#he would have one hand holding crions

[antlercollections]

I think i might be going insane about matthew brown

[crispyjenkins]

“Chosen One Obi” sequel sneak peek

(i’ve been fighting the same prompt for a month now, and this chapter of hunger is even worse and it is just   n  o  t   happening this week. seriously, this is the worst block i’ve had on a story in years, and it’s exhausting and i’ve tried giving them both breaks, tried scrapping it all and starting over, flipping povs, changing the outline, butttt nada.

so! while i can’t give a sneak peek of my current secret project, i have been thinking about that chosen one obi prompt again, and thought y’all might like to see what i’ve been playing with in terms of a sequel. ‘think i might get the next dha kar’ta out while i figure out what tf is going on with my brain (ღT◡Tღ)

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-

  When Quinlan steps into his buir’s cantina in Foxsoll, looking like he’d seen the second coming of the Sith, Obi-Wan is too surprised to focus on the whispers the Force is trying to weasel into his mind. 

  Frozen behind the bar, Quinlan comes to him through the early-evening crowds, and how many times had he thought about visiting the Temple? About checking in on his friends? How many times had he talked himself out of it?

  “Obi-Wan?” Quinlan asks, as if afraid of the answer; Obi-Wan hasn’t heard that name here in far too long, not since Jango and Jaster had last been around.

  “Quinlan,” he whispers back, and wonders if someone had spiked the papuur’gal at lunch.

  Blinking, Quinlan looks him up and down quickly as something seems to connect in his mind. “Oh,” he says, looking floored, and the Force refuses to tell Obi-Wan what conclusion he had come to. “It’s you?”

  Obi-Wan frowns worriedly. “Are you alright, Quin?”

  “It’s you? Why didn’t you say anything?!”

  Chalmun senses the change in mood immediately, latching onto the edges of Obi-Wan’s mind as he all but storms out of the back storeroom with a few choice Xaczik swears on his lips. Obi-Wan doesn’t get the chance to tell him Quinlan is a friend, because Chalmun takes one look at Quinlan’s expression and comes to a realisation of his own, before grabbing the both of them by the back of their tunics to drag them to the private lounge. Obi-Wan knows better than to protest, but Quinlan yelps in surprise.

   Chalmun hasn’t been a Journeyman Protector in almost five years, but he hasn’t lost the bearing, nor the wall of blasters and bowcasters at the back of the lounge; Quinlan takes this all in quickly, but as soon as Chalmun sets them on their feet, he’s right back Obi-Wan’s space.

  “Why the kriff didn’t you say anything?” he demands, distressed and angry, and Obi-Wan automatically reaches out for his mind, trying to project calm and peace.

  “I’m so sorry, Quin, but there was Xanatos, and the Mand’alor found me and I didn’t– I didn’t think the Temple would want me–”

  Stunned, Quinlan looks from Obi-Wan to Chalmun and back again. “Wait, no– No, Obi, why didn’t you tell us you were the Chosen One.”

  Ah, this nonsense again.

  Obi-Wan deflates and glares at his buir over Quinlan’s shoulder. “It’s nice to see the crazies hadn’t died out,” he scoffs, and Chalmun just shakes his head.

  “You know everyone can feel it, cub.”

  Quinlan knows enough Shyriiwook to at least guess what Chalmun says. “How long has he been like this?”

  It takes Obi-Wan a moment to realise Quinlan isn’t even speaking to him anymore, Chalmun giving a great shrug. “Always.”

  “But that...” Quilan reaches out a gloved hand, Obi-Wan allowing him to almost touch him, to skate over the Force just above his skin.

  “Anyone with a midichlorian count above baseline can feel it,” his buir adds unhelpfully. “It’s caused us quite a few problems, when the less savoury sort have come poking around.”

  “Buir,” he sighs, but allows Quinlan to touch him fully, hand pressed along and down his neck. “Quin, you knew what I felt like before, I don’t–”

  “Yeah, you’ve always felt like this,” Quinlan breathes. “But not like this.”

  “What the kriff does that even mean.”

  “If... Kriff, you’d been at the Temple longer than anybody in the crèche!”

  “I am even less sure of what you’re trying to say now.”

  Shaking his head, Quinlan looks up at Chalmun with a mutual understanding that Obi-Wan does not share. “Does it get easier to look at, the longer you’re around him?”

  “Indeed. He is still a lantern, I could find him from the other side of the planet, but you stop thinking about it.”

  At Quinlan’s sheepish expression, Obi-Wan sighs and translates for him. 

  “Master Plo called you that, too,” he says to Obi-Wan after a moment. “A lantern.”

  “I’m not the ‘Chosen One’, Quinlan.” He steps out from under Quinlan’s hand and glares at the both of them, trying to ignore the way the Force chimes in his head like he’d chosen the wrong answer on a gameshow holo. “Why wouldn’t the masters have sensed it?” If what he remembers about the prophecy is correct, someone would have noticed before now, before Bandomeer.

  “Obes, I think we were all just used to you. Kriff, hey, you remember the Zabraki woman, who came to write about the architecture of the Temple? Maker, we should have realised then, she even called you ‘the chosen’...”

  “Perhaps you will have better luck with him,” Chalmun rumbles. “He will not listen to me.”

  “That sounds in character.” Smiling, Quinlan shuffles to pull a datapad out of the pack over his shoulders. “I’m a Shadow now, Obes, Master Tholm wouldn’t hear of it until I’d given it a shot. I’m here on a mission from the High Council, from Master Windu, there’s some rumours in the lower levels of Coruscant about a Force Sensitive on Concord Dawn. And, when Master Qui-Gon finally faced du Crion, he let slip he’d been looking for the Chosen One as well.”

  Xanatos du Crion. The reason Obi-Wan is even hiding in Mandalore Space in the first place, a dark shadow that has not left his mind since he had tracked Obi-Wan here through Jango. 

  “Master Ti thought it all too much to be coincidence,” Quinlan is saying, holding out the datapad that Obi-Wan doesn’t even bother looking at. It is time, the Force whispers to him, we can hide you no longer. “And then as soon as I touched down, I felt you, Obi-wan. The– The Agricorp masters said you never made it to them, that you would were still in the spaceport when du Crion bombed it. No one knows you’re alive.”

 Chalmun takes the pad instead, looking it over even though Aurebesh isn’t his strong point. “The Mand’alor and I have been keeping him safe out here, we knew others would seek out his power. And I knew we could only do that for so long; it seems we’ve finally run out of luck.”

-

Mando’a: buir —“parent”, gender neutral papuur’gal — a Mandalorian wine, probably akin to a white wine

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) cabur STAR WARS

Jango doesn't know how long he’s been caged.

It could have been days, it could have been months - hells, it could have been years. Jango can’t tell with his mind fogged by spice and agony. His body aches, and Jango is pretty sure his hands have permanently curled into claws from the never ending physical labour, and his back has been flayed by the beatings. He’s spent his days since - since Galidraan - wallowing in a drug-filled haze of never-ending monotony interspersed with violent whippings, and any moment the drugs fade enough for Jango to think, to remember, he almost chokes on his own burning hatred when it claws its way back up to the surface.

It makes him want the haze of drugs. He welcomes it, because it drowns out the grief, the guilt, the memories, and his overwhelming hatred of everything and everyone - including himself.

He’s a failure, a coward - if he had been a better Mand’alor, his people wouldn’t have died, or he would have done them the honour of dying with them. He’s no longer Mando’ad. He has no armour, it had been stolen from him and was probably being used as some shiny trophy for that aruetyc shabuir of a Governor. He has no defense, it’s been taken from him by the collar around his neck and the brand burned into his chest - he’s a slave now, and slaves can’t defend themselves. His tribe is gone, slaughtered on Galidraan and dismembered by those skanah jetiise , their bodies probably left to rot with no one to complete their final rites and thus no way to join the manda. He has no reason to speak the language, because slaves aren’t permitted to speak, and he’d have no one to share it with anyways. And as for his leader?

Well, Jango had failed spectacularly as Mand’alor. He had gotten his people - Jaster’s people - killed, his failure had destroyed the Haat Mando’ade. He had destroyed Jaster’s legacy.

He had failed his people, he had failed himself, and he had failed his Buir. He should have died that day with his parents, he should have burned with their farmhouse. Maybe if he had, Jaster would have saved Arla as soon as he heard her screaming if he hadn’t been weighed down by Jango - he has no doubt Jaster could have pulled her out of the flames if he hadn’t been honour-bound to protect Jango.

None of this would have happened if Jango had died then. But he hadn’t, and now everything and had known and loved was gone - and it was his fault.

Jango doesn’t bother looking up from his huddle in the corner of his too-small cage when he hears the masters walking down the rows. He barely acknowledges their voices. Instead, he stays where he is, considering whether or not to let the fog drag him under again.

A yelp has him jerking.

It was the pained cry of a child - an ad - and it has Jango beating back the numbness of the spice and lifting his head.

The large Twi’lek overseer had stopped in front of Jango’s cage, his meaty hand curled solidly around a chain leading to the collar around the small, pale throat of a Human or Near-Human child with fluffy ginger hair and glazed blue eyes.

“You sure about that, Tol?” The Zeltron at the overseer’s side asks, red eyes lingering on Jango’s huddled form. “Y’know what they say about Mandos-”

The Twi’lek snorts, moving to unclasp the gate to Jango’s cage. “Good thing we ain’t got no Mandos here then. Only slaves . This one was good and broken before we got it.” The overseer sneers, and with a jerk of the Twi’lek’s hand, the scared ad stumbles toward him.

Jango twitches as those cruel fingers lock around the child’s delicate neck, and the adiik flinches. He must not be as far under the thrall of the spice if he could still react like that, and Jango twitches again against the desire to throw himself forward to defend the tiny adiik.

“Be good now, slave.” The overseer coos mockingly, unhooking the chain from the explosive rigged to the small child’s neck. “We paid some good creds for you - I’d hate to be the one telling Lord du Crion that we had to blow you up.”

The child stares back, fire sparking in those foggy eyes, then they make a pained noise when the overseer gives them a violent shake. The adiik’s head ducks submissively as the Twi’lek sneers at them.

“There’s a good lad.” The Zeltron says in a parody of motherly concern, voice sickly sweet as she toys with the ends of the ad ’s red hair. “That brother of yours wanted us to keep you in one piece until you learned your lesson.”

“He’s not my brother -” The adiik’s retort is cut off by a cry of pain that has Jango gritting his teeth in fury, carefully uncoiling himself from the tight ball he had been curled into before. The kid hits the floor of his cage with a bone-jarring thud, and Jango rolls stiffly to his knees as the slave masters laugh.

“That’s your final warning, slave.” The Twi’lek sneers, looking down his nose at the two slaves as he shuts the cage once more. “You talk back to me again and I’ll whip you ‘til you bleed.”

Jango glowers at the two slavers thunderously from under his shaggy hair as the march away, and the ad barely stirs from his sprawl. He grits his teeth, holding his tongue until the overseers are out of sight, before he’s shuffling forwards, towards the limp child that had unexpectedly become his companion.

“Me’vaar ti gar?” He calls softly to the adiik, who flinches, scrambling clumsily onto his hands and knees to stare up at Jango with a wide-eyed glare. He’s scared, Jango can tell immediately, but there’s still a fire burning inside of him that almost has Jango smiling.

He’s definitely Mandokarla , and just looking at him makes Jango ache for home. If they weren’t in this cage - if they were back on Manda’yaim - Jango has no doubt that someone would be snatching this adiik up and adopting him into their aliit . It makes him think of Myles, of the last thing his cyare had said to him before they had rushed into battle - about how he wanted to raise warriors with him - and Ka’ra does it hurt. He tries not to think about the way Myles’ body had been split in half. They would have said their vows after Galidraan had this been a kinder galaxy.

Carefully, Jango sits back on his heels, lifting his hands to show the kid that he means no harm. He probably looks frightening to the already scared adiik , with his unwashed hair and ungroomed beard - not to mention the thick layer of dirt, spice, and blood that covered his face. “Udesii, ad’ika.” He soothes, and the little Lothcat just bares his teeth at him, as threatening as a kitten - and the thought almost makes Jango snort.

Well, if there was any way to calm a feral kitten.

He glances around, then carefully choreography his movements as he pulls his half-eaten gruel towards them, then pushes it at the adiik. “Haili cetare, verd’ika.” He offers, and the kid eyes him suspiciously for a long moment before he reaches forward to tug the bowl closer. The kid hesitates, eyes darting from the bowl, to Jango, then skittering around the cage, and Jango raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Is -” The adiik’s voice is rough from spice-inhalation, but Jango can just pick up the refined High Core accent he spoke with - not surprising if was was apparently the brother of a Lord, and doesn’t that knowledge piss Jango off further.

What kind of dar’vod hut’uun sell their own vod’ika into slavery?

The ad flinches, ducking his head, and Jango curses himself, carefully schooling his face into the political mask Jaster had drilled into his thick head.

“Udesii.” Jango says again, and the child steadily relaxes again. “Copaani gaan?” He probes, a little teasingly and hoping to put the kid more at ease.

The adiik bites his lip, looking up at Jango from under dark lashes. “Are there utensils?” He asks in a rush, before he blushes and ducks his head shyly.

Utensils - Jango snorts. The kid really was some fancy Core lordling.

“Nayc, ad’ika.” He shakes his head, and the kid deflates, looking at the bowl in his dirty hands in dismay. The adiik hesitates a moment longer, before sighing quietly and beginning to use his fingers to scoop the unappetizing mush into his mouth. Jango only watches fondly for a moment, studying the kid; he had obviously been well-fed and well-cared for before his dar’vod had sold him. He’s lanky in the way kids get on the cusp of puberty, and his hair is a rare red-gold that actually makes Jango glad that the adiik had been sold to a spice rig instead of to someone with a taste for the exotic. He might even have some biological resistance to toxins, from the way the adiik grows sharper and more alert with every moment that passes.

He wonders if anyone would be missing this kid.

Well, they should have kept a better eye on him, obviously.

“Tion’ad hukaat’kama, adiik?” Jango asks, watching the kid lick the bowl clean, and big doe eyes blink back at him, confused. “Tion gar gai?”

The adiik blinks again, carefully rubbing his mouth with the filthy sleeve of his stained tunic as his brows furrow. “I’m sorry -” he says slowly, “- do you speak Basic? I don’t understand you.”

Jango blinks right back, a little taken aback - it had been so long since he had spoken to anyone . He hadn’t even realized that his mouth was forming the vowels of his mother tongue. “I -” Basic feels odd on his tongue, but the kid brightens, so Jango will put up with it until he can teach him Mando’a, “- yeah. I speak Basic.”

The kid beams at him and - haar’chak - he has dimples. He would have definitely been adopted in a heartbeat.

“Was wondering your name.” Jango grunts, and the verd’ika ’s smile turns shy.

“I’m Obi-Wan.” The kid introduces himself with a little bow that wouldn’t be out of place in a High Core court. “And yourself?” He asks, eyes curious.

“Jango.” He offers gruffly, “Jango Fett.”

Obi-Wan beams at him again, and - kriff, how could anyone sell this kid into slavery. He was too trusting, too innocent - this life would ruin him. “It’s nice to meet you, Master Fett!”

Jango jerks, scowls, and the kid flinches faintly, looking alarmed and confused, so Jango lets out an explosive sigh and forces himself to relax. “Not your master, Ob’ika.” Jango mutters, gesturing for the kid to come closer. Space gets cold, and the adiik would no doubt be feeling it soon. “Just Jango.”

“Okay.” Obi-Wan agrees quietly, shuffling over to the man’s side, and Jango slowly loops an arm around the ad ’s thin shoulders and pulling him even closer, tucking him against his ribs. “How long have you been here, Jango?” The kid asks, curling his fingers into Jango’s ruined kute, and Jango just shrugs awkwardly. There’s a small sniffle in response, as it fully begins to sink in that his dar’vod really had sold him into slavery no doubt.

Jango tightens his hold on the adiik, and in that moment he swears to himself, to the manda, that he’d get out. He’d get them both out.

[les-eaux-d-eunoe-blog]

Comment réciter le chapelet ? How to pray the rosary in English and French

(img source)

I love the rosary.

It’s a beautiful form of meditation through repetition and intention.

I’ve had some very powerful feelings of peace, joy, and strangely, self acceptance, during my several attempts at praying it. I recommend it to anyone. You don’t even have to be Catholic.

As I’m trying to practice French in some form each day, I thought memorizing the more common prayers of the rosary in the language of a country that is historically heavily Catholic would be lovely, especially since my time in France played a role in my own initial interest in Catholicism.

Rosary Basics

If you are new to the rosary, here’s a quick rundown on how it works:

The rosary is composed of a cross or crucifix and a series of beads, each of which represents a prayer.

It helps to hold each bead as you move through the rosary. This allows you to keep track of where you are without counting, so you can focus on meditation. 

That part dangling down to the cross? That’s where you’ll begin. You work your way up from the cross, then around the neck. You can move either clockwise or counter clockwise, it doesn’t really matter.

When you get to the main loop, there are five sets of beads, organized into what are called “decades.” For each decade first you’ll set your intention, which is to meditate on one of the Mysteries of the life of Christ (more on that later.) You can also additionally set your own intention here and add your own prayer.

Say the Rosary / Réciter le chapelet 

Here’s how to work your way through the rosary and the corresponding prayers:

1.  Make the sign of the cross. Faire un signe de croix.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Au nom du Père et du Fils, et du Saint-Esprit, Amen !

Say the Apostle’s Creed. Réciter du symbol des apôtres:

I believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord; who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended into hell; the third day he arose again from the dead; he ascended into heaven; sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from thence he shall come to judge the living and the dead.  I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen.

Je crois en Dieu, le Père tout-puissant, Créateur du ciel et de la terre. Et en Jésus-Christ, son Fils unique, notre Seigneur ; qui a été conçu du Saint-Esprit, est né de la Vierge Marie, a souffert sous Ponce Pilate, a été crucifié, est mort et a été enseveli, est descendu aux enfers ; le troisième jour est ressuscité des morts, est monté aux cieux, est assis à la droite de Dieu le Père tout-puissant, d’où il viendra juger les vivants et les morts. Je crois en l’Esprit Saint, à la sainte Église catholique, à la communion des saints, à la rémission des péchés, à la résurrection de la chair, à la vie éternelle. Amen.

2. Our Father / Un Notre Père

Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.  Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen.

Notre Père, qui est aux cieux, que ton nom soit sanctifié, que ton règne vienne, que ta volonté soit faite sur la terre comme au ciel. Donne-nous aujourd’hui notre pain de ce jour. Pardonne-nous nos offenses, comme nous pardonnons aussi à ceux qui nous ont offensés. Et ne nous laisse pas entrer en tentation mais délivre-nous du Mal. Amen.

3.  Say 3 Hail Marys, one for each bead. Réciter 3 "Je vous salue Marie," une pour chaque perle.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the Fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grâce ; Le Seigneur est avec vous. Vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes, Et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est béni. Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, Priez pour nous pauvres pécheurs, Maintenant et à l’heure de notre mort. Amen

4. Conclude with Glory Be and Oh My Jesus. Each decade also closes with these prayers. Concluez avec “Glorie au Père” et “O Mon Jésus.” Chaque dizaine se termine également avec ces prières

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.  As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

Gloire au Père et au Fils, et au Saint-Esprit, comme il était au commencement, maintenant et toujours, et dans les siècles des siècles. Amen

O My Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell and lead all souls to heaven, especially those who are in most need of Thy mercy.

O mon Jésus, pardonne-nous nos péchés, préserve-nous du feu de l'enfer et conduis au ciel toutes les petit âmes surtout celles qui ont le plus besoin de ta miséricorde.

5. (& 9, 10, 11 12) Now, the meditation on the mysteries begin. Puis la méditation des mystères commence.

For each decade, begin by announcing the Mystery (they’re listed below,) then say the Our Father (see Nº 2.)   Pour chaque dizaine, commencez par annoncer le mystère (ils sont énumérés ci-dessous), puis dites le Notre Père (Nº 2.)

6. Recite 10 Hail Marys (see Nº 3), following the beads. Récitez 10 “Je vous salue Marie" (Nº 3,)  en suivant les perles.

7 & 8. Conclude each decade with Glory Be and Oh My Jesus before moving on to the next decade. Concluez chaque dizaine avec “Glorie au Père” et “O Mon Jésus” avant de passer à la prochaine dizaine.

13. After all the decades are complete, finish the sequence with a Hail Holy Queen, followed by a final prayer or the sign of the cross. À la fin, terminez la séquence avec un Hail Holy Queen, suivi d'une prière finale ou du signe de la croix.

Hail Holy Queen:

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy, hail, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve: to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears. Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus, O merciful, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary! Amen.

Nous vous saluons, Reine, Mere de misericorde, notre vie, notre joie, notre esperance, salut. Enfants d'Eve, nous crions vers vous de fond de notre exil. Nous soupirons vers vous, gemissant et pleurant dans cette vallee de larmes. O vous notre advocate, tournez vers nous vos regards misericordieux. Et apres l'exil de cette vie, montrez nous Jesus, le fruit beni de vos entrailles, tendre, aimante, douce vierge Marie. Priez pour nous, sainte Mere de Dieu. Afin que nous devenions dignes des promesses de Jesus Christ. Amen.

Final Prayer:

Let us pray. O God, whose only begotten Son, by His life, death, and resurrection has purchased for us the rewards of eternal life; grant, we beseech Thee, that meditating upon these mysteries of the most Holy Rosary of the Blessed Virgin Mary, we may imitate what they contain and obtain what they promise, through the same Christ Our Lord. Amen.

Prions: O Dieu dont le Fils unique, par sa vie, sa mort et sa resurrection, nous a merite, les recompenses du salut eternel, faites que, meditant ses mysteres dans le tres saint Rosaire de la bienheureuse Vierge Marie, nous mettions a profit les lescons qu'ils contiennent afin d'obtenir ce qu'ils nous font esperer. Par la meme Jesus-Christ, votre Fils notre Seigneur. Amen.

The Mysteries

For each decade, you’ll reflect on 1 of 5 certain events of Jesus’ life, depending on the day of the week. I usually like to pull up a classic painting of the event before I announce it, and look at it while I recite the Hail Marys.

Joyful Monday & Saturday | Mystères joyeux Lundi & samedi

The Annunciation, The Visitation, The Birth of Jesus, The Presentation in the Temple,  Finding of Jesus in the Temple

L'Annonciation, La Visitation, La Naissance de Jésus, La Présentation au Temple, Le Recouvrement au Temple Sorrowful Tuesday & Friday | Mystères douloureux Mardi & vendredi

Agony the Garden, Scourging at the Pillar, Crowning of Thorns, Carrying of the Cross, The Crucifixion

L'Agonie de Jésus, La Flagellation, Le Couronnement d'épines, Le Portement de la Croix, Le Crucifiement

Glorious Wednesday & Sunday | Mystères glorieux Mercredi & dimanche

Resurrection of Jesus, The Ascension, Pentecost, Assumption of the Virgin Mary, Coronation of Mary

La Résurrection de Jésus, L'Ascension, La Pentecôte, L'Assomption de la Saint-Vierge Maria, Le Couronnement de la Saint-Vierge Maria

Luminous Thursday | Mystères luminex Jeudi

Baptism of the Lord, Wedding Feast at Cana, Proclamation of the Kingdom of Heaven, The Transfiguration, Institution of the Eucharist

Baptême du Christ, Noces de Cana, Proclamation du Royaume, Transfiguration, L'institution de l'Eucharistie

Learn more about the mysteries here.

So there you have it! How to pray the rosary in both English and French.

I’m not a native speaker, so I almost certainly made some mistakes. Absolutely  correct me if you notice any. :)

[myurbandream]

Shuffle the Deck

For a while now I’ve had a very docile plot bunny about a Happier Star Wars AU, the basic premise being what if the order of Qui-Gon’s Padawans got switched up and everyone was better off because of it. Until yesterday I’d never written a word of this plot bunny, but last night this one scene grabbed hold of me and demanded to be written.  There’s a whole story built up before and after this scene, but I’ve tried to make it clear enough to stand by itself, since I’ll probably never get around to writing the rest of the story.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

@quiobiweek, this is probably the closest I’ll come to having a contribution for this week. If background QuiObi counts, let me know and I’ll add this to the AO3 Collection.

~ and now, a snippet:

Anakin keeps his face all but plastered to the window as the shuttle flies from the Senate Rotunda to the Jedi Temple.  From the seat beside him, Padawan du Crion leans over Anakin's shoulder and points out various landmarks as they travel through the skies of Coruscant.  The young Jedi has an endless stream of stories, whether of criminals he has chased into this building or that canyon, or where the best local diners can be found for a meal during an illicit trip to the underlevels of the great city-planet.

(mobile users, there’s a cut here)

As the Temple looms larger in the viewport, Padawan du Crion points out each of the Temple towers by name, and Anakin carefully repeats them, checking the sun for direction.  If he's going to be a Jedi, then that's definitely important information to know.

“Uh-oh,” du Crion murmurs as they near the landing platform.

“What's wrong?” Anakin asks, concerned.  He doesn't see anything dangerous on the platform - just the ground crew moving around, and a few people standing at the edge of the landing zone, probably waiting to meet them.  Nothing's on fire or anything.

Padawan du Crion snorts.  “Nothing's wrong, just…” he bites his lip on a smirk and glances across the aisle, to where Master Qui-Gon has been sitting, silently, eyes closed for the entire shuttle ride.  “I think Master Qui-Gon is in trouble.”

Whatever this supposed trouble is, Padawan du Crion seems more amused than worried.  Anakin frowns and looks out the viewport again, but all he can see now is the skyline of the city, before it’s cut off by the side walls of the landing bay as the shuttle delicately maneuvers into its resting spot.

Master Qui-Gon opens his eyes when the shuttle engines start cycling down.  Anakin is watching closely enough to see a faint grimace cross the Jedi’s face, before his expression smooths out.

“Xan,” Master Qui-Gon calls across the aisle as he stands up, “will you keep Anakin with you until we report to the Council?”

“Yes, Master,” Padawan du Crion says, and then a sly smirk appears on his face.  “After all, we can't tarnish your dignified reputation before you have a chance to make Anakin's status as your next Padawan official.  What a shame that would be.”

“Imp.”  Master Qui-Gon glares, but there's no heat to it, and the corners of his mouth are twitching as if he's holding back a smile.  “Off with you.  Anakin, I'll see you in a few hours, and Xanatos will take good care of you until then.”

“Psshh,” Padawan du Crion waves his hand dismissively.  “Depends on your definition of ‘good care’.  C’mon kid, we're getting ice cream.”

“What's ice cream?” Anakin asks as he follows the two Jedi down the ramp.

“Kid, trust me, you're gonna love it,” Padawan du Crion promises with a huge grin.  “Aaaand step this way,” he adds, tugging Anakin sideways as another Jedi marches straight towards them across the landing bay with a thunderous scowl on his face.

The approaching Jedi is a human male, middle-aged although maybe not quite Master Qui-Gon's age, with a neatly trimmed beard and ginger-brown hair just starting to turn silver at the temples.  He looks as regal as the Queen of Naboo in her fancy dresses, despite the fact that he's wearing the same brown and tan robes as Padawan du Crion, and his scowling face promises trouble.

“Hi, Obi-Wan,” Padawan du Crion calls out as the man passes by them.  The other Jedi gives him a distracted wave in response and then strolls right up to Master Qui-Gon, until they're standing almost toe-to-toe.  He has to look up to meet Master Qui-Gon's eyes, but his glare is no less intimidating for it, and he isn't even aiming it at Anakin.

“Qui, where in the seven Sith hells have you been?” the new Jedi hisses.

“I left you a message,” Master Qui-Gon protests, eyebrows raised in faint surprise.

“You call that a message?  You didn't say where you were going, your mission wasn't logged in the roster, and the Council refused to tell me where you were!”

“They wha- Plo promised me he would tell you about it!”  Master Qui-Gon looks upset, but the other Jedi shakes his head.

“Don’t blame Plo,” he sighs.  “He left for a border dispute on Malastare just hours before I returned.  I just- I was out of the Temple for less than 48 hours and you kriffing vanished.  For Force’s sake, Xan is halfway through his Trials, what was so important that his Knighting had to be delayed for it?  You can't go gallivanting off on clandestine missions and not take me with- not even tell me-”

“I'm sorry, dearheart,” Master Qui-Gon rumbles, pulling the other Jedi into a tight hug.  The ginger-haired Jedi growls and grumbles like a territorial krayt dragon, but returns the embrace just as fiercely.  Master Qui-Gon says something else, too soft to hear, and then Padawan du Crion tugs at Anakin's arm and pulls him away from the shuttle.

“Alright, time to go, drama’s over,” du Crion whispers.  He pulls Anakin back into the depths of the loading bay, where the foot traffic is thicker.  They dodge around a loader droid’s shipping crate, and the long ebony braid behind the Padawan’s ear sways back and forth with the motion.  

“Who was that?”  Anakin ventures to ask.  “I didn't think Jedi were allowed to, uh…”

Padawan du Crion snorts.  “Yeah, I know that rumor.  Stuck-up, cold-hearted Jedi with no emotions, no love, no family.  It's not true, it's just hard for non-Jedi to understand our way of life, and most of us are very private about our relationships.”

“Obi-Wan and Master Qui-Gon are life-bonded - they're mates, partners,” du Crion clarifies at Anakin's puzzled frown.  He leads them into a hallway as he talks, touching Anakin's shoulder to steer him through the crowd of other Jedi entering and exiting the landing bay.

“They're the Jedi equivalent of being married, basically.  Obi-Wan is technically my brother-Padawan, too - he was orphaned just a couple years before his Knighting, and Master Qui-Gon finished his training right after he'd just been Knighted himself.  They life-bonded before I was around, while Master Qui-Gon was still training Feemor.  Feemor is our other brother-Padawan,” du Crion clarifies.  “He's away on a long-term assignment right now, but he'll be back in a few months.  He always comes to visit after his missions, I'll introduce you.”

They move from the industrial hallway of the loading bay into a larger, much grander walkway, with a colonnade along one side that opens into a cavernous multi-level space lined with stairs and other hallways around the perimeter.  Padawan du Crion steers Anakin to one side of the wide hallway, to allow a group of little kids dressed in matching white tunics to walk past them.  Some of the little ones wave at them and call out hello, and Padawan du Crion waves back cheerfully, greeting a few of the younglings by name.

“Anyway,” he continues, once they start walking again, “since Obi-Wan is practically the same age as Master Qui-Gon, and they're life-bonded, I basically have two Masters.  It's great, Obi-Wan is wicked smart, you'll like him,” du Crion assures Anakin, smiling.

Anakin takes all of that in, chewing his lip thoughtfully.  “So then, after you finish your tests-”

“Trials,” du Crion interjects, and Anakin nods.

“After your Trials, you'll be a Knight, and then I'll be Master Qui-Gon's new Padawan, and both you and Knight Obi-Wan-”

“Master Obi-Wan, or use his family name, Master Kenobi, if you're being formal.”

“Alright.  You and Master Kenobi will both be my brothers?”

“That's right, kiddo!”  He ruffles Anakin's hair.  “And I'm almost done with my Trials too.  I only have my Combat Trial and the Chamber left, and if we hadn't gone to Naboo I would have done those last week.  As soon as this karking invasion from the Trade Federation gets sorted, the Council will set a new date for my last Trials and I'll be a Knight.  You'd better get used to calling me Knight Xanatos,” he teases, grinning proudly down at Anakin.

Anakin smiles back.  “Is it nice, having older brothers?” he asks.

“Yeah, it's really nice,” du Crion says, his grin gentling into a soft smile.   Then he rolls his eyes.  “Except for when Obi-Wan and Master Qui-Gon get all sappy, or worse, hornnn...nevermind that.”  He coughs.  “Ice cream.  We need ice cream.  My favorite refectory is this way, c’mon kiddo, let's go.”

Anakin blinks at the sudden subject change, but leaves it be.  If Master Qui-Gon and Knight Kenobi and Padawan du Crion are going to be his Jedi family, then he'll have plenty of time to figure out what that was all about.

And he's eager to figure out what's so great about ice cream.

[enambris]

For every “⏳” I receive, my muse will openly talk about a bit of their backstory. ⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳

⏳“My first night in Ishgard was… well, it was hell. My face was still bleeding, quite profusely at that, and while the inn-keep was kind enough, no one else was. I wouldn’t let anyone near enough to treat the burns and blood on my face, so I was given a rag to staunch the flow, and I spent the night lying on a blanket before the small fireplace in my room, weeping, with that bloody rag just pressed against my face. I hadn’t really had a chance before that point to be alone and just… process things, but I think at that moment lying there, the gravity of everything just… collapsed atop me, and I spent the next several days that way. It wasn’t until my benefactor came to fetch me that I left that patch of floor.”

⏳“I think I was still very small, the first time I met my mother. I’m not exactly sure how old I was, but it was a year or two before I was sent to war, and that was well before the rebellion. She was holding court, and my uncle brought me forward to introduce me. It was one of the few times she spoke directly to me, during my childhood, and she didn’t seem… pleased, exactly, to meet me. I think my uncle had been expecting something else, because he became increasingly more concerned as she asked me questions. What I was good at, what I had learned from my tutors, what I knew of myself and my heritage. Of course I was still a child and couldn’t really answer some of those questions with much depth, but I did try. I told her I had learned to fight and that I enjoyed what I had learned, that I could read quite well and recited some of the poetry I had memorized for my tutors. She asked me a funny question then, and I think that should have been the red flags and alarm bells right there. ‘Do people serve their queen, or does the queen serve her people?’ she asked me. I chose the latter. She was… less than amused.”

⏳“I used to sneak out a lot. In the center of the city there was a bonfire, and on the nights before battles, everyone in the city would gather to share food, drink, song and dance. I’ve always been… self-conscious of my dancing, but singing is something I’ve always been good at. So when the music would begin, I would sing, and serenade the crowd. Sometimes I would join in the chorale dance, and it was probably those nights that got me through some of the hell I was otherwise trapped in. I would even try and throw on disguises -- thinking of course that if I did not, someone would discover me and send me packing right back up to my tower. I was just a child, I didn’t really realize that none of them would actually recognize me, because they’d never seen me before. My face didn’t become common knowledge until the rebellion.”

⏳ “I was something of a Brume rat for awhile, actually. I only ever wore my armor, so I was much easier to distinguish from the other orphans living on the streets, but that didn’t really stop me from sneaking into the Pillars and knicking bread from the baker. He was an old arsehole anyway. I would steal the bread he placed on the back windows of the shop, and run back to the Brume to hand it out to the other starvelings. By the time anyone came to question me about it, the bread had disappeared. After awhile they stopped chasing.”

⏳“Before I met Crion, I was courted by one other in Ishgard, a bloke named Ravaste. He wasn’t nearly as charming, nor clever as Crion, but he had a kind heart. Or I thought he did, at first. I might have considered his pursuit, except that he was also a terrible drunk, and much of the aggression he otherwise withheld from his normal behavior came out through liquor. He would complain of his parents, his work at the manufactory, of his woes trying to secure a good marriage, and always I would tell him to take his fate into his own hands, rather than complaining. He tried to force himself upon me one night, claiming I owed him for how long he had sought my heart. I took his left hand.”

[its-morphin-time-xiv]

Whisper Ridge: Ω¹⁷

"̸̪̖Ş͙͈̙͚ͅṭ͚͍͙̱̪̭ḛ̫p̞̫̖̤̬ i͈̩̺̣n͚̮͢t̷̖͎̮͖̥o̡̺ ̸̪̦m͙̰̫͚̺̬̬͟y̬͙̯̤͕̞̮ ̯p̘̮͘a̫̲̪͍̙̝͚r͇̠̝l̴͕̟o̶̤̲̱̙͍͉r̥̳̰̻̳.̺̥̱̹̥̭̀ͅ.͏̪̯͓.͈̙̥̠̺͙ͅ ̝̲͇̣͇͓s͙̖̩̙̝̙͕a̺̮͘id͍̜̣̠̲ͅ ̷͇̫̜̥̠ț͉̗ͅhe̯͉̞̝ ̯͠s̠p̞̩̤͢i͠d̟͔̜͇̳̼ͅè̬͈̤̭̰̤r͚̪͉͎̭͖ ̪̮ṭ̸͔͎̤ͅo̞̺̝̼ ̺̪̲̼t͎̤͟h͏̺̬̮̭̦e̩̝͉̯̗̱ ̵̫͚͉f̮̣͚̟̳̺ḻ̛ͅy̟.̲̗̜̥͟..̱̫"̮̯̟̫͎ ͚͙̱̙̜ ͇̗̮̩̤̮͔"̬͓͈͇W͝h̯a̬͍̻͔t͟ ̨a̖̣͟ ̼̺̪͉f̶͍̼̘ͅͅo̟̲̙̩̩o̟̪l̰̹̤̺̙.͚̬͇.̴̹̫̙"̻̹͟ͅ ̨̯̰ ̹̝̤͎̱̣̳"̴Ẃ͕̦̹h̻̩̙͕a̴̭͎̫̥͈͕̝t̗͕ ̢̪̬͎a̭̝̞̬ ҉̫̺̦̫de̷͓̬͔̮͍s̷̭͈̯͓̤̻p̳̯̻̰e̜͓̼͓̰͉͉r̷̤͉̟̣̮̘a̷͎͈t̥̱e̼̙͟ ̘̯̮f̺̪̫͉̗̥̥o̶̖o̮̠̞l͕.̲̫͠.̦̬̗̰̩"̼̞̰̩͚͇

[[Part 2 Under the cut.. y’know.. after all this anyways.]]

[[Mood here!]]

-------------------------------------------------

More time passed as the highlander's heart continued it's valiant struggle to maintain the woman's composure, at her side, holding her by an arm in a gentle nature was Drone 334-B. It had a humanoid frame, but resembled much of the ancient Allag's clockwork drones within Azys Lla, yet this one was more controlled, more... careful. Shaking legs stumbled every few steps, causing the highlander to cry out in pain, yet despite the concerned blips and beeps from the drone, they pressed on. Belladonna clenching her teeth as her already weak legs strained to keep up.

She needed her medication..

-- User Belladonna, your vital signs are below optimal performance, are you sure you do not wish to rest?

"Keep.. Keep fuckin' goin'.. Lead me to Omega Seventeen.."

“That damn beast is still in these halls.. and I-’m pretty sure it can hear us..”

-- Very well, you are nearing your destination. Three doors forward on the right.

"Thank you, Siera."

-- It is my duty to serve. But as I have the floor, may i ask your true intentions are for the Omega 17 strain?

"..I."

The highlander, limped alongside the clockwork drone, having them open the door and guide her inward. The room itself was an entire laboratory, much akin to the one located at the main entrance, only notable differences at first were large vats and  tubes that sat on both ends of the room, their contents were what looked to be oxygen masks linked to the top of the tube. They were empty aside from this. On the center set of tables and other bio-tek machinery were two vials of swirling blues and reds. Beneath the vials were clear labels; "Omega Series 17 Serum."

"I want to use them.."

-- User Belladonna, it is highly advised that you do not use these serums. According to vital signs and comparisons to other successful subjects, you, your body does not meet recommended statistical averages.

-- You have a 65% chance of dying upon injection, User Belladonna.

"And.. If i don't..? If i don't die right out..?"

-- You will undergo various genetic changes.

-- it will be painful.

-- Extremely painful.

"Sounds like just.. another day in the park.. if you ask me."

-- Your genetic makeup will change, and you may undergo severe or drastic changes in your body, User Belladonna. Should you survive, i am required by protocol to contact scientific authorities on main host Illsabard.

"I read the possible side effects and the primary ones too.. The risk is.. worth the reward, Siera.. If you knew what I... What -we- went through up there..."

"You do what you need to.. I will as well.."

Belladonna staggered forward, as she reached the table, the clockwork drone letting out a low hum as it reacted, helping the woman up. Her health was rapidly declining. It wouldn't be long now before her body began to shut down. And she knew it, this trip.. this trip would be a one way only. There was only a way to get in, not out. And she had accepted every risk to get here. Her provided supplies had gone dry, the chase through the tunnel only seemed to worsen her condition, and expedite the shutdown of her body.

Shaking hands, assisted and guided by the drone's own of steel did their best to assemble an injection suite, the vials were now swirling faster, as if reacting to the new touch, the new heat that went against the chill air. Slowly but surely the syringes were prepped by both flesh and metal hands, the shades of blue and red began to separate through two tubes, connecting into several needles, a machine began to spool itself up as the drone primed the machine's calculations to adjust dosage rates and anesthetic involvement.

From out in the hall, there was another shrill cry of the abomination that remained in the facility. It's voice was that of several mutated and mangled souls, forced together with the bindings of the dark. Their voices cried out for blood as unintelligible grunts, murmurs and cries filled the air.

"҉̘͕͍͚͕̩Y̻O̧͕̪U̧̻̙̻ ̤̳͔̙C͓̩̮̱̞͟A̼͙̜͚͚̱͓N̢̟̬̣̭'̼̰̘T͏̩͚͎̱͈͈̫ ̱H̥̯̭͘I͚͈͓D͈̼̗͚̤͕E̕ ̜F̟̺͉̹̬̳͇̀R͎̣̤͉̠͝Ơ͚͇M ̰͡U̡̱̜̯̙̮S͏̫̹͍̣.̷͕̦̘̻̬̪ ̞̱F͢R̴̞̰̲̳O̪̲ͅM͇̦͖̦ͅ ̥͎̠̤͓H̯͖̭̘̮E̡̹͖͓̖͈̠̼R͓̻̹̠̥.̠͍̘̖̜ ҉͈͙̯͉͓̪F͖̥͖̮R͏̹̼̙͓̦̠O̗̻̱̝̬ͅM̹̜̭̘ ̣̞͕E͉̤̘͖͈̲L͈̞I҉͖̤Ẕ͖̫̪̕A̺̯͓͔̰B̹̪͈͜E̼͔̼͖̱TH̸̗͉͓.̶̠͙ ̸̟͚̞̤̰̥̲W͚̯̥̪̘̘E̤̦̹̭͠ W͚̲̱̘̣͔I̹̳̱͔L̗͙Ĺ͈̙̯̗͙̝ ̬̭͙͇̘̦̝M̶̥̘̳͕̰̗A̱͔̱͢K̬̹̠̰E̵ ̟̻̼ͅY͕O̦̻͕̺͓̮U̝̫̼̘̜̗͇͞ ̘̜̹͠W̳̤̯̘H͖O͉̳͎̗̫̮L̷̺̝̞͇̙̳̗E̙̝̱͟.҉̼̦͍ ͔̭̰̲̠͘ͅW̠̻E͏̭̟̜͙ C̨͉͈͚̟̟̤A͘N̠͈̲̳͉̪̪ ͍̭̖͍̜͖H͇̤E̮̗A̯L҉ ̘̺Y̠̤̯̺ỌU̳͚͖̰̺̩͜.͓͈͇͚ ̸W̪͈͙͡Ẹ̱̱ ̦͚͓C̻̹̮̝A̞̺̯͞ͅN ͎͔��̳M̷̼̱A̜͍̻̘̮̙Ḱ̮̖̠̤͚̞͔E ̝̟̗Y̟͓̥̙͡O̪͡U̷͍̙..̥͖.͞ ͍̜͕̘̟̱P̹̗̬̻̙̦̬ ̷͖̲U̻ ̴̟͈̱R̹̜̳ ͈̀E̩̝̪̜̰̮.̪̻"̺̱̮̼

Across the door way several other clockwork drones rushed past and down the way they came. Their steel steps hurriedly down the halls and empty corridors began to fade into the distance. The door to the hallway slammed shut, hissing as it's compression locks exhaled white air.

-- Minor precaution.

On the table beside Belladonna and the Drone were the hyur's belongings, she sat in the machine's belly as it had opened, providing a place for her to remain, her eyes growing tired. Amethyst hues gazed to the table, her left hand reaching out to view her things while her right arm placed itself onto the injection suite.

In her hand were only several small pocket photographs and a feather... Looking them over revealed to be the faces of the Network, laughing and smiling, drinking to their heart's content. A bonfire night for them to come together and celebrate before the dawn of war reached them the following day. Her eyes came to focus on some select faces now as the machine whirred it's internal engine. Drone 334-B indicated it would only be a few minutes now.

Her eyes came to focus on Astra.. Then to Enambris, Crion, Marian, Olivia.. Dawn, Ruka, Ibakha, then Lydia. There were so many smiling faces in the photograph.. all the new faces the Network had acquired over the past few moons. A gentle smile came to her lips as her heart began to pick up it's pace once more, knowing her time may be very well ending.

"Sorry I couldn't do more for you guys... I've just been... So weak. So useless compared to what you all could do."

"Mm'sorry I broke your heart Astra..."

"Sorry I haven't been the best sister to you Dawn.. Only knew about our little family connection just for a little bit.. H-heh.."

Her fingers flipped to a picture of her and Dawn doing power poses for their mother, a small laugh as she put it aside as well. The next few photos were of her blood family, it was so great to see them... all together one last time. Finally she looked to the feather in hand, her heart seemed to strain itself as she looked it over, gripping it tightly for some small few seconds before setting it down.

"Sorry I couldn't fight for you, Sari.. I didn't even get to meet your parents.. How shitty.."

It didn't take long for her to realize that the Drone was simply.. watching her. It's box head tilted as if curious of what she was muttering and crying about. A low and weak chuckle from her before she set her photographs and feather down.

-- User Belladonna, injection sequence is ready to begin.

".. then let's keep it rollin'." Her voice shuddered as she adjusted herself.. deep breath after deep breath.

"For better or for worse.."

"I'm here."

"Begin the process.."

-- Beginning in 3

-- 2

-- 1

[[Part 2 Under the Cut]]

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The whir and hiss of machinery echoed into the laboratory's air as the sting of sharpened needles pressed into the highlander's skin. The blue and red liquids combined to form a swirling purple as it began to course through her veins. The serum could be seen trudging through her entire body as her heart began to adjust and pump the rest of the dose into her bloodstream.

Belladonna let out a low hiss as she felt the sting of metal pierce into her skin, the surge of new liquid into her body caused her to jerk her head, with a growl. Her breathing began to quicken as she felt it like a some large wave rush through. Pain hit her from within as she began to thrash, clenching her teeth, grasping at the metal seat as her legs kick and buckle.

The assistant drone let out a low hum as it watched his subject react violently to the serum. Vital scans showed every reading it had come out wrong as he scanned her once more. The hyur let out a pained yell as her body started to fully react to the toxin that now began to eat away at her genetic makeup. Right arm began to spasm, tearing the skin still attached to the machine as the rest of her body jerked and recoiled to the now internal burn she was feeling. The heat of a thousand thousand suns ate away at her insides, not even the fires Enambris could conjure up would dare to match the pain.

The air began to fill with her screams as her heart pounded in her chest, the searing pain that clawed at her very fiber ate away at her, making it feel as though her heart was going to burst. As she jerked her body around more and more the machine reacted following protocol, it released the highlander, letting her be lifted if only slightly by the drone before letting go. Belladonna fell to the floor with a spastic -thud- as she screamed out in agony, her voice going more hoarse with each passing second.

Veins began to expand and trail across every part of her, her eyes going red as she clawed at herself, the drone and Siera could do nothing but observe the reaction. A red blip of light could be seen on the security camera in the corner, indicating it was recording and sending it to some off-site official..

Belladonna's body began to convulse violently along the floor as she forced her eyes shut, her hands clenched while trying to rip away at her own flesh, almost succeeding. Tears began to form along her skin, leaking spurts of blood, letting it splatter across the shades of grays and blues of the laboratory. Eventually the pain surged to her spine, causing the woman to arch herself, her cries of pain became unintelligible blathering as she cried and pleaded for it to stop. But nothing stopped.

Along her arching spine, the skin began to tear itself as much as it did when she began to claw at herself, excess bone began to form along each vertebrae, from the base of her neck down to her lower back. Small ridges of bloodied white began to poke out from her sun-baked skin. Tears of blood and agony streamed down her face and body as she began to see her life come in flashes before her.

"MAKE IT STOP, SIERA.. PLEASE.."

"MAKE THE PAIN STOP.. I-I-I CAN'T"

-- I am sorry, User Belladonna... But I cannot do that.

"P͜L͈̠̜̦E̶̪A̙̪͓S̢͚͖̯͕̱̦E̮͎͎̤̙̻,̟̳̖̩̖̬ I̤T ̶͉̪H̝̱U͙̖͎̞̩̺̕R̭̦T͈̗Sͅ,̸̗̣̰͈ ̗̱̙͔̠̟̯I̫̟.͔̳͠.̡ ̧̻͉̥̹͉Į͕̙̖͉̦-͖I͔̮ ̖̲̙CA͖Ṉ͔̞'͍̙̤͔̦T̘̹̯͕͓.҉̹ ̴͇I͕T̯̠̜̝ ̷̦H͍͎U͖̥R̠T̠͇͍͎̟̼͟S̴̫̣̲.̤̘̥ͅͅ.̺̳͕̣.̲̙̜̖͖́ ̳͔̙̘E̛̱̩̯͚̗̖-̘͠E͖͍̭͇͠V̠̩͚̩̹̀E̱͎̖͖̬R͟Y̱̠͍͖̬T̹̩̠̲̥̰͡H͎̹̬̳̗̲͢IN͉͍̙͙͡G̫ ̧̺͈H̺̪̣̫̮̗̝UR҉̖̲̹͙̠̳̮T̨̖̗̘̹̠̟̘Ṣ̢̻̙̙͖̱̖.̧̲̳̼̮̩.̰͔̹͕̞͘ ͉̳̝A̻̖̮̗̖̝̜A̳͎A̬̱̯H̭̟͙̫H͙̺͚̗͉̩͍͟-͘H͏̲A̤͕̰̭̜̲̤A͍͍̬̻͜ͅÁ͔H̟͇͙.̷̯̝̞̞.͏̻̘"̨͓͔̖͎͍̥

Belladonna's please for salvation were met with nothing as she continued to thrash along the floor, blood began to pool beneath her as she stained her underclothes nigh near permanently with crimson tears. Internally, the hyur's body began to shrivel, piece by agonizing piece. Swirls of aetherial ice flicked along her blood stream as her body's temperature began to lower acting in self-defense of the dying host. Her heart pounding like a bass drum thumped over and over, pumping purple before ultimately being cutshort... Stopping entirely.

The hyur's body grew still, The drone tilting it's head as it observed the woman's vitals.. almost flat-lining. 334-B chirped and beeped gently as it turned to a large equipment case, revealing a Medium sized black and bronze tinted coat. On the collar of the fabric it read out: "OMEGA 17 SUBJECT PROTECTION UNIT"

As the drone began to lean down to address the still woman, Belladonna's body lurched again, her screams continued once more as if nothing had happened. The woman clung to life with everything she had, her voice hoarse and haggard like a bloodied newborn. The shifting and reforming of bone and muscle could be heard with the groans of joints and the cracking of marrow. Within Bell her body was undergoing reformation to the extreme degrees... Her limbs began to short, yet her bones condensed and hardened. Her muscles layered over and over, capable of stress testing abominations like a colossus or bigger...

Yet her heart.. Her heart remained fragile...  Ever weak and fluttering.

The highlander attempted to move, only resulting in violent vomiting of red and green from her body. The foul liquids expelled and splattered onto the slick white and red floor. Reduced to gutted sobs, Belladonna tried to reach for her scattered pictures, her vision blurring as her body attempted to adjust to everything that had taken place... The strain proving finally enough as Belladonna grew limp once more, her state going into light comatose as she passes out from the exertion.

Drone 334-B gave an acknowledging hum and chirp as it began to apply and seal the body to the coat, screws and clasps shutting tight. The suit began to glow blue from several blips on the body now... It began to activate, Bella's vitals showing on her left shoulder... Shades of Oranges and yellows, as opposed to the wanted greens..

-- Documented.

-- Time stamp, elapsed time - 4 hours since injection.

-- Subject Staus: Belladonna - Success, Alive. Footnote: Abnormal.

-- Recommendation - Contact Project: Loyalty and Operation: Pandora officials for Whisper Ridge Subject and remaining Staff evacuation.

-- Communications unit... ... ... ... ... Established.

-- Signal sent.

-- Preparing for evacuation staff arrival.

-- Whisper Ridge Point A.I. S-1-E-R-A will be standing by.

-- Have a Pleasant Day.

[To be Continued...]

----------------------------------------------

[helioheliks]

Red Feast

“Your chakras are all in flux, your red balance is out of control, and was your last instructor a horse? Because it looks like your foot work was made for someone with four legs.” Master Zirnsunn barked in a bone-deep basso that lilted with a heavy accent to a personal song, “Get up, you were not hurt that badly.”

Crion rolled onto his hands and knees and swiped at the sweat rolling down his face. The motion pushed salt into a new cut across his cheek and he winced. Putting a finger to it, he found his old scar traced from end to end with a thin, red line. He ground his teeth, cursing beneath his breath, and got to his feet. Another small indignity courtesy of his instructor.

The roegadyn across the sparring circle from him waited in ready position, still as a pine. Much later, when he would recount stories of his journey through the Byndha Ridge, Crion would often describe the man as “a dancing mountain,” and “exactly as bizarre as that sounds.” He stood at least two heads taller than Crion, and twice himself wide. His skin was as rough and worn as old leather, with a smoldering tan hue to match; and  just like old leather, he was one of supple yet deliberate grace.

“All the way up now, Allievo Crion. And do not let me catch you using the White to patch yourself up. You’re here to train in the strength of the Black.”

“So,” Crion grunted as he stood, beginning to stretch the knots from his limbs once more, “what you’re saying is that it’s okay so long as you don’t catch me? Let’s just be clear on the rules, now.” He smiled through the aches and pains at the Master, who returned it with a perfectly contradictory frown.

“Pick up your arm, Allievo. You look half a man without it.” He called back, disapproval ripe in his tone.

Crion relented and looped the toe of his boot through the guard of the sword, kicking it upward with a flourish, end over end. He held his hand out to catch it, but in the instant before it dropped into his grasp, Master Zirnsunn had closed the gap between them. The tip of his rapier threaded the guard of Crion’s, catching it mid-air. With a sharp flick, he drove the rattling pair of hilts into the small of Crion’s back, sending him sprawling.

Master Zirnsunn angled his sword, sliding Crion’s down to the tip and flicked it toward him, the hilt landing inches from his student’s hand. “Would you remove your good hand and toss it around before you face your opponent? No. What do you gain from disrespecting a foe by crippling yourself, hm? Are you saying you can face me on with a handicap?” He asked brusquely.

“Have heart, Master.” He grunted as he pushed back onto his his feet with sword in hand. “Levity is the spice of life. Your’s could do to have a little more flavor.”

In spite of himself, something resembling amusement touched the creased corners of the Master’s eyes. “The Air is strong with you, Allievo Crion, there is no one who would deny that. You are light and full of whimsy. But,” all traces of amusement smoothed out, back to the Master’s typical resting hardness, “that is not why we are here. Your balancing element is Lightning, yet after all this time, still you can do little more than conjure a ball.” He took a step forward to loom over Crion, their staggering height difference never more evident. “I said you are light like air -  light like a tumbler. I have seen skilled performers walk up and down country roads on their hands alone. Let us see if you can learn to walk again when I take your feet.”

The old master reached to his belt and undid the buckle holding his Medium in place. He lobed it gently into the air where it caught, bobbing at head-height as if floating on the surface of water. Master Zirnsunn’s Medium was as simple and straight-forward as he: two wrought iron pyramids sandwiching a smooth, crystalline disc a hand-span across. It pulsed with a dim, red light like a resting heartbeat. No frills, no embellishments; an item of purpose, not show.

With as little pomp as breathing, he flipped his grip on his rapier to point blade-down and swiped the medium from the air, setting it in place atop the pommel of the sword. The red heartbeat sped to a runner’s pace as he held the formed staff out in front of him. “*Verbanchetto di briciole*.” He boomed, “*Vermillion Banquet if Crumbs.*” The incantation filled the air like a fiery explosion, and the crystalline hiss and thrum of gathering aether soon followed. The Medium at the head of the sword-cane erupted outward with undulating coils of reds, oranges and contrasting blues. They snaked through the crystal lens in ever-hastening circuits until a vermilion orb swelled in the space between their passing. The lights winked out abruptly a moment later, leaving only the orb hanging a few inches from the head of the cane.

Crion watched this all transpire in the span of a scant few seconds with eyes wide in awe and disbelief. He struggled to stay duly worried in the face of something so frankly amazing. He caught himself with his sword’s tip drifting toward the ground as he watched with singular focus, but caught himself when the Master’s spell concluded. He snapped his sword back up into a ready position, setting his feet as confidently as he could in the face of total uncertainty.

Master Zinsunn tipped his cane to the side as if pouring tea from a kettle, and the orb tumbled from the Medium to the earth. It shattered on impact and motes of those same reds, oranges, and blues multiplied and swarmed the space of a hemisphere around the two of them as if they were being trapped inside a bloody snow globe.

The whirling flecks of color whipped their hair and clothes into a frenzy, and Crion raised his arm to his face to guard himself against the tempest. Yet, after a moment, he found that there was nothing tangible to guard against. It was in that moment of dropping his guard that he felt a blow to his stomach that drove the air from him in one great gust. Before he could so much as exclaim, that breathlessness became a sense of panicked emptiness. His lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves; his stomach churned like high seas, and his throat went so dry that the act of trying to reclaim his breath in was it’s own agony. He buckled and went to his knees, clutching at his chest.

It was at this time that Master Zirnsunn actually approached him, having simply stood back and watched as his spell took hold. “Allievo Crion, I have taken your Air from you.” He stated plainly, “The Vermillion Banquet is a cloud that merely nibbles on aether, weakening it, rather than draining or destroying it. I have spent many years mastering the spell as a learning device for occasions such as this.” He spread his arms grandly, “Come now, Allievo Crion, with your legs gone, make your arms strong! Fill your empty half with the strength of your storm - the half of it that is not wind, but skyfire.”

Crion could barely hear Master Zirnsunn through the mind-wracking ringing in his ears, yet something deeper in him willed that he stand. Once more he made the attempt, but the world began to swim, and his legs trembled. He wretched. Though rather than his lunch, a thick pale green and white mist poured from his lips and pooled on the ground like the steam produced by dry ice.

“Reconsider your metaphor for next time,” he wheezed weakly, “I don’t think people are supposed to walk on their hands…” His eyes rolled back into his head and his knees buckled, somehow still managing to at least keep his torso up by leaning heavily on his sword like a walking stick. His world went black.

Master Zirnsunn’s eyes grew wide. He had never seen this reaction to the Banquet before. Before making any sort of move, he quickly opened himself to feel the spellwork in the air. After checking, double checking and triple checking, he was certain he hadn’t botched any portion of the casting.

“Allievo Crion…?” He prodded, “What has happened? What do you feel?” He reached out to Crion with no trepidation, but immediately jerked his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove. He looked over his hand and saw small arcs of residual static leaping from his skin. It prickled for a moment, then faded away.

The Master’s stony expression relaxed. Then, he forced his eyes to focus as if on something far away but at an incomprehensible angle, and the raw currents of aether itself became visible in faint, cloudy streams. He cursed himself again for never having fully learned the trick of aether sight from his own master, as he wished nothing more than to examine his pupil in fine detail. Yet, he was able to glean enough from the cursory glance: as he observed, he felt as if he were staring into the eye of a hurricane - it was a storm without clouds, a tsunami without gale, Lightning without Air. It formed a sort of protective bubble around him - a perfect sphere of destructive control. Master Zirnsunn allowed his focus to return to the confines of the physical plane, and he nodded in ascent. “Aye, this is what it is like to walk on your –” he stopped mid-analogy, “No, you have rid yourself of crutches. If only you knew what you can do.” He mused wistfully, “Well, upon your awakening, we shall see what you recall.” With that, he dropped himself into a cross-legged position just inches beyond the electric barrier his student had unconsciously called. There, he meditated, and pondered on the odd reaction his pupil had to his working and how he could use it to push the man ever farther.

[msu82]

Pajustji (Ch.3)

Hey! This only updated 5 days late, and considering I was doped up on pain medication for an injury? That is a perfectly-landed feat and y’all should be proud of me.

Tagging: @markwatnae (The lovely creator of TPAU), @peskylilcritter, @devilangel657, @demad69, @tygermama, @isweariamanadmin, @wordwelder 

[Ch.1] 

Previous (Ch.2) | Current | Next - Coming Feb. 24th – March 3rd

Chapter 3: An unexpected series of tea, truth, tears, and nonchalance

She wanted her Master. She had only seen Obi-Wan Kenobi roughly twenty minutes prior, but she wanted her Master. Edie wanted her family for, even though the four year old was cute, the blatant lack of existence in regards to her family was starting to grind down on her faint hold upon her emotions. The more she realized she was truly in the past (she had already pinched herself many times) the more the feelings of dread and anxiety began to well up within her. She wanted to eat candy, make tea with Master Obi-Wan, and read old books—digital and paper—with him. She wanted to spar with Anakin, accidentally hurt him, and get to fret over him even as he was complimenting her abilities for taking him down. She wanted to play pranks with Ahsoka and help her fuse over the troopers if either of the battalions were planet-side on Coruscant. She did not want a toddler version of her guardian and teacher that she had been the one to comfort.

She did not want her padawan-brother to not be alive for roughly another decade. She did not want her best friends—from Ahsoka to the troopers—to not come into existence for even longer than that. I want my family. The brunette thought to herself, eyes squeezed shut as she tried to keep herself out of the throws of the panic attack the Force was tickling her ears in warning to calm herself. I want Obi-Wan, I want Anakin, I want Ahsoka, Cody, Rex, and all the others. I want my family. Her hands clenched in the fabric of her pants, her eyes burned as her breathing did its best to start hitching. I want my family, I want my family, IwantmyfamilyIwantmyfamilyIwantmyfam–

“Drink.”

Edie startled, blinking back tears quickly to come cross-eyed with... a cup of tea cradled by a pair of green three-fingered hands. A moment passed, long yet tension-free, and slowly she cupped the blue porcelain in her hands before taking a slow sip. She was about to lower it from her mouth, but the sight of the green being raising his hand in a 'Stop' motion made her freeze. “Drink all of it at once, nice and slow, you shall. Savor it, you will, but have it last a while? It will not.”

Edie hesitated, anxiety and panic still doing it's best to boil out of her young body, but then her logical side kicked in. Her Master's voice, gentle in her ear as if he was there with her in the scary, long-ago past that was now tangible far before her birth into the galaxy. Reminding her that she was still in the Temple even if it was not her own, that she was safe, and that Yoda would never harm her. The brunette tipped the cup on her lips once more. She closed her eyes as she slowly swallowed down the rest of the warm drink. It was.... minty. Mint was the first thing that stuck out to her. As she sipped more, slowly draining it all away as it flooded her tongue, there were traces of chocolate that grew more clear the longer she drank. And the there was the absolute warmth of it all combined. The warmth of the tea was swirling like petals in the wind come blooming season, filling her up and running away the chill of stress that had settled upon her. It startled her a little when her lips met wetness no further, she blinking as she lowed the cup and saucer from her mouth before looking at a grinning, ancient, beloved troll capable of using the Force. “What was in that, Master Yoda? Some sort of soother?” “Bah, chocolate and mint only. Believe in simple comforts I do, young one. Perk it is, if delicious.” Yoda let out a chuckling, and Edie found herself smiling as all of her current flooding of negative emotions were lost to the Force. Unfortunately, it was seconds later that her face fell flat and paled. She dropped the dishes to the carpeted ground. A bond thrummed with pure terror in her mind, and she was not used to being flooded with such intense emotions that were not her own. Not the negative kind, anyway.

“What is the matter, young one?” Yoda asked, humor gone and clear concern in his voice but it had no effect on her at first. Edie had simply stood there a moment more....

Less than a heartbeat, actually. She scrambled to pick up the spilled tea-cup and saucer. Thankfully it had been empty. “I-I'm so sorry, Master Yoda, but I have to leave right now! I won't leave the Temple and I'll be back later. I promise!” There was no time to wait for a response. Edie ran as if her life depended on it. Or rather, she was running for a life that she didn't personally possess. But, considering who she was connected to, it was technically her life she was running for.

Her anxiety was mounting as she raced through the Temple, past other Jedi, and into the depth of a room that smelled of a mixture of fresh-water and chemicals that kept the waters as such. She was blinded and saw nothing until wet curls and big green-blue eyes were in her sight. “Obi-Wan!” There was a flurry of movements, a wail, before she was kneeling and hugging a sobbing child in her arms.

She hugged the shaking little body in her arms, whispering soft comforts and taking off her padawan robe, wrapping it around the young boy to bundle him up for some kind of warmth. He truly was chilled to the bone. She had no idea what had been happening, but she felt Obi-Wan's stress and lingering fear in the Force; what was still inside of him, for there was strong amounts of some kind of evilness having almost occurred that tainted the room filled with bright, aquatic life. “It's alright, Obi-Wan. You're safe.” The girl whispered, pressing a kiss idly to the side of the little ginger's head before standing up with him on her hip. It was then that she looked up, blinking at the tall figure standing up by the large pool. Oh.

She hadn't noticed that there was someone in the room, but considering she felt no fear from the one she was holding on her hip when the young attention was turned the same way she was looking? It was near instantly clear that Edie was staring at a savior and not the potential doer of evil. He was tall and clearly a few years older than herself, wearing a padawan braid with the rest of long-and-dark hair pulled into a tie behind his head, blue eyes, pale skin, and soaked to the bone just like the child she held.

The other padawan's features taken in she bowed, ducking her head before raising straight once more. “Thank you for whatever you did to save him from, well, whatever was happening in here.” Edie hugged Obi-Wan a little closer, resting her chin against the side of his head, “I felt his stress and I got here as soon as I could, but-”

“No thanks needed.” The boy spoke, and he wore a smile that almost made her think of her Master—the adult version—when he was speaking with those he needed to be diplomatic with. Or when he spoke of those he didn't like, like with how he spoke with Anakin on the topic of Chancellor Palpatine, whom she was supposed to meet in about week... and around thirty years from the current time. She was pulled from her wandering thoughts by the boy speaking once more, “The young one didn't deserve what was happening. No one did.” The firmness of declaration did nothing to comfort her lingering anxiety from not knowing what had happened just yet, but the goodness of it brought a smile to her face. “Obi-Wan is his name, yes? That's what you called him?” The boy continued, “It's nice to know the name of my young rescuee, but may I know yours Padawan....?” His voice trailed off, but his face spoke of the 'kind' expectation of wanting to know who she was.

Well, far be it for me to be rude. Especially to a fellow padawan, for being in a different time isn't an excuse for a lack of manners. The girl thought, though a tickling in the back of her brain almost felt like Anakin and Ahsoka were right there, on her shoulders, whispering sass and snark into her mind. The voice of her Master was there as well; scolding and giving the voice of reason over the two troublemakers. “I'm Padawan Edie and, yes, his name is Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Smile still in place she kept her face a perfect picture of pristine innocence. At least, she assumed she did. In all honesty her lineage line always claimed she looked constantly innocent, but she was being raised by a negotiator and knew how to use appearance to an advantage. “And again–” the short brunette hiked the ginger-haired Crecheling a little higher on her hip– “I can't help but thank you for saving him from whatever happened. So, thank you Padawan....?” Her eyes upon him as her words trailed off, browns almost meeting blue, she saw as the boy's expression became more genuine and felt a twitch in the Force and a slight tingling in her eyes. She was not one with the Unifying, though her Master and padawan-brother were, but the Living Force seemed to be ruffling it's feathers in a near content way at such a subtle change in the teenager. Speaking of, her attention returned he gave a half-bow respectfully fitting for when addressing one who was younger and not of the same standing, for the titles of 'junior' and 'senior' for apprenticeships was more than just an age-divider. “I am Padawan Xanatos Du Crion,” The teenager smiled, “It is a pleasure to meet.....” Edie knew he was speaking more, and that it was rude of her to be staring at him as wide-eyed as she could feel herself doing. Xanatos. Her teacher and guardian's lineage-brother whom he had never gotten to meet until after the elder's abandonment of the Order to become a Dark Jedi. It had occurred as a flickering thought in her mind that there would be many alive, around, or still members of the order if they had left. In pertaining to her own line of heritage, she had not thought that far ahead even if she had spent the majority of the morning (after noon? She was unsure of the time of day) with Master Yoda. However, it was not the realization of who this teenager was that caused her such stillness and surprise, for her mind had raced a thousand parsecs in a moment's notice to focus on one tiny, loan fact that if Xanatos was here, and still very clearly a jedi, then that would mean.... My... grandmaster is ali–?

“Are you alright?” Edie startled, looking to the boy who was no frowning at her with a touch of concern but she swore she saw a flicker of curiosity. “You looked slightly dazed.... you aren't prone to visions, are you? Of the Unifying? I am of it myself, though was not granted such a gift by the Force.” She just stared at him, it taking a moment for her wits to return, but then quickly she gave a smile. “Oh! Oh, um, no. I'm one of the Living Force, not the Unifying.” She offered up a smile, that moment being enough to cover up thinking of an excuse. “I was just...” The brunette then turned around, beginning on the path to exit the room since the child in her arms had finally calmed down, but was still cold to the touch even through her tunic despite it having been a handful of minutes since he'd been saved from the water. “I was just trying to remember where I've heard your name before. You're... Knight Jinn's padawan, right?” He as taller and she knew this, but it didn't stop her from startling when the response he gave to her question was a surprising chuckle from beside her, rather than behind still. “Yes he is, though you're wrong by the title.” She knew her confusion but be clear on her face as she glanced up at the boy, for he added, “He may only be 38 years old, but he is already a Master.” A button was pressed by the boys hands and they continued on, Edie's eyebrows scrunched up in further confusion until shooting up in shock a moment later the boy added, “He had a padawan before me, and after seeing him to Knighthood, the Council rewarded my teacher with his Mastership as a Jedi.” There was another padawan? Her Master had another padawan-brother out in the galaxy somewhere. “Really? Wouldn't he have been too young to have taught you and another by now? What's the other one's name?” The girl asked quickly in rapid-succession, barely holding back a wince at how eager she sounded for information. One rule of negotiation was to never show too much thirst for knowledge in something that should be a neutral topic even if it was one of interest. Thankfully, the boy did nothing more but arch an eyebrow. “In a usual circumstance, most likely, but he only taught his padawan for two years,” The duo had made quite a bit of distance already, and neither noticed the stairs that were lingering after them for two different reasons; interest at the unfamiliar face, and seeing a very familiar and usually stuck-up being having a seemingly civil conversation with one other than Qui-Gon Jinn. “His name is Feemor Gard, and he was 18-years old when Master Jinn took him on to finish his training.” Why didn't I know about this? Why didn't Obi-Wan, Anakin, or Ahsoka ever tell me? The girl wondered as the duo of two trotting a totting-third to the Healing Halls fell into a casual silence. ...Did he do something bad? Did he Fall too? Did he die? The girl wondered and, unable to hold off for more than five minutes, she decided that some things she'd never know until she got home. Well, if she got home that was. No, no! No thinking like that, brain! Be positive, not negative. Despite her words being from her own-brain-to-itself it didn't have much effect, for the body didn't like listening without reason, so she decided to distract herself by asking more questions on this lineage-uncle she had formerly not known the existence of. “How old is he? Master Jinn's graduated padawan?” “Well he's ten-years older than myself, and thirteen-years younger than my Master. I don't exactly remember his birthday,” a look of disbelief must once more be clear on her face at such a declaration, a very firm expression of 'Really? Really?' for Xanatos blushed slightly. Clearing his throat, he continued, “But either way, knowing the exact date or not, he is either already 25-years old, or in the least will be rather soon.” “Why did Master Jinn take Knight Feemor on if he was already 18-years old? Didn't he have a Master before him?” She couldn't resist asking. It was odd to have such a well of information to the past... while in the past. “Now that, though not a happy fact, is one I know for certain.” He offer a dry yet genuine smirk, glancing down at her as they walked through the large, swishing doors that lead into the Healing Halls. Edie smiled a little back at the boy's growing openness, even if still barely existent, as the doors swished back shut after their entrance. It was time to get a certain little Crecheling checked over.

A chuckle was the first thing released as he heard doors swish to an open, and Master Qui-Gon Jinn was hunched over in a stretch. He knew it was instantly by both bond and Force signature. “There you are, my wayward padawan. I've been hear nearly an hour, rather like the amount of time you claimed it would take myself to get here,” His voice was full of a mixture of tease yet mild scolding, the man standing up, straightened his training clothing, “However, I can't lie how much it tickles me... that....”

His words trailed off, steel-blue meeting grey-blue. There was a set of blinks from either of them, while each simply stared back at the other. “...Xanatos?” “Yes, Master?” “Why, in the name of the Force, do you look like a drowned womp-rat?” “Probably because I was in an aquatic-life pool with my clothing on, Master,” The boy walked further into a room, moving to sit on a bench before beginning stripping down to his under-tunics. “Water does make things wet on most planets in the galaxy.” Clothing now hung on the bench beside himself, Xanatos proceed to shed his boots and socks, both equally damp as the rest of him, since their sessions usually involved no shoes. “Though–” he sat there, running his fingers through his hair before standing and redoing it as he moved to a corner of the room “–there are the few planets that rain acidic water, and there is also that moon which holds carnivorous micro-organisms in its entire water supply.” The boy fell silent a few long moments, rummaging through the cabinet for a spare set of training robes that would fit him. The poor Master Jedi in the room, Qui-Gon, had been doing his best to keep track of all this babbling and silently searched for an answer in all of the rambling. He found none at all unfortunately, and he sent a small wave of thanks to the Force that his padawan had yet to notice the undoubtedly gobsmacked expression he must be wearing. Finally removing a set of training clothes in his size, he watched as Xanatos pulled them on over his semi-dry under-tunics before finally finishing his slight babbling with a simple, “I am very certain in those circumstances that water technically dries or violently burns, and in the other leave scarring or death by mauling.” The two were finally looking at each other once more. Another set of blinks was once more granted from each other. “Xanatos.” Qui-Gon's tone was firm, though most of it was due to confusion rather than discipline.

“Yes, Master?” “Why were you even in one of the Temple's aquatic-life pools?” Not that the man was against the fun of youth—Mace Windu, his friend and lineage-uncle (the little kriff was only 18-years old and was held dear to the man's heart, but that boy just never let up on his 'position of authority' in their lineage unless Qui-Gon's former teacher was around, for Yoda just encourages the teasing) had said many a time that long-haired man acted very immature for his age and rank. Qui-Gon never denied it, for he enjoyed a good time and following the will of the Force. If the Force said have fun then, by the stars, he'd have it. However, he was still a Jedi. He was a jedi, and connected to the Living Force. He encouraged his padawan to enjoy himself, sure, but Xanatos could have hurt whatever creatures were assigned into that pool! Some of them have extremely delicate ecosystems that should not be disturbed unless by a sanitized, aquatic-raced Jedi handler. Xanatos sighed, arms crossing over his chest as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. There was a long, hanging silence before sound once more filled the room. A muttered, grumbling sound that was hard to understand even with their Master/Apprentice mental bond. “Can you repeat that, padawan?” Qui-Gon asked, eyebrows arched. His boy was not one for muttering in any circumstance, no matter how angry he was. It interested and concerned the man all in one go. Another sigh was his response, before Xanatos moved past the man and back to the bench to pick up his lightsaber from it's place next to his wet clothing. “I said, 'I got pranked by some Initiates'. Some younglings got one over on me, okay?”

Qui-Gon's eyebrows shot up even higher after the information was now given clearly. Xanatos took that as a prompting for more information. “I was on my way here, a boy stopped and asked me for some help in naming some species for an assignment in one of the aquatic rooms.” The boy bent over, beginning his stretches and Qui-Gon began to mimic his student in order to finish his own interrupted exercises. “When I got there we both bent over a pool, he pointed one out but I couldn't see it... and then a friend of his popped out and pushed me in.” The boy stood up straight, stretching his arms out now, “To be fair to them it was partially an assignment for a class. They're practicing Force-stealth in their learning group. You didn't receive any calls, so I obviously let them live.” The boy looked irritated despite the apparent kudos he gave to the unnamed Initiates, but Qui-Gon was impressed with the boys maturity when one disregarded the last bit that was tacked on. The man couldn't resist chuckling at the teen’s dead-pan. Qui-Gon stepped forward, clapping a hand onto the younger's shoulder. “I see. If that is the case, the only answer is to exercise quite a bit to work the chill from your bones. And then, after I've turned you into exhausted mush, we shall go to that buffet I promised.... and perhaps to that dessert place with your favorite cakes after that.” Master and student shared a grin, and the training for the day would begin. Unknown to Qui-Gon, but the Force had done something rare in the past few minutes; it had helped a student successfully lie to their teacher.

[helioheliks]

Rock, Breeze, and Bird

The sky was a clear, sapphire blanket; the stone around him, flawless granite gray. The earth… was a brown and green watercolor smudge four hundred feet below him. Crion worked hand-over-hand, foot-over-foot, higher and higher up a towering cliff face. The last respite he had was twenty feet below, but it was beginning to feel like a small eternity had passed since that blessed time he was able to rest his aching limbs. The goal, however, was in sight: a small outcropping, far too small for a grown man to rest on, was overflowing with twigs, feathers, small bones and bird droppings no more than fifteen feet above. “Just a little bit more, please,” he pleaded aloud with his bleeding and bandaged hands, “I’ll put more than a patch on it when we get home, I can’t focus the will enough for a proper spell now, just give me this little bit more.”

To push the ache and the bouts of delirium away, he recited songs to himself. Over and over, his fingers twitching and flexing ever so slightly as he climbed hand-hold to hand-hold in time with the fretting of the music. Faintly, between verses, he recalled the encouraging memories of the wise old trapper who got him hooked on this ‘falconry’ nonsense in the first place.

“The bond starts with the trial, ya see?” He had exclaimed with great gusto from behind a scraggly white beard that enshrouded the whole lower half of his leathery face, “You have to want it, and the birds can sense it! If you don’t make the climb yourself, they’ll feel that weakness in you.” He wiggled his fingers mysteriously at that.

Crion hummed a few more verses of ‘All Along the Violet Shore’ before delving back to reaffirm his convictions.

“The number of eyass dead from wind and cold and hunger is three times that of the healthy survivors. Carefully taking just one to raise helps the nest. The other little ones suddenly have more food to go around, and one is guaranteed a good life,” He had eyed Crion with cold accusation, then, “So long as whoever takes them in is willing to learn how to treat ‘em right.”

Crion reminisced on the three weeks he had spent every day from noon to midnight with the old, wise coot, his two hawks, and his eagle. He had learned everything he could about the cliff-dwelling hawks - how they lived, how they ate, how they behaved, and how they died. He had taken a certain amount of glee in the notion that hunting hawks’ attention spans could be so short that they needed to be hooded to keep them from flying off at everyone or everything, but swore never to bind his in such a way. At the end of those weeks, he had left his home in Ul’dah without a word to find his own hawk nest, and of course only the highest and most precarious would do to make a proper story.

He stopped mid-stretch and chided himself aloud, “Are you unloading your own exposition on yourself? By the Gale; show, don't tell.” His voice was thin and raspy, but in that moment he felt the rebuke was worth the pain.

Suddenly, Crion found himself hurled almost horizontal as a powerful gust charged across the cliff face.

It all happened in an instant: the wind came, his body lurched, his hands tightened, his feet slipped, his muscles clenched, his mind went white, and then… he stopped. He hung in midair at an awkward angle from the stone, a single, tight grip being his only tether. The gale that had threatened to dash him into the open air like a leaf from a tree had bent and twisted, his limbs capturing the wind like a sail. His forearms and shins burned as the coils of wind bit him with cold and bits of debris, but somehow, he was safe. He felt as if he were floating in a pool of water, as if the air had simply given up trying to pull him down. He hung like that for a few moments, working to shake the cobwebs of disbelief from his mind.

“I’m safe?” He asked the world at large. He took a moment to admire the braces and grieves of stormy wind, but ceased his examination as his gaze brushed with the ground below, swaying and bobbing with him as he lay belly-down in the sky so high above it. He snapped his focus back to the hand that still held onto the cliff, then looked up, seeing the hawk’s nest nestled into the stone only a few moment’s climb above him. Closing his eyes to focus, feeling the knot of living energy at his core, he drew one slow, deep breath. The coils around his legs relented with each passing second, and Crion felt the broken down motes of air flowing into him, stoking the energy inside him. His feet slowly came to rest on a couple tenuous holds, but it was enough. He took hold of the adrenaline rush and wielded it like a saber against the pain in his limbs and the mortal fear that had brought his heartbeat to a furious staccato.

“I’m coming for you, little one…” He grunted through gritted teeth. Every word he spoke was another step - another grasp, “I. Will. Bring. You. Home. And. Feed. You. Rabbits.” The end was in sight, he could even hear the chirps and squawks of the younglings, “We’re. Going. To. Be. Best. Friends. And. We. Will. Look. Really. Awesome. Together.” He stopped just below the nest, proper. He had one last obstacle to overcome: the mother. He had hoped he had timed the venture right to catch the incredibly protective mother as she was off hunting food for her young. Despite his previous bad luck, he could find no hint of her as he carefully scanned the sky.

Crion pulled himself up to look into the recessed nest and was met with the hungry pleas of five balls of grey down. Knowing the climb to be the real ceremony with the extraction itself something of a race against time, Crion extended a hand into the nest toward the front most eyass. Before he could grasp the one he had singled out, though, one of its siblings stumbled forward and nipped painfully at his finger. Crion pulled away and sucked at his finger, but smiled as the brave little thing continued to bumble about, unceremoniously colliding with its nest mates before turning back to him and squawking loudly. He reached out and lifted it in one cupped hand. He prepared himself for some fight, but its demeanor had suddenly changed, and it looked very sleepy.

Cradling him - as he was able to determine with a quick check - to his chest, he continued to beam at the little thing like a proud, new parent. “Come on, let’s go home.” Crion whispered to the young hawk. He looked up the cliff, seeing the top was still a short climb away. He wondered for a moment why he thought going the long way was best, but dismissed the thought as the bird clutched tightly to his chest wriggled and settled into his grip. “All about the story, eh little guy?” He huffed. He then turned his attention back down the way he came. “What say we take the easy way home?” He asked, mostly rhetorically, as he let himself drop backwards from the cliff, out into open air. They plummeted for a moment, but the small bird didn’t seem to notice. Crion closed his eyes and let the wind that he had gathered before from the gale trickle out, back into his arms and legs. Soon, they were floating - lazily drifting like a feather on a bubble of conjured wind back to the ground.

They landed some minutes later right where Crion had started his climb, and where he had left his chocobo. He stumbled, weak-kneed, battered and bruised over to his steed. He tucked the hawk into a knapsack bound carefully to the saddle, and then flopped himself across the saddle, himself. He had just enough strength to pat the chocobo on the flank and say “Home, Gladr, but be gentle, I don’t want to wake him…” he trailed off as he passed into a deep sleep.

[helioheliks]

Early Dreams and Sacred Coils

It was a fervent rustling to her side that stirred Enambris from a sound sleep. She rolled over in time to catch Crion hurling back the covers of their bed and leaping quite suddenly to his feet.Modesty had long since been eroded by comfortable love, and so this morning found him digging furiously through the nearby closet totally nude. He would later look back and laugh at the manic, insane portrait he must have painted, but at the moment, he was an arrow of singular purpose.An avalanche of their combined clothes and other closet-bound odds and ends fell out of the walk-in as he worked his way deeper into the mess.

“Crion, love, what in the hells are you doing?” Enambris asked blearily, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Hunting…” he responded in a distracted mumble. “It can’t have been so long ago that I used it that it’s this far in, can it?”

Enambris sat all the way up and leaned against the headboard, holding the warm blanket up over her chest. She moved to run her fingers through her hair, found that her pillow had turned it into an unruly tangle, frowned, and let her hand flop back to her side. “Can what? What are you on about?”

Suddenly, a whoop of triumph issued from the closet and Crion came rushing back out, his lute case in hand. “Found it!” He declared, grinning ear-to-ear, his enthusiasm cutting through Enambris’ baffled protests. Then, as fast as the joy had come, it was blown away like sand off a dune. His grip on the case shifted subtly from holding to clutching and he looked down at it, “It really has been that long, hasn’t it? Since I’ve played, that is.” He looked to the cracked window wistfully, savoring the soft breeze that caressed his cheek. “She carried me across the world with her captivating music; buying my rooms and winning acceptance, and I’ve just let her sit in a closet.” He placed the case reverently on the bed at Enambris’ feet and flipped the clasps. The resulting “chuck click” of the silver and brass releasing sent shivers up Crion’s spine. It was like a prelude to him; the opening number that stoked anticipation.

Looking up to Enambris, he saw that her expression had fallen to match his, her eyes flitting back and forth from him to the case and back, “It’s okay, it’s like a good sword: you hang it up when the war is through, but it’s always there; ready to leap back into your hands at a moment’s notice as if no time had passed.” She gave a small, empathetic smile, and with a short nod suggested the corners of his lips follow her lead.

Crion’s expression changed in waves, slowly working it’s way back to a semblance of his previous excitement. “I suppose you’re right. Things have been rather hectic lately, and I haven’t been out as much.” His muscles relaxed as acceptance seeped in. He ran his hand along the black leather as if he were stroking a luxurious cat, loving and gentle, and not just a little cautious. “Thank you.” He said as he lifted the lid up and took the instrument from its contoured setting of velvet.

The lute was a work of art that would make any luthier worth his salt salivate. Unlike the overly-embellished pieces seen in courts and circuses, this lute was comparatively plain. Dressing that could, in theory, alter the timbre of the instrument, albeit subtly, was ignored in favor of pure, compact and simple design. Ebony, spruce, and ash were worked together so expertly, one might think the whole thing was cut from one tree, the colors of the different woods flowing naturally and seamlessly into each other. The tuning pegs were of a similar deep, orange brass that made up the clasps on the case, and they connected to finely braided mammoth-gut strings that perpetually felt faintly chill to the touch.

Crion set to work immediately, oiling the fretboard and tuning the strings. He ran up and down chords, filling the air the two left otherwise silent with a myriad of resonant notes that somehow coalesced into something nonetheless appealing. After about fifteen minutes, apparently satisfied, Crion turned back to Enambris with an expression that belied that he may of almost forgotten she was there while he was so engaged. He smiled apologetically, “Sorry that took so long. There’s a special way I like to have it and I wanted to make sure it was perfect for you.”

Enambris gave herself a little shake to wake up from the ambient chords, “For me?”

“Yeah, for you. It’s a song I’d like you to hear.”

“You woke up--” she looked to the window to find a surprising lack of warm colors painting the air, “early.” She finished, waving the details away. “Isn’t it far too early to give a recital?” She was slightly disgruntled from having been woken up, but was curious nonetheless.

Crion looked askance, “Yes, well, I suppose it can wait for morning, it’s just that I only now remembered it. It might have been a dream, but I can’t recall.” His tone trailed off at the end, a thin lining of defeat around his words.

Enambris’ eyebrows knit and she leans forward, fingers searching for his hand. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. Confused, is all. It is quite early. Still, I would like to hear it..”

Flashing a cheeky smirk, Crion said, “We’re both terrible in the mornings, that’s why I got up before it, of course.”

Set at ease, Enambris giggled more girlishly than would be expected from such a hardened warrior, and rested back onto her knees to kneel by his side, still holding the blanket up in front of her. “What song is it?”

Opening chords filled the space, repeating the sequence again and again to allow for more time. After the first two or three times, he took his eyes off of his fingers completely and carried on the tune while he spoke. “I wrote it. After I… came back, as I was on my way to come find you. It was a safety blanket at night and a panacea during the day when I needed strength. It’s both lamentation and joy for me. So, I offer it to you.” At that, the song started proper. His fingers danced across the strings as gracefully as a ballerina on a stage; leaping and sliding and running and gliding. Each pluck was a summoning, beckoning forward with welcome gestures; each held fret like pressing into a lover’s skin. Then he sang, in a rich, open tone with an underlying purposeful rasp to give the words weight and edge. Even still, he was soft, and so were the words, and the implied roughness came through as longing, not harsh.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9oN3DGLxIo

I’m dreaming of sleeping next to you I’m feeling like a lost little boy in a brand new town I’m counting my sheep and each one that passes is another dream to ashes And they all fall down

As I lay me down tonight I close my eyes and what a beautiful sight

I’m sleeping to dream about you I’m so damn tired of having to love without you But I don’t mind I’m sleeping to dream about you and I’m so tired

I found myself in the riches Your eyes, your lips, your hair Well you were everywhere But I woke up in the ditches I hit the light and I thought you might be here But you were nowhere You were nowhere at home

As I lay me back to sleep Lord I pray that I can keep

Sleeping to dream about you I’m so damn tired of having to live without you But I don’t mind I’m sleeping to dream about you and I’m so tired

As the song and his voice trailed off like an ethereal ribbon in the wind, he did not look up to Enambris - not just yet. He moved his hand back to the fret board; a feeling of floating, like he was being guided by something not himself. Slowly, carefully, he unwound and removed the highest string from his lute. Setting the instrument down on his lap, he held the string across both palms as if reverent. Without speaking, he drew Enambris to himself and kissed her deeply. He finally met her eyes as they parted, and saw an expression there that was a war between delighted and broken-hearted. He took heart in that. Not as one wishing to cause distress, but as an artist whose work has been well-received. A difference similar to laughing with someone, and laughing at someone.

He took her left hand in his and singled out her ring finger. He wound the thin string deftly around her finger again and again. When he found himself without any string left, he clasped her hand flat between his, and his eyes sagged shut. Emerald light shone through their fingers in coruscating rays. His brow furrowed, and his expression, suddenly strained, shifted back and forth as if he were hunting around inside a barrel for something slippery. After a few seconds that seemed to have contained far more time than that, his features relaxed and the glow receded. He took his hands away from Enambris’, revealing the apparent source of the light, now looking like a cooling piece of metal as it dimmed. Where there was once a loop of string, now rested a crystalline ring of deep, shifting blues and silvers, like the churning clouds of a storm. But appearance was where the resemblance to crystal ended. The band was smooth, though it reflected light as though it were faceted.

Enambris lifted her hand to examine the ring in astonishment. “By the Twelve, what is this...?”

“I’m not wholly sure,” Crion remarked, also staring at the ring, “I just sort of pictured the thing I wanted in my mind and went for it. My body seemed to know what to do from there.”

“It’s beautiful.” Enambris whispered, marveling.

Crion snapped his fingers, retrieving a thought, “Ah! Yes, that was it. I was thinking earlier that I still needed to get you a wedding band. I suppose this must have been an appropriate enough moment for our story to take the wheel on my behalf. That ring,” he went on as he gestured to it, “is the song. Plucked from the air and brought to the hand I would have you join with mine.” He grinned like a smug fool. “Cool, eh?”

At a loss for words, Enambris simply threw her arms around her lover and smothered him in warmth.

[helioheliks]

Crion Character Questions #1

1.What is your full name? Crion Furtuna “Sturmfrei” Lume 2.Where and when were you born? Birthed in the Fournier medical wing in Ishgard, Eorzea. 3.Who are/were your parents?  (Know their names, occupations, personalities, etc.) Mum, Usoara Lume, and pop, Stejar Lume, were royal guards of great privilege to House Fournier. Mum… died giving birth to me. Dad hung up his sword soon after to tend to matters of the estate. Said trying to fight without her around was like trying to hold a sword without a thumb. 4.Do you have any siblings?  What are/were they like? I've two brothers. The oldest, Krysis, took up the position as head of the guard when dad stepped down. He's as tough as a mountain and about as hard to make budge… on any matter, really. Stern and hard-headed as he may be when on duty, he loves to recline and drink rather heavily in his off time. Not in any dark way, he typically has a deal of friends and family around him. He just loves to relax. Serikan is wildly different. He's the middle child, and it shows in how different he is than Krysis and I. He's quiet, hardly speaks to anyone outside the family. Not in a cold way, not on purpose. Just uninterested. He's a poet, and says he doesn't like to talk because it would interrupt the endless verse he speaks to himself to perceive the world. “Sees the world in words,” he says. Fancies men, though he doesn't like to make the matter known. He’s not ashamed of it, just tight-lipped. I’ve told him over and over that if he wants to find a good guy, he’s going to have to be more open about eventually, but he still stays quiet and content with his lot. Bloody hell can he have a temper, though. It’s like holding a flame to oil, he’ll just flare up in an instant when prodded. 5.Where do you live now, and with whom?  Describe the place and the person/people. Enambris has opened her doors to me at any time, and nine nights in ten I share her bed in Ul’dah. But sometimes I like to get out. Maybe find a nice inn in a small town no-one has heard of and play my lute for bed and supper. 6.What is your occupation? That’s an interesting question. Easiest job I’ve found to do is working as a line cook. It’s how I usually get by on the road. That, or providing entertainment. Money isn’t usually my goal, just exchanging duties for what I need and moving on. Why play a song for a silver piece to then give to the innkeep for a pint when I can just get the room directly for the show? 7.Write a full physical description of yourself.  You might want to consider factors such as: height, weight, race, hair and eye color, style of dress, and any tattoos, scars, or distinguishing marks. Well, I don’t usually like to brag… much, but I’d say I’m a fairly attractive man. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t go shouting that to the heavens, but I try to be as self-aware as possible, even if I’m being aware of something rather self-congratulatory. I have silver hair that flirts with shades of stormy blue, and I keep it fairly short and swept back… though that style isn’t so much by design as it is from doing nothing more than running my fingers once through my hair in the morning by way of hair styling. Blue eyes, some freckles, caramel skin and a scar on my cheek from hitting a sharp rock in the water after jumping off a cliff to escape a warband of Ixali who I may or may not have angered by attempting to steal their store of haze weed on behalf of a local merchant… Anyway, I have a motley of other scars, but that’s the one people usually notice first. I also have a traditional Galeborne tattoo across my left side that my older brother, Krysis had commissioned for me for my coming-of-age nameday. 8.To which social class do you belong? Well isn’t that a loaded question. I came from nobility, and we’re all still on the best of terms, so I suppose I could call on enough funds to bring myself to the upper class if I truly wanted to, but I left home for a reason. I wanted to live as the world and wind willed it. I’ve been a vagabond, a cabin boy, a mercenary captain, and a pirate, just to name a few points on my social class graph. Now? I find myself by the side of someone involved in a very important cause, and that seems to have taken me in a sidelong direction on the social scale. 9.Do you have any allergies, diseases, or other physical weaknesses? I came down with a bad lung disease when I was younger and it damaged them permanently. Not in terms of capacity or strength or any such thing, but breathing in acrid fumes - like sulfur or coal or some perfumes - will give me a nasty, wheezing cough for a while. It’s more like opening an old wound rather than a diminishment of function. I also have a wretched short-term memory and an attention span about the length of a eunuch’s cock. 10. Are you right- or left-handed? Right! I tried to make myself ambidextrous for a little while, but got sick of it and decided to just stick with what works. 11. What does your voice sound like? Some flit back and forth through octaves, but I’m told my voice is pretty firmly situated in the baritone range. Low and smooth, just how I like my… shit, coffee doesn’t have a height. 12. What words and/or phrases do you use very frequently? “Bloody hell.” It just rolls right off the tongue. Something unpleasant and somewhere unpleasant. Just the right blend for a curse. 13. What do you have in your pockets? Some coin from no fewer than three different regions (never know where you’ll need to travel, eh?), a deck of cards and some dice, a flask, a feather and a talisman my father gave me before I left. Oh, and my old eyepatch. 14. Do you have any quirks, strange mannerisms, annoying habits, or other defining characteristics? There hasn’t been a time in my life when my profound lack of attention span hasn’t bothered someone. I used to wander away from home for days just because the horizon looked pretty that morning. Even now with Enambris I’ll still go off at random, though for her I like to at least leave a note saying I’m leaving. We work because she accepts that about me. Someone told me once that I’m wildly irresponsible, but I think that’s very constricting. Throwing myself in the middle of a hostile theocratic encampment in hopes I can learn their style of swordfighting is irresponsible? No, I call that living.