he was stuck in the wreckage of his own.

As the hours passed, Dieter’s resolve crumbled. He ordered a few lines of coke, the old familiar sting of rebellion luring him in. He told himself it was fine—he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere anyway. He was on house arrest, in a sense, and no one would know. He washed it down with whiskey, drinking until the edges of his memories blurred and the painting became just another part of the wall.

By Sunday night, Dieter was sprawled on his couch, staring blankly at the ceiling, his mind a fog of regret and numbness. He didn’t want to think about Honey, about Phil, or about the mess he’d made of his life. He just wanted to forget, even if it was just for a little while.

–

Dieter woke to the sound of frantic whispers, a dull, persistent buzzing that cut through the fog of his hangover. He blinked against the harsh light streaming through the windows, his head pounding with the familiar aftermath of too much booze and bad decisions. Slowly, the room came into focus—the mess of empty bottles, the painting of Honey still leaning against the wall, and, standing right above him, Mitch and Honey, their faces tight with a mix of anger, fear, and something Dieter couldn’t quite place.

“What the hell, Dieter?” Mitch’s voice was sharp, laced with panic in a way Dieter hadn’t heard before. “What were you thinking?”

Dieter struggled to sit up, his vision swimming. He ran a hand over his face, trying to piece together the night before. “What are you doing here?” he mumbled, his words slurred.

Mitch’s expression darkened, his eyes flashing with a combination of anger and concern. “Your assistant called me. He found you like this, passed out with bottles everywhere. He thought you’d overdosed, Dieter! He thought you were dead!”

The words hit like a slap, jolting Dieter into a clearer awareness of the mess around him. He looked to Honey, hoping for some sign of understanding, but her face was pale, her eyes glassy with restrained emotion. She stood a step back from Mitch, her arms crossed tightly, as if trying to hold herself together. There was no judgment in her gaze, only a deep, haunting sadness.

Dieter’s stomach churned as he tried to stand, the reality of their presence sinking in. “I wasn’t—Jesus, I wasn’t trying to do anything. I just… I just had a couple of drinks.”

Mitch’s voice rose, a mix of frustration and desperation. “A couple of drinks? Look around, Dieter! It looks like you went on a bender. Do you even realize what this looks like? Do you understand how close we were to calling the damn paramedics?”

Dieter’s temper flared, his defenses kicking in. “It’s my house, Mitch. My fucking house! What do you expect me to do? I’m not allowed to go anywhere, can’t see anyone, can’t do anything. I’m stuck here like a damn prisoner, and now you’re pissed because I had a drink in my own home?”

Honey finally stepped forward, her voice soft but trembling with urgency. “Dieter, this isn’t just about the drinking. It’s about what happens when you let yourself spiral. We’ve seen this before—we’ve seen you push yourself to the edge, and every time, it gets harder to pull you back.”

Dieter looked at her, his chest tightening. The last time he’d overdosed, it had been on the set of Cliff Beasts 6, and it was Anika who’d brought him back. The memory of waking up in a haze, surrounded by horrified faces, was a wound that never fully healed. But this—this was different. This was just a weekend alone, a moment of weakness, not a full-on catastrophe. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“And how would you know about pulling me back?” he challenged, his voice dripping with bitterness. “You weren’t there!”

Her voice wavered, the vulnerability breaking through her professional facade. Honey’s eyes were wet, but she blinked back the tears, refusing to let them fall in front of him. She had watched Dieter unravel from afar, powerless to intervene, haunted by every glimpse of the man she once knew losing himself in the public eye. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, knowing you couldn't stop it, feeling every impact from a distance.

Mitch stood there, absorbing the tension between them, and something clicked in the back of his mind. He had known Honey was deeply invested in restarting Dieter’s public image—it was why she was the best at what she did—but the way she spoke, the emotion in her voice, suggested something more. 

There was a history between them, buried beneath years of separation and, what seemingly, to him, sounds like, regrets. Mitch had always assumed Honey’s dedication was purely professional, that she does the same for each client she handles which is why came highly recommended, and maybe she does– but now, watching the two of them, he couldn’t ignore the sense that he was missing a crucial piece of their story.

He cleared his throat, his voice softer but edged with curiosity. “I didn’t know you two... I didn’t realize you’d known each other that long.” Mitch hesitated, his instincts telling him there was more to this than either of them had let on. 

Honey shot him a brief, guarded glance, her professional mask slipping back into place, but it was too late. The crack was there, and Mitch had seen it. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, unwilling to expose the depth of her past with Dieter. It wasn’t something she could explain in a room full of raw nerves and simmering resentments. It was years of connection, of love, of hurt, and everything they never resolved.

Dieter noticed Mitch’s confusion, his own expression hardening as he pushed back. “It doesn’t matter how long we’ve known each other,” Dieter said, his voice strained. “None of that matters anymore.” But the crack in his voice told another story, one of a man who couldn’t quite let go of what once was.

Dieter stared at her, anger and shame roiling inside him. He wanted to push back, to scream that he was fine, that they were overreacting, but the truth was lodged in his throat like a jagged stone. They weren’t just mad; they were terrified. Honey’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears, and Dieter could see the pain in every line of her face.

Mitch pressed his palms to his forehead, his voice breaking. “Do you think I want to get a call that you’re dead, Dieter? Do you think I want to be the one to have to tell the world that you’re gone because you couldn’t keep yourself together for one weekend? We’re not just fighting for your career; we’re fighting for you. And you keep throwing it in our faces.”

Dieter clenched his fists, feeling cornered, ganged up on, the walls closing in around him. “I didn’t ask for any of this! You think I’m happy here? Alone in this big-ass house with nothing but ghosts? What do you expect me to do, huh? I’m not allowed to fuck up because everyone’s waiting for me to fail. I’m just a goddamn headline waiting to happen.”

Honey stepped back, her composure finally cracking. She wiped at her eyes, her voice trembling. “Dieter, we’re not your enemies. We’re not here to control you. We just… we just don’t want to lose you. Not like this.”

Dieter’s anger peaked, his voice ragged as he lashed out. “Well, maybe you should stop trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. I didn’t ask for this intervention. I didn’t ask for any of you to play babysitter. I’m not a fucking child, and I don’t need you hovering over me, waiting for me to mess up. I can handle my own damn life.”

The room fell into a strained silence, the air thick with tension and hurt. Mitch shook his head, his frustration palpable but tempered by a deep, unspoken worry. He grabbed his jacket, his voice low but firm. “You’re right, Dieter. You are handling your life. But if you keep this up, there won’t be much left to handle.”

Honey lingered for a moment longer, her eyes locked on Dieter’s, filled with a sorrow that went beyond professional disappointment. She wanted to reach out, to pull him back from the edge he was so determined to stand on, but she knew she couldn’t be the one to save him. Not anymore.

“Just… please, Dieter,” Honey said softly, her voice breaking. “Take care of yourself. If not for you, then for the people who still care.”

Dieter watched them go, his heart heavy with the weight of their words. As the door closed behind Mitch and Honey, the silence returned, cold and suffocating. Dieter stared at the painting of Honey on the wall, its colors vivid and haunting, a reminder of the life he kept pushing away. He sank back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands, the reality of his choices crashing down on him.

He was alone again, trapped in a cycle of his own making, and for the first time, Dieter wasn’t sure how to break free.

Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

[hawkland]

Art Masterpost: The Beginning Story by emmbrancsxx0 (@valleydean) Art by sidewinder (@hawkland)

When I saw an endverse story up for claims in this year's @deancashorrorfest — particularly one exploring the beginnings of how it all came to be — I knew I had to get my grubby, greedy hands on it. When I found out it was written by none other than @valleydean, I may have made some hqppy screeching noises to rival Castiel's true voice. Getting to do art for one of my favorite writers is always exciting, if sometimes anxiety-inducing, but I ended up having an absolute blast working on these with Mallory and am really happy with how they turned out. Thank you for being such an amazing partner to work with, and I'm so excited for everyone else getting to read the story now!

Thank you as well to @kingdumbass for organizing Horrorfest once again, and creating one of my favorite little Destiel communities on the net. It's always a ton of fun and I love how you keep the server going & engaging year round.

Some rambling comments on the art & my process below the cut.

As usual these were all done in watercolor with a little bit of black & white acrylic pen work for fine details and lines. I used rough/cold press paper for all of these to keep a consistent feeling and because it's always my favorite for doing any portraits and where I want a lot of blending control.

The hardest thing for me was deciding which of the many memorable scenes and moments I wanted to illustrate in the time I had available. I had a pretty clear vision for the title art early on: to show Dean & Cas at the beginning of it all, with a collage of elements of destruction behind them and doing the title text in the "Croatoan graffiti" style. There were a bunch of different reference shots combined for that one: screencaps from 5x04, a later-season shot of Dean & Cas walking together to get their positions how I wanted, etc. My Cas "face" reference was actually from Stonehenge Apocalypse as I wanted him looking a little more human/hopeful than standard s4-5 Cas as he's pretty low on grace but still has a little "angel mojo" left.

(As Mallory commented when I shared it as a WIP, "That's a man who's about to be destroyed!" :D D:)

I'm also really glad I was able to get the painting to Mallory at DC-Con! You can see in the pic that it's pretty big (16"x20") to get all that detail in!

For the next piece, there's a small scene of Dean and Cas on the road under smoke-filled skies, past a "God Saves" billboard that just struck me. I'd just driven out to Pittsburgh and back on the PA Turnpike so used some quick reference snaps I took combined with photos of the hazy skies from the Canadian wildfires earlier this year to get the atmosphere I wanted. I tried to keep some of the same washed-out colors and feeling of the title piece for that, save the color of the sky.

For the rest, I wanted to do one piece each of Cas and Dean at critical moments in their journey through the story. Cas facing himself in the shattered glass of a pharmacy cabinet was a moment I knew I had to try to capture. It reminded me of that amazing shot of Misha in Gotham Knights, with Harvey and the smashed mirror, so that was definitely in my mind as a visual reference.

Cas himself is a combination of some Purgatory screencaps and some out-of-character Misha pics from here and there to get his hair the way I wanted it to look (even if I ended up painting over most of it with interference silver watercolor to create the effect of the shattered glass. Here's an in-progress look:

The Dean rooftop piece is one I'd had in my head as soon as I read the passage in the story, but it was the last piece I tackled. The city in flames behind Dean was pretty much done in one shot as a spontaneous wet-in-wet wash...though it was a little eerie and unsettling working on it this past week with current events playing out on the tv while I painted.

Finally, I really wanted to do a piece showing Dean and Cas as they are near the end of the story compared to how they started out. This one came together in a really fast burst of inspiration - I think one day drawing and two days painting because it's smaller than the others (12"x6") and I wanted it to be really close up and intimate. Drawing:

Poor boys have been through a lot. And it's only going to get worse )-:

Anyway, that's more than enough from me. Have you gone to start reading the story yet? If not, go there now! Bookmark! Read! Leave lots of love in the comments! Reblog and check out the rest of this year's Horrorfest collection while you're there!

[micropoe10]

𝐀 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭🏵

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐧

Before Tav and Tadpoles, there was just a man, his goddess, and the desire to serve her no matter the cost. Gale Dekarios was her chosen, her pupil, her lover. But what was she to him?

A goddess bound by duty, a woman haunted by her past, and the man who taught her to love again.

I was inspired to lore dive into the goddess Mystra after seeing this gorgeous piece of art by the wonderfully talented @ssalballoon 🏵

I was determined to learn as much as I could about the goddess of magic and weave a story of a time before she became the most hated diety in all of Faerun.

Edited by the amazing @editing-by-night thank you for everything! And for putting up with my grammar and my questions. 🏵

And to @brabblesblog without you, this story would still be in limbo! Thank you for holding my hand and gently pushing me through 🏵

The weave crackled and vibrated, its amethyst hues now tinged azure. Small radiant sparks lept from her fingertips as Mystra quickly retracted her hand. The energy that permeated the air sizzled. This was new magic, it was spectacular, brilliant, and messy. It fascinated and terrified her. The last time that she felt new magic, Netheril was falling from the heavens and her essence was sundered, leaving her old life behind. She shook her hands free of the new magic’s sensation. It was a cold, distant feeling as she pressed her thumbs to the pads of her other fingers. Her pensive gaze was locked on her fingers; the lingering pinprick sensation weighed heavily within them. 

She took a deep, calming breath, stretching her fingers before her as she called upon the weave again. She opened clouded eyes as vibrant swirls of amethyst and lavender flowed around her. The winds picked up, causing wisteria petals to fall from the trees above, cascading down upon her like a healing rain, cleansing her of the passionate thoughts that flowed through her mind. She could feel her concentration slipping as images of the night before came into view in a sultry haze. 

Tender lips trailed down her back, as page-worn hands gripped her hips pulling her to him. Their bodies entwined, wrapped in mulled-wine-colored satin and stardust. Two touch-starved souls consummating their love amongst the expanse of stars in the skies of Elysium exchanged hungry, breathless kisses.

Mystra gasped, her eyes flying open. Her heart raced, her palms were sweaty and there was a delicious slick heat pooling between her thighs that she couldn’t ignore. She noticed the weave no longer held its violet shades but had taken on the tranquil blues once again.

���Damnit!” She cursed. With an aggressive swipe of her hand, the weave dissipated into a fine mist. She stood there in the courtyard, covering her face. Her fingers softly kneaded away the tension in her forehead as she sighed in frustration.

“What are you doing, Mystra?” She questioned herself, or was it her sanity? With scarlet cheeks, she continued with the personal interrogation. “You told yourself, you promised Kelemvor that you wouldn’t do this again,” she groaned. “It’s as if you didn’t learn from the first time.” If only Kelemvor could see her now, would the lord of death be displeased by her actions? Her mind twisted to that hazy day they had shared in the gardens of Dweomerheart - her home.

On the outermost part of Eronia lay the glittering city of Dweomerheart, the opulent seat of knowledge and devotion to spellcraft, and the home of Faerun’s deities of magic. Set high into the rugged mountain terrain the city looked out upon the borders of the astral sea and the vast expanse of Elysium.

It was a day like any other as the goddess of magic walked the ivy-laden cloister of the Akademia. She stopped within the white granite courtyard to admire the bowing branches of the world tree that dared intrude upon her realm.

Mystra stood, arm outstretched, grasping a crystalline branch and wondering what world she held in her palm. What universe could be destroyed with a snap of her fingers or a flick of her wrist? She had been tasked to preserve magic and to preserve life alongside it, but mortal life was fickle and fleeting and she would only be helping it along.

The thought brought her more joy than it should and it was only the sound of quickening footsteps from behind her that broke her out of her rumination. She let the fragile branch slip from her fingertips to see one of her attendants approach her.

“My lady, the Lord of Death waits for you in the courtyard.” With that, they took quick leave and she retreated down the steps to greet her guest.

“I’m always pleasantly pleased when the goddess of magic herself deigns to permit me an audience. All the more surprised when I’m welcomed into your domain, my lady.” With a curt nod, Kelemvor bowed before her.

“There is no need to be so formal Kelemvor, we’re old friends are we not? Besides, I've called you here for a more personal matter entirely.” Mystra said, holding her hands in front of her. Her fingers found purchase, clasping onto the sleeves of her dress.

“That you should call me here for guidance and counsel. Your message sounded most urgent. I am truly honored. But do you not have others around you who may better understand whatever it is that troubles you?” His question rang true, she did have others whom she could confide in, but none that would give her an honest answer without fear of angering her. No, she didn't want answers that were pleasing to her, she wanted a solid answer even if she objected to it. Which she most likely would.

“I’ve taken upon myself another chosen.” She didn't miss a beat as she got straight to the point. She did not meet his gaze at first, her eyes downcast. 

“Oh? Do you not still have that aging wizard doing your bidding?” He chuckled from under his hooded cloak, confused, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Who, Elminster? Well… well, of course, he is the most loyal of any chosen I’ve had. But I am the puppeteer to his marionette and if I cut the strings before I have someone new all I’ll have is a pile of old bones not even worth reanimation.” She said almost incredulously, waving a hand around like she was controlling the imaginary strings of an obedient puppet.

“Your chosen, Mystra…” Kelemvor wandered around the courtyard contemplating his words carefully, pausing to pour a glass of ambrosia wine. “With your presence, the weave needs not another chosen to hold the balance. I don't want to see you hurt again.” Kelemvor’s tone shifted, his tattered robes dragged against the stone walkway as he continued to move about the gardens.

“My chosen are not your concern, nor is the weave. The individuals that I choose are there to uphold balance within the weave. Their power is astronomical, their knowledge far superseding scholars.”

“And your chosen… this time?” He sat in a chair opposite where she was standing.

She eased at his question, even taking a seat across from him. “Gale..Dekarios of Waterdeep. He shows extraordinary power and has had an understanding of the weave from an early age, Kelem! Elminster found him when he was but eight, Eight! He’s older now. Easier to mold..to teach.” she sighed, pressing a hand to her abdomen to calm her nerves

“You mean that it’ll be easier to convince him to bed his goddess without rhyme or reason?” Kelemvor prodded.

“Is that really what you think I do? I’m not some common prostitute, I don’t whore out my magic. What happened then won’t hap…”

“I don’t want you to make the same mistake Mystra, what happened with Karsus was preventable. But you thought you could change him, mold him. You even bedded him once, didn't you? He was only ever in love with your power, and…” Mystra’s voice cut him off.

“You tread on dangerous ground Kelemvor!” The wind whipped through the buildings, and trees creaked as her face hardened. Her fingers dug into her palms. The air was thick with the weave’s choking grasp. “What happened with him was an oversight. I was foolish, I’ll admit it, but none of us were prepared and…”

“You,” Kelemvor interjected swiftly.

“What?” Mystra said, taken aback. The winds calmed.

“You weren’t prepared for him. You were dead Mystra. The weave was in disarray, the crown gone.” Mystra shook her head, her lips pursed with a look of pain and malice, but he continued. “You opened yourself up, gave yourself freely to a man you thought you could change, one you could trust. One of your ‘chosen’’. The balance of Elysium is still fragile even after all these years…and the scales are not in your favor. You need to tread carefully.” 

Kelemvor leaned across the table to lift her chin to stare into the iris eyes of one that had seen so much of the world. She leaned into him, her lips mere inches from his. “All mortals are the same, Mystra, you can’t change them. They are ambitious, greedy creatures. For as long as we’ve known each other, mortal and god alike have craved your power the most. I’m afraid, dear friend, that it is you who are the puppet. And if you’re not careful, someone will cut your strings, and that might be all it takes.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She could feel his icy touch cooling her flesh where his hand rested upon her cheek. “You’re wrong Kelem. I’ve watched him grow, his grasp on magic far supersedes any of the others that have pledged themselves to my service. Gale Dekarios is nothing like Karsus and I’ll prove it. He WILL be my next chosen.” She stood and pushed away from the table then past her old friend, a look of wilful defiance in her eyes as she batted away his hand.

“And what if you’re wrong, about the Dekarios boy?” He asked calmly, turning to look at her. Mystra froze, her fists clenching. “He’s just a man, a mortal, they make mistakes almost as much as we do.”

“I won’t make the same mistake a second time Kelem. He shows promise, I’ll do better. I won’t fall for him. I can’t afford more setbacks; I have too many enemies on my heel.  But if you need reassurance, if he fails me…I’ll find some way to kill him myself.” Mystra walked out of the garden, leaving Kelemvore to sip his drink in silence.

“Good morning,” Gale whispered, scratching at the back of his messy head and sliding his fingers through his chestnut locks. His hand settled on the back of his neck and he tilted his head to look at her from across the small courtyard. His words dragged her out of the memory with a heavy heart and an exhausted smile. 

“Good morning Gale,” she purred, her back still to him as she quickly wiped a rogue tear from her cheek. 

Gale ran the back of his fingers up her arm as he stood behind her on the balcony. Her fingers lay elegantly splayed out on the granite balustrade, as if ready to conduct an orchestral symphony betwixt the weave and stars. He felt her body quiver as she exhaled softly between parted lips. He leaned in closer, his hand sliding down, slowly dragging the strap of her gossamer silk dress off her shoulder. His nose tickled the outer shell of her ear and he felt her heat radiate there. Hot and steady breath ghosted her skin as he dragged his tongue fervently against the crook of her neck, kissing her tender flesh. 

Her eyes fluttered closed. Behind them, she could see streaks of iridescent violet and lustrous hues of amethyst. Her breath quickened, releasing an enraptured moan.

“Stop!” she exclaimed, stifling the moan almost as quickly as it escaped her. She pulled away from him, rolling her shoulders back and taking a deep breath to calm herself. “You’ve grown too bold, Gale.” Her words were filled with a sad longing as she spoke to him from over her shoulder.

“If I took too many liberties, I apologize. It’s just that after last night I thought...well, I assumed this would be fine.” Gale spoke softly and with a wry smile, He stepped toward her as she turned to face him.

“You think I don’t long to feel your hands upon me? To breathe in the sickeningly intoxicating smell of mahogany and parchment from your skin?” Her breath quivered, her heart raced and her chest heaved as he looked up at her with the same desire that had been present last night.

“Mystra...”

“I would be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy it, Gale, but it never should have happened. I can’t do this again!  I made a promise I wouldn’t do it aga…” The panic set in and her composure slipped its almost near unbreakable defenses. Gale gently took her face in his hands and she slipped her hands between them, pressing them against his chest.

“Mystra..breathe.” Small petals fell around them as he thumbed away the tears from the corners of her eyes. He pulled a petal from the braided crown on top of her head. “You know wisteria symbolizes long life and even love.” He looked at her as she scoffed.

“Love…you think that’s easier for me because I’m a goddess? Like I’m given a choice? My first and only love will ALWAYs be the weave, it has to be! What we did last night was not love. Lust, desire even, I'll grant you that much, but not love. The sooner you learn the difference, the better off we’ll both be. Don’t disappoint me, Gale.”

Tag List: @brabblesblog @capraqueen @kasumitanart @tallymonster @ssalballoon @troutsoup @tragedybunny @astarioffsimpmain @nightmarecait @bunnidarling @iizuumi @acystreia

If anyone else wants to be tagged please let me know!! I will figure out how to get this up on Ao3 soon I swear!! Yes, I also took some lore liberties and changed a few minor things. TWs to be added once I figure out what they will be.

[hellcab]

TATTERDEMALION

Just a long dabble about Roth and The Yellow King. It gives some hints to Roth's upcoming event and another "God".

Black, near-acidic rain came pouring down from the smog choked skies above. It was always worse in the morning. Then again, the hours blend. Roth swallowed several caffeine pills with his morning coffee. There was vodka for punch in the brew.

Rubbing his eyes, he stared out ahead towards the busy street. The morning rush was in full swing. The desperate hoard sleepwalking off towards work. Vendors opening, despite the horrid weather. A traffic accident took center stage with bickering sinners. Violence. Desperation. Sadness. Rage.

He could feel it all like static in the air.

Roth slouched into his car seat and crossed his arms. Wrapping his chest tightly, he pretended he was somewhere else. Perhaps, somewhere better.  Growing hazy, his mind wanted sleep. Sure, the pills were in his system but that rarely helped.

He couldn’t sleep. He wanted to sleep. The times he tried became troubled with nightmares and terrible visions. Old ghosts strangled his neck from beyond the grave. Failures that gnawed on his spine.  Dead friends and lost lovers. The fear of the future weighing on his soul.

When he could sleep. When he could sleep without the nightmares. He can never, ever rest.

There was never any rest.

A gently tapping at the window got his attention. Roth sees his first customer outside the window. A yuppie, sporting an expensive look that screamed corporate decadence. They stood outside, sheltered by their umbrella as they tapped once more.

Roth could do worse with anyone else, but this customer actually had money. So why not. Signaling them, The Yuppie went to the back and entered. He collapsed his umbrella as he entered the cab. Overall, they seemed unbothered by the rotting interior. Then again, it beats walking in the black rain. Their clothes were impeccable.

“Where you’re heading?” Roth inquired as he twists around to look at his first customer. The Yuppie fixed his hair, which was coal black. “EvilSoft, at Mammon Business Plaza. No rush, I’m heading in early.”

“How surprising. That’s two-fifty for the ride and three very mile.” The Yuppie offered money for the fair and Roth accepted. Starting the cab, the Brimstone engine roared to life with ferocity. It was a mean machine of unstoppable power.

Roth joined traffic as they drove on through the storm. The world outside was muted. The mist and smog made things strained on the eyes. Roth could see blurs that eventually became shapes he could understand. The world was a hazy dream.

There was silence at first. Then, The Yuppie started talking. Roth normally could care less when talking to his customers. Sometimes, he preferred the silence. Most times, he preferred the radio. But, somehow, he rather liked his passenger today. Sure, they were a yuppie fuck. Roth’s own envious mind itched with frenzy scorn on that.

But . . . who really cares down here? Besides, the radio hasn’t been working that well lately.

Slowly, Roth opened up to the other as they talked sports. They talked about music. They talked about celebrities. The Yuppie spoke of his love of Verosika Mayday.

“That’s what I’m saying, her music is vibrant with that cynical bite. There’s more than sex and dirty talking. Just uh, message about the dating scene and one-night stands. You know.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean. I read the lyrics, and I get it. Sometimes, sometimes I can.”

Roth was closer to downtown now, nearing Mammon Plaza and ready to collect his full fair this morning. Honestly, not a bad start to the day’s tribulations. Best of all, his passenger wasn’t that half bad. For a Yuppie, which is.

“Say Roth, do you like the arts just as much as anyone with good taste? I sense that, you’re an artist.”

Roth gave a laugh, but he decided to humor this little question.

“Yeah, I suppose so. I . . . sometimes I write stuff. Poems, y’know.”

Roth came to a red light, stopping along with other cars. It was busy down here, with never-ending road work being done. Imps and Hellhounds, working for a slave’s wage in terrible conditions. Roth watched as sparks came up from a Hellhound cutting rebar.

The light turned green, and Roth proceeded onwards.

The Yuppie spoke again, grinning ear to ear as he laughing. The laughter strangely unnerved Roth in some strange, animalistic way. As if there was something wrong to the laughter only his deepest, primal senses can hear.

“Y’know, I’ve been to plays. Theater. Opera. I wanna ask you something Roth. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, what?”

There was silence. Just silence in that cab along with the droning of the rain. The engine and the muted sounds of the city outside.

“Have you seen The Yellow Sign?”

Roth’s heart was strangled with blind panic. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t even react. Eyes stared ahead as the world turned wrong all around him. Everything was Dark. The city, the road and the rain were gone within the blink of an eye. Replaced with the howling void of nothing. Roth’s courage was made void as he stared into the dark void of nothing.

Roth prayed he was dreaming. Roth prayed this was a nightmare.

The Gehenna Cab was trapped in this strange nothing. Roth wasn’t even sure if they were moving still. That was not his greatest concern.

He knew someone was back there. It wasn’t The Yuppie; it was someone else. Someone he had hope he would never come face to face again with. He knew he was there. The air changes and the pressure grow on Roth to turn around. He was compelled to turn around. To see him. To look upon him with his eyes.

He’s a king, whom emperors have served. The Hebrews called him Kiawan. He is The Unspeakable God of mad artists and entropic loners. The Tatterdemalion King.

Roth looked as knew who it was.

Hastur. The Yellow King.

The tattered robes of yellow concealed the night underneath. The pallid mask hides the face of godly madness. This was what Roth witnessed when he first summoned him so many years ago.

Roth prayed to him during his bout of insanity. He kept Roth alive. He gave Roth purpose beyond the asylum. He was his savior. His benefactor.

He owned his soul.

“Kruger . . . . .”

The voice of Hastur made Roth’s skin crawl with despair and anxiety. Roth was panicking and wanting to escape. But here he was, trapped with The Yellow King. What did it want from him? What did it need from him? Roth went so many years without having to summon it.

It owned Roth soul and that was just about the end of it. One soul for power, one soul for the chance to survive Hell. Roth’s powers came from The Yello King, by his royal blessing.

Through him, Roth drove his enemies to madness. With him, Roth could be so more powerful but yet, he dared not to. The Yellow King was a virus unlike anything. Roth knew the risk of being overexposed to his maddening presence.

He did not want to become subsumed by him. He did not desire to become trapped in Carcosa.

And yet . . . there was something inside him that wanted to.

He wanted to escape to that place of twin suns. Black stars and the shores of Hali. He wanted to drown in the debauchery of Carcosa. To succumb to the yellowing madness of the city.

It scared Roth to want these things.

Before Roth could speak, The Yellow King vanished in blinding light to the front seat. Now closer, mow looming with alien apathy towards Roth.

“Escape . . .  you are going to leave?”

It was pain to be this close to oblivion. Roth looked away in fear, knowing The Yellow King sees all.  Roth bowed his head, his eyes closed as he knew he could not escape.

“Yes.”

The Yellow King’s face turned towards the void. He could not be read. Or understood. He was alien a foreign, strange in every way beyond what was expected of Gods. Roth was in the hands of this entity. One false move, one moment of wavering loyalty, would end his entire struggle.

“There will be pain. Truth. Revelation. The beginning of the end of things. The strings on humanity.”

Roth looked with anxious curiosity on his eyes towards Hastur. What did he mean by that? What did he mean by Revelation? Is he speaking of the end times? What of truth? What was this about the strings on humanity?

“It will burn you. You will gain knowledge. You will see what lies beyond the door. You see will see. You will see.”

“See what?”

“The lion. The snake. The mockery of Gods.”

Roth wasn’t sure what that meant. He does not know what that means yet but . . . hopes he never will.

“You will suffer. You will be dragged and quartered by this place. Humiliated and cast aside. You cannot bear that . . .”

“I’ve suffered too much already.” “Ignorant still?”

The mockery of his answer scared Roth into silence as he stared ahead. The Yellow King stared ahead as well.

“You can leave. You will leave. Only, in the end, you will return to this place. Without friends. Without love. Without me.”

Roth stared up and looked puzzled and fear. He didn’t want to believe any of that. There was a part that clings to the idea of freedom from Hell. To escape, this place and never return. But The Yellow King sees all and knows all. He would not lie, but Roth wanted to believe he was lying.

He lied to himself to believe it.

“Look at me.”

Roth was breathing hard as he stared ahead. He does not want to look. He knows what he will see and yet, knows nothing of what he will see. He knows whatever lies beyond the mask is the bane of sanity.

“Look At Me.”

Still, he does not want to turn his head. Every atom screams with fear as Roth resisted.

“LOOK. AT. ME.”

Finally, Roth turned his head and looked. There was blinding light as Roth was returned back to normal. He hears The Yuppie screaming in panic, as Roth realized he was driving into traffic. Though dazed, Roth quickly diverted and narrowly missed wrecking his cab. Slamming on the breaks, Roth stopped the cab as his passenger screamed every obscenity at him.

Roth was too drained to even respond. He slouched in his seat as The Yuppie screamed at him.

Roth looked ahead.

He cannot see past the rain.

[aloytalanaheverywhere]

“The seemingly endless night filled with confusion, battles, rage and red, so much red, had just begun its eerie bleed into the early dawn hours, skies becoming soft. As the team rested in well deserved slumber, or tended to each others’ wounds, allowed a chance to recover, Aloy stared listlessly at the campfire, anxiety gnawing something awful in her gut. She knew it wouldn’t abate until every member of her crew had returned from the fight that may as well have been a machine slaughter of the tribes.

It was quiet, almost deafeningly so, only sounds emanating from the crackle coming from the burning wood, the occasional spark snapping loudly in the peace, or a pained groan carried above in the chilly breeze. And then a small crunch came from behind her, quiet, growing, rhythmic and heavy. Aloy’s head shot up, hand instinctively landing over her bow’s riser, before stilling.

Stepping into the smokey vicinity, shadowed but washed in hazy lilac glow, the hunched form was unmistakable even before the warm glow of campfire cast over her weary expression. Brilliant turquoise Carja silk was still visible, a distinguishing enough feature on its own, but unnecessary to determine by familiar eyes. Such beautiful silks were also dyed dark with complimentary red; unnecessary as well.

Aloy shot up from her seat, reaching the Carja woman in brief bounds, hardly giving the huntress time to stand, let alone brace her tired body to absorb Aloy’s colliding force. Strong arms wrapped around her, squeezing breathtakingly tight, freckled face burrowing into the dirt-ridden skin of her neck and inhaling deeply. Relief washed over her at the sight, the feel, the scent, dousing her in a wave of chill water, prickling Aloy’s skin in response.

The lump in her throat, born out of hours filled with worry, bobbed uncomfortably and threatened to be breathed to life as a sob. But she fought back, stifled the tears which were welled and ready to spill. She had seen the wound, still fresh and angry, bleeding, dripping. She had seen the battered fatigue in the Sunhawk’s face. Aloy had to be strong. She could never reveal how weak she had felt all night not knowing if she’d see all of her friends again after that fight; if she’d see Talanah again.

But when she felt a hand lazily reach to her shoulders, threading through her unruly hair, holding, squeezing, anchoring them both with her last bit of strength before tiredly falling into Aloy’s supportive arms, Aloy let herself completely fall apart then too.”

idk the narrative idea came up as i was working on the drawing. if anyone wants to continue it and make it longer, go for it. just lemme know :) and yay i gotta digital art pad! fanart here we come

[morriscribbles]

Merzen's heavily polluted atmosphere means their skies range from yellow in the Valley of Ruin and beyond the crown, to amber around Smallbrooke, all the way to a muddy gray-orange around the Unification. However, their sunsets are a shocking- if slightly hazy- bright blue.

Bonnie has been wandering the Valley for years and has come to find a lot of beauty in an overwhelmingly dead and hostile landscape. No matter where she is, if there's nothing else there, there's always a sunset to enjoy.

i haven't done any traditional art beyond a sketch or maybe some lines in a long damn time. and so i've messed up severely in some areas. maybe later i'll come back through and do a digital cleanup, as it is i just played with some sliders to make the colors prettier. uncropped version under the cut because i do like how it looks with the rough edges too:

[cool-anyways]

Penance and its Meat

A retro dark fantasy paracosm.

Parame : Acolyde, Palada An Dore (Deer Paladin [In Paracosm Language of the Northern Kingdom]) [Art will go here when im done :p ]

A clip from the writing;

“It will not be in vain, Master Gahlus. The beast will find no peace.”His words shutter with a boiling stew of rage and grief, “In any life…I will find Xerex. I will return him to the devilish sands whence he came. And if I draw my last breath doing so…It will be a prayer for your eternal peace. That I swear.”

Acolyde stood from the corpse, wrapping his arms around himself beneath the cloak, the night felt colder now. It dug into his very bones, whispering, fanning the freezing storm silently starting within him—a tempest of confusion, regret, and a longing for that which might never be. The cold was no longer just a sensation but a presence. It was as if the very air around him conspired to draw him into an abyss, one that foretold a hazy and changing fate.

Introduction from the DND Version;

The northern kingdom sits in its still coolness. All that surrounds is ice, snow and the dark night. Within these very city walls are you. Here your journey begins; the end of everything. The arrival of the Rot.

The mortar and waxed mud between the cobble rocks glows slow. Red, Yellow then a blinding white. From the streets people scatter, the very bridge to the castle arching with melt. And from the blistering, burning cobble rises a devil. Xerex the Rotting. He who will bring everything to nothing.

Knights flood fruitlessly into the streets, raising simple iron to defend their kingdom. With a sharp nailed hand, Xerex brushes through the air, the iron armors and those within bursting into ash. His long, dragging wings sweep away the ash as he turns to the castle, his voice gravelly yet thick like sap.

“Herald! King of Solta! I have come for what you promised! Come to me or your city will not see fire nor brimstone but crumbling rot and decay.”

The King glares silently from the castle, slowly dropping his sword before stepping forward. Xerex snatches the King from his feet, dangling him by the velvet cape. With no other word, his wings clip the air as he takes to the deep black skies.

But pray tell what this story must do with you? You stand simply, a mage, a paladin and a cleric. Well, that is for you, adventurers, to decide.

[thepiper0fhameln]

I guess you're not counting art WIPs huh. Please tell me about HTP Summer Trash Splash, since I already know about the others.

You’re right I didn’t think to add art. But now I did!

HTP Summer Trash Splash was what I INTENDED to do for the summer of 2022. Life. Had other events in store. It was supposed to be a series of fics and art connected in one story arc that followed Steve and Bucky both being captured by Hydra. Bucky becomes the Winter Soldier and Steve becomes Captain Hydra after a long time fighting them until they eventually “give” Bucky to him. (The art Branded was a part of this before everything got sidelined and I made it on its own.)

Snippet:

It is troublesome though that he can't remember what it feels like to be warm. The sensation of comfort, of stifling, sticky lethargy, even, is floating around in the recesses of his mind. The feeling is as unreachable as the hazy skies over the rooftops of his youth. Ice has turned his veins into shards of glass. And more than that. At least, he thinks it's separate from the cold: nerve endings deep inside his shoulders, his hips, at the base of his spine are in frozen fire. The sensations shoot up and up and up until raw, stabbing pain hits the base of his skull. The pain has been his constant companion since consciousness came back to him somewhere under the endless arctic whiteout. He wishes he'd been aware of what was happening to him then. Of just who had dug down deep and fished him out. He wishes, even if he had been aware, that he had the remotest chance of fighting back. He can recall only the vaguest sensations of dark figures against a sea of crystal ice and painful blue, of rough hands jostling his body. He thinks he felt the bite of frozen chains around his neck, his torso, pulling him more forcefully than the swaying currents of the ocean. The fact that he can recall anything at all tells him he must have been--miraculously--awake at the time. He wonders if his brain had slowed in the freezing waters. He has no idea how long he was under before they found him. No idea what date it is. But the fog is beginning to clear. His thoughts are moving faster. His senses have come back online--too much so. He can feel every nerve, muscle, tendon down in the depths of his body telling him just how very wrong things are. He thinks his body is trying to heal itself. He hasn't seen even the sky since they pulled him out of the ice. He has seen Bucky. Which makes up for the former, even if it's crazy. He's seen Bucky's face on one of the men carrying him. Not in the beginning, when he thinks he was on some sort of stretcher, but later, when he was finally regaining control of his limbs. Painful as that was. He knows, rationally, it couldn't have possibly been Bucky. A Bucky out of place, out of the bounds of mortality, his face on a body too broad, too big. Steve wanted him so much to be there, besides. That's how he really knows it's not Bucky.

[hazy-cosmic-skies]

day 16: ancient

part of the malfoy family tree

[sandmark]

NINE DIVINES. [ . . . ] based off the nine divines pantheon of the elder scrolls: skyrim. bold what always applies, italicize what somewhat applies.

𝓲. 𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘴𝘩, the pattern of a dragon’s scales.   bronze statues.   the concept of infinity.   fatherhood, biological or not.   hard-earned & long-lived wisdom.    a strict mentor but kind guide.    the terrifying passage of time.   sundials.   heroic sacrifice.   martyrdom, wanted or not.   a crone that knows all.   older than the bones of the earth.   victory that tastes like ash.   blood-red rubies.   the concept of because fate wills it so.   right versus wrong.   divine justice.   almost godlike.   a dragon’s roar that shakes the land.   an array of blazing comets.   the violet-red sky at dusk.   a fire that never goes out.��  

𝓲𝓲. 𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘢𝘺, a well-sealed tomb.   a stone-built mausoleum.   the stillness of graveyards.   moss growing over headstones.   graves so old that no writing is legible.   the fragility of mortals.   a murder of crows.   pitch-black skies with no stars.   a sudden chill.   superstitions.   visions of the dead.   funeral rites.   burning a body to release the soul.   digging up dirt with your bare hands.   the calls of a raven.   a new moon.   memento mori.   black butterflies.   soulless eyes.   taking one's last breath.   

𝓲𝓲𝓲. 𝘥𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢, embracing femininity.   comfortable in the nude.   soft skin.   rays of sun through the clouds.   hazy sunsets.   hypnotic gaze.   accepting of all.   no judgment.   in love with love.   painting with a lover.   bathing in rivers.   blooming gardens.   the afterglow of sex.   sensuality.   lover of fine arts.   swans & doves.   long hair tumbling over collarbones & shoulders.   kisses over bare thighs.   luminous pearls.   slices of oranges hand-fed.   golden mirrors.

𝓲𝓿. 𝘫𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘴, scholarly debates.   curiosity.   willing to learn.   vast libraries of untapped knowledge.   leather book-covers.   late night studying.   mountains of scrolls.   a game of logic.   runes.   a weathered journal.   pressed flowers.   watercolor paints.   ink-stained palms.   glasses slipping over nose.   a teacher that truly teaches.   remembering history so it shall not be repeated.   an enjoyer of puzzles & riddles.

𝓿. 𝘬𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘩, a silver mare.   wispy clouds over a mountaintop.   the scent before it rains.   soft caresses of grass against uncovered skin.   the vast blueness of the sky at midday.   pale blue roses.   darkening clouds as a storm rolls in.   the pitter-patter of gentle rain.   the thundering of a heavy downpour.   four-leaf clovers.   healthy green fields.   the whistle of the wind against your ear.   pure-white butterflies.   a mother bear with her cubs.   nymphs that live ‘round creeks & rivers.   nature spirits that help those who respect the world & hinder those who do not.   helping others even at great cost.   secretive meetings.   a beautiful melody.   a soft-toned voice.   not a mother, but a mother enough. 

𝓿𝓲. 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘢, fields of golden wheat.   a gentle lamb sleeping amongst its siblings.   unconditional love.   true compassion.   the miracle of birth.   a newborn’s first cries.   a  mother’s all-encompassing love.   remaining tender despite cruelty.   the sweetness of honey.   a soothing lullaby.   weeping willows.   looking to the skies for consolation.   sharing bread.   forehead kisses.   a sense of safety.   warm palms.   the arrival of dawn.   summer evenings.   ducklings following their mother.   sweet reunions.   allowing yourself to be vulnerable with another.   watching children grow.   protecting the innocence of the youth.   marrying for love, not for duty or honor.

𝓿𝓲𝓲. 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘳, choosing to be merciful.   healing balms.   blessed waters.   caring for the ill, elderly, or youth.   clasped hands in prayer.   warm, golden light.   cleansing.   bloodied palms.   unable to wash the guilt.   a lifted curse.   a fever breaking.   a cool cloth against the forehead.   stopping the bleeding with your hands but it won’t stop.   one life lost is one life too many.   remaining brave against all odds.   telling the wounded that they will live because you will do everything in your power to make it so.   hatred of war because of who it truly affects.

𝓿𝓲𝓲𝓲. 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘴, a�� guttural scream that comes from the soul.    a sense of impending doom.   cold betrayal.   undying loyalty.   a greatsword that takes both hands to wield.   the shing! of a blade being drawn.   rough leather.   dark, earthy colors.   war cries.   shining steel armor.   scars that never fade.   pyrrhic victory.   season of war.   broad shoulders.   a broken crown.   brotherhood.   the fight for freedom never ends.   secret worship.   snow-capped mountains as far as the eye can see.   freezing waters.   having to choose between being right or being happy. 

𝓲𝔁. 𝘻𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘳, a hefty bag of coins.   a busy marketplace.   spices from faraway lands.   the calls of sea-birds.   the scent of saltwater carried through the breeze.   a storm over the sea.   turbulent waters.   dark depths.   worn maps.   a good deal.   walking along the waves.   the sail of a ship.   collecting seashells.   new cultures.   where the sea & sky meet.   watching the sun disappear below the horizon.   finding the north star for guidance.   

tagged by: stole it from @maidmyth tagging: @zipkick / @mournstar, @fightwing, @wrathbit, @detectim / @bluebeatle, @alloiys & whoever else wants to do it!

[omegaremix]

Sacred Bones 15th Anniversary @ The Knockdown Center; May 28, 2022.

Uniform has had an effect on me that’s made all difference. Their live performance as then-unknowns at Output led me to the Sacred Bones label. Lead singer Michael Berdan repped Shame which had me finally visit Rough Trade NYC before their re-location and got me hooked on Totalitar. Not only that, I also sought out each and every band member’s projects (York Factory Complaint, Coca Leaf, Impalers, Liturgy, Anatomy) and discovered other labels in Dais and Wharf Cat. It took me six years before finally seeing the band in full and even bought merch- from Berdan himself. Did I mention they’ve become one of the hardest, most destructive, and pulverizing industrial-metal bands as of recent? All the reasons why they became one of my top ten all-time favorite artists ever.

Meanwhile, New York City label Sacred Bones housed some great artists such as Zola Jesus, Lust For Youth, Blanck Mass, The Holydrug Couple, Spellling, and Marrisa Nadler. They’ve praised the likes of John Carpenter, Mort Garson, and Suicide’s Alan Vega, plus had Boris and Black Marble come aboard. They’re based in the Greenpoint neighborhood of Brooklyn. With what they’ve done and where they’re situated, how would I not support them?

They celebrated their 10th anniversary in 2017 with two separate shows. I bought tickets to both April and May dates, but I had doubts going as I was in the midst of recovering from life-saving shoulder surgery. Re-injuring it would not be a good look for my trust and my surgeon’s reputation so I ended up eating the cost. Another New York City-based label, Hospital Productions, celebrated their 20th anniversary which I attended, but I held out hope that Sacred Bones would return for their 15th. In short notice, they would. Five years later, I have a chance of finally attending my all-time favorite label’s showcase while keeping my New York City / Brooklyn quotient up. You wouldn’t even understand how fast my heart was beating as I got closer to the event. That’s the case with every trip to New York City because it’s always a big deal to me.

Long Island had a succession of greyscale cloudy days and rain. Saturday would be no different, I feared. Coincidentally, the clouds broke up while I rode the Central Islip line to Woodside. By the time I took the 7 line to catch the Q39 bus, it was a baking, bright and hazy 75*F by the time I got to the Knockdown Center. Security and detail dressed in full black asked everyone if they were here for Sacred Bones or Zero (an alternate techno dance event). After weaving through the guard rail labyrinth, showing ID, and having our tickets scanned, we were welcomed in. I took for granted just attending and supporting the label’s showcase because I knew it was an event. By the end of the night, this experience would be nothing I expected.

I entered the Knockdown Center’s huge lobby and through its conduits, observing several people sitting outside and enjoying the now shining skies like it was a university campus. I arrive at the huge main stage area and it was a dazzler. Once a thriving glass and door factory, this centurian structure is now out-of-commission for its original purposes and became a live venue and art space. It’s been internally repurposed and most of its original structures and aesthetic had faithfully remained intact. The bill would have seven artists across two areas and it would all start in the Texas room.

I walk in and the festivities had already started. Thirty people were here before me; some standing against the wall, some even sitting on the four-foot tall upper level. Everyone was totally silent and attentive as Constant Smiles’ sound welcomed everyone in with arms wide open. I look around and I see punks, metalheads, artist-types, longhairs, goth girls, girls in pigtails, an older silver gentleman wearing all-black matching sportscoat and miniskirt, and many more broad-minded walks of life coming in from Queens, Brooklyn, and Manhattan. Ben Jones’ and personnel’s peaceful delivery of gentle long-distance drone, dreampop, and shoegaze painted this picture of total tranquility and serenity. Their sound perfectly juxtaposed with the setting sun’s rays beaming through the windows and into the Texas room. Nobody couldn’t have symbolically started the entire production any better.

All of us migrated to see The Men, the second artist up and the first to take the main stage. If Constant Smiles were the warm-up, then The Men got everything going with a such a slamming free-wheeling set. The line-up of Kevin Faulkner, Mark Perro, Nick Chiericozzi, and Rich Samis delivered a near-endless performance that sounded like it took forever and that’s not a bad thing. I stood about twenty feet away from the main stage and I zoned out letting the music take me to places. At this point, the people were sparse with lots of space to move around on the main floor but they were into it. One song of theirs I instantly recognized from their old line-up was “( )” because I did feature it on Omega WUSB.That was their most powerful one of the night. After their performance, things would take a turn to the unexpected.

Some of us decided to march on to the Ready Room, Knockdown’s former main office-turned bar where they held conferences, panels, and small celebratory events. I had no idea who LD Deutsch was. When I walked in the almost pitch-black space, I seen plenty of people packed in and seated with a projector set-up in front. It looked so surreal. A lecture during a concert night? Where am I? I don’t believe this. This was the stuff my dreams were usually made of: odd situations, things, and re-arrangements that could possibly happen in real-life but never did. Now this was it. Am I now in my own dream? For a good firty-five minutes LD Deutsch presented to us “A Revised Lecture On Time: Reality at the Edge of Itself”. It was a compliment of her latest material “Mythologies Of Time And Timelessness” and her second one published through Sacred Bones’ press. As part of their 15th anniversary, the label chose a great opportunity to showcase their best example of featured authors and filmmakers.

Meanwhile, the next act already got going on the main stage. In the past five years, Sacred Bones really ramped up their signings. I’m more accustomed to their first ten years when almost every artist signed on the label played for their 10th. Anika released Change on the label in 2021 and…I didn’t know what to think when I first witnessed them. Here was Annika Henderson up front on vocals, sounding reserved, quite soft spoken, calm and in control. Her touring personnel behind her put together an amalgam of minimal post-punk, art-rock, and krautrock and it felt up there. Once they played “Sand Witches”, I started finding plenty of elements of their sound that had that specific something and that continued with “Change”. Both had that just-about-right hypnotic spell that drew me in and enough to at least give them another chance in the very near future.

Squrl was another unfamiliar unknown to me and recent signing on that night’s line-up. Anika’s set spilled a little over its end time so I ended up being a little late for the Texas room to see them. It was another attentive, quiet trip on the bill that painted a lively adventurous picture through long expansive guitar drones and a relaxing sound that went the distance. After one of their songs, a fan was dared by her friends to scream out “Jim Jarmusch!” and she did. What a surprise - that is him! Ghost Dog. Coffee And Cigarettes. Fifteen feet away was the closest I ever came in presence of a film director. Anyway - everyone knew it was him with the three of them creating another calm, pleasurable experience. P.S.: no one thought you were funny, you donkey.

I wasn’t too familiar with Spellling’s music but I was still auditioning it for a future use. I was also on the fence about her because she’s not my usual fare. I got to know her better as she performed on the main stage and she won it. Spellling had so much fun onstage and felt super gracious performing for Knockdown’s main crowd who saw her as an amazing performer and being. She was alive. Her presence was animated, playful, free-spirited, and boundless for her type of musical work that was imaginative, magical, and full of fantasy - the total opposite of where I was heading to next.

I wanted to return to the Texas room one final time as early as possible because I did not want to miss the next act, and promised myself to be in the thick of it when it happened. Brooklyn’s scream-core icon Jenna Rose (Anatomy) and Sacred Bones king-of-all-trades Ben Greenberg took to their instruments when were done chilling with their friends. Then their touring drummer (who to this day I still don’t know who he is) came aboard and finally lead singer Michael Berdan showed up wearing Salo / 120 Days Of Sodom to win the T-Shirt Of The Year award. Uniform finally got going and we all were ready for them. Berdan gave thanks and hat-tipped Bones label founder Caleb Braaten for signing them before delivering a few laugh-out-loud wisecracks. Like the last time I saw them at Saint Vitus last year, they kicked off the set with “Life In Regression” and brought the out-of-mind insanity and violence. During the second song, I got splashed hard with a cup of beer. Now it’s going down. About seven or eight guys (including myself) wailed and pushed each other like you would with any nihilist affair. People got knocked down and were promptly pulled up to keep going. Someone lost their glasses and frantically searched for them during the thick of the action. He found them all right: near my boots. That summed up my third time seeing Uniform. If not for them, I wouldn’t have been here. Simple as that.

The label listed six artists and one author appearing “plus more to be announced”. At the last minute, they added Black Marble to end the night. I can thank Chris Stewart’s unforgettable sounds for getting me by during an insurmountably difficult and surreal time. I already seen him open up for Cold Cave at Greenpoint’s Warsaw four years ago, so seeing him again was a nice bonus. Stewart returned to his hometown and his no-wave dressed suspects also took the stage. As a 2020 signee (and I was floored when that was announced), they leaned towards their newer stuff with that familiar cute synthpop and special lo-fi tonality. To me, Black Marble isn’t just a great artist but also a mood; a unique feeling I wouldn’t get from any other outfit. The idea that Stewart originated from New York City, the aesthetic of A Different Arrangement,how “A Great Design” resonates with me, and a sound that leads my heart to where it truly should be (Brooklyn, not Long Island) still makes Black Marble one of personal sentiment. Everyone got into them. The petites, too, as they danced and rocked out to “One Eye Open”. I always wondered what type of significant other would be into them as I never met anyone who were. Now I have my answer.

For five hours, I felt like everything lined up: the label, their fans, the setting, location, and how everything played out. The Sacred Bones fans repp-ing Spacemen 3, Sannhet, Health, and Converge who surrounded me were exactly the type I’d be associated with. Only in the city, because Long Island has nothing going for it. As I observed and took in everything, I couldn’t help having that feeling of someone, anyone such as a Brooklyn contact or a city-minded interest I met during the pandemic summer to come join me because it would’ve turned an already 9.5 to a perfect 10. I held it in knowing that having those contacts would’ve certainly made all the difference. Imagine if I were to meet someone new from the event? But that didn’t happen. My anxiety, fright, and uncertainty held me back.

But that didn’t even leave a permanent scratch. No. What did was the subway lines and bis rides on the way to Queens, the semi-sweet smell of old decaying wood, the high-definition visuals of heavy fog and sweet colored lighting, and another improbable-turned-unforgettable night written in the books. Spring couldn’t have ended on such a high note.

Once again, I faced the dilemma of getting to the subway in time, getting home early enough and not come to work sleepy the next day. I exited the Knockout and walked past all the groups of people converging on how great the event was or some other insignificant bullshit. I had an Uber pick me up and take me to the Woodmere stop heading east where I’d transfer at Jamaica and back home to Central Islip. As with all rail rides to and from the city, there’s always a pair of headphones plugged in my ears and the music playing from my iPhone. There’s always a playlist made to forever remember the day by.

[cosmic-navel-gazin]

@razielim this started out as an ask and got outta hand x)

I remember once you talking about movement in videogames gabe. About how satisfying and important just the act of moving can be (which arghhhh yess I couldn't agree more!), and compared it with movement in dreams. And I remember you mentioning Asscreed II as an example and I was thinking (as I was listening to some asscreed ambience on youtube), do you think the visuals and music also contribute to that dreamlike feel too?

I've noticed more recently how like, in spite of the attempt at capturing all the historical places realistically and faithfully, they don't feel like that, or, perhaps I should say, they feel as realistic as a dream of Florence or Venice can be?

The colours are all somewhat muted (like if everything has the opacity not quite at 100%, contrast and vibrancy is way down too). Just a more muted colour palette in general (big emphasis on white with light pinks and oranges and browns, greyish blues and greens with just the occasional sharp bright red of clothes or flowers);

Just so much white! The white interface of the animus and the animus loading effects of the towns being reconstructed on these white digital canvases. And the draw distance (Silent Hill taught me that if you want that dreamlike atmosphere you play with that draw distance son, obscure details, don't let players see everything, imply don't just show)! The skies! I can't remember a vibrant blue sky in this game, it's always a greyish blue or white or pink.

I dunno tell me if I'm talking outta my ass, I think it helps evoke this dreamlike/nostalgic feel. And this extends to Jesper Kyd's music too, how it's oddly experimental honestly? It's not authentic Italian Renaissance-era compositions or something that sounds close enough. Minus the chase and combat ones, the town ones (Home in Florence, Dreams of Venice, Leonardo's Inventions, etc) have this ethereal feel and tranquility to them. It's like the visuals: somewhat muted, somewhat vague, they don't draw too much attention to themselves, listening to them it's like walking through that same white haze the visuals have.

It's this, AssCreed II's movement, visuals and music are dreams of the Renaissance in white laminated glass to me:

::::::::::::::::

EDIT:

I

JUST

realized

that whoever did the box art for the game MADE MY POINT FOR ME BY HAVING THE DEFINING IMAGE THAT ENCAPSULATES ASSCREED II BE:

White-ass laminated glass-looking background with the contrasting vibrant red and the blurred hazy characters.

[kammartinez]

By Sam Tabachnik

The Mexican delegation stood on the tarmac Friday afternoon near Denver International Airport, waiting under hazy skies for a forklift to deliver a wooden box, the contents of which archaeologists have been searching for nearly two decades.

Inside that box — 95 inches tall, 46 inches wide, emblazoned with the Mexican flag — sat a 2,000-pound, elaborately carved stone from the ancient Olmec civilization, a precursor to the Mayans who thrived more than 2,500 years ago near the Gulf of Mexico.

The prized relic, known as Monument 9 or the Earth Monster, was carefully crafted between 800 and 400 B.C. out of volcanic rock, archaeologists believe. Its wide mouth represents the door to the underworld.

“This is one of the pieces we have been looking for for the longest time,” said Jorge Islas, Mexico’s consul general in New York.

Authorities believe the stone artifact was stolen in the late 1950s or early 1960s from the central Mexican state of Morelos. It was exhibited in New York’s famed Metropolitan Museum of Art in the 1970s, and sometime after made its way into the hands of an unnamed private collector or collectors in Colorado.

Now the stone artifact — with an estimated $12 million value — is headed back to its ancestral homeland after authorities seized it Friday, part of a long-term investigation by the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office into stolen Olmec antiquities.

“This is testimony our nation is recovering our great patrimony,” Marcelo Ebrard Casaubon, Mexico’s foreign secretary, said during a news conference.

“A decisive civilization”

Monument 9 isn’t just any old Mexican antiquity.

The Olmecs were the earliest known major Mesoamerican civilization, dominating the tropical lowland of the modern-day Mexican states of Veracruz and Tabasco south of Mexico City.

Architecture from the Olmecs is quite advanced, said Mario Córdova, an archaeologist who accompanied the Mexican delegation to Denver. That’s why it’s so valued and desired.

“It was a decisive civilization,” Casaubon said.

The Earth Monster sports iconography of jaguars, revered as the most dangerous animal in Central and South America, as well as sacred mountains and indigenous plants.

Archaeologists don’t know how much was taken from the Chalcatzingo Archaeological Zone, but the looting was significant, Córdova said. Mexican authorities believe sometime in the late 1950s or early 1960s, looters broke Monument 9 into pieces and smuggled it into the United States.

Colorado Lt. Gov. Dianne Primavera, left, is shown a photograph of “Monument 9,” an Olmec civilization statue that is believed to represent an “Earth Monster,” before the creation was repatriated Friday, May 19, 2023, in Denver. (AP Photo/David Zalubowski)

The Met exhibited the work from July 1970 through February 1971 as part of its Before Cortes exhibition, a museum spokesperson said. The relic was on loan to the museum from the Munson-Williams-Proctor Arts Institute in Utica, NY.

Córdova and other archaeologists spent the past 18 years looking for this significant piece of Mexican history. It’s not clear when, or how, the multimillion-dollar antiquity made its way into the hands of the Colorado collectors.

Authorities didn’t divulge these individuals’ identities on Friday.

“They got a settlement,” Islas told The Denver Post. “They’re super famous, super wealthy people.”

The Mexican government approached the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office with evidence that the artifact had been stolen and authorities located it this year, said Alejandro Celorio, principal legal advisor for Mexico’s foreign ministry.

Douglas Cohen, a spokesperson for the Manhattan DA’s office, said Friday’s seizure came as part of a long-term investigation into stolen Olmec antiquities. The office sports an antiquities trafficking unit that spearheads some of the country’s largest art-crime investigations. In recent months, the team returned stolen artifacts to Iraq, China and Yemen, among other countries.

Recovering lost heritage

The Mexican government in recent years has prioritized cultural property repatriation efforts, scouring the globe for artifacts it believes to have been looted.

President Andrés Manuel López Obrador even launched a campaign under the hashtag #MiPatrimonioNoSeVende (“My heritage is not for sale”).

In March, authorities in France, Italy and Germany returned 86 cultural objects to Mexico. The Netherlands in December, meanwhile, returned 223 objects to the Latin American nation.

The country’s efforts come as the global south has increasingly pressed for the return of its heritage after decades of plundering and colonial rule. Museums and private collectors have faced increasing pressure — and attention from law enforcement — over the provenance of antiquities.

Córdova could hardly contain his glee as he stood on the tarmac at the private aviation terminal next to Denver’s airport.

In minutes, the archeologist would accompany the enormous wooden box on a military plane, headed for Mexico. Monument 9 by next week will be displayed at the Palace of Cortés, the famous conquistador’s former residence in Cuernavaca.

“I didn’t believe this was possible,” Córdova said in Spanish through an interpreter. “I’m just so happy.”