#he’s symbolized with snowfields now

[sculptorofcrimson]

The dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed. 

Now not even in death can duty end…

Snowfields

Synopsis: A cold walk atop the mountain with Valdor.

Relations: Valdor x female Emperor shard

Warnings: Suicide attempt

This is relatively tame for what I write, and I wrote it in one sitting when I had roughly 20 minutes to spare. Ty for your time!

“Do you remember Ararat, my liege?”

No. No, she didn’t remember Ararat. She has never heard the name before. But she will. By the gods, she will. 

The air was cold. It rattled through her lungs when she tried to breathe. The white seemed to stretch forever, like malignant bones, the wind laid bare and rattling its screams. It would rise like a frosty howl around the two of them, wailing like a soldier who had lost a limb, weeping its cries for eternity. The cold bit at her, tore at her, the snow would have frozen mortal blood solid in mortal veins. Thunder grumbles in the distance. A crack of lightning splits the sky in half, purplish white against the ghoulish grey. 

His cloak was warm when he wrapped it around her. But his touch, without doubt, without even question, was unfathomably cold. Without even thinking of it, she had shrunk away.

Valdor’s grip had only tightened then. He fastened the clasp of the too-large cloak, the stench of incense and parchment wafting from the silk. A small smile, the emotionless movement perfected by a mind that could not actually smile, flashed briefly across his visage as he took her wrist, trapped it so effortlessly between his fingers and kissed the soft skin there.

“There was a Primarch once. A magnificent man. One that even I respected, in some regards.” Valdor led her, slowly and patiently, holding her up when she stumbled through the knee-high snow. The mountaintop seemed to rage against her. Well, too damn bad. She hated mountains, and she hated snow, and she was about to teach him a lesson out of spite. It was pure pettiness, but it was hers, it was one last plan she held to herself, one last wish she was certain was hers and not his, and if she was going to die, drowned limb by limb into the unseeing gold, she wished to at least pain him with it. 

How had it gone so wrong? How had angels of such glorious aurite turned into nightmares wrapped in gold and crimson? 

She yanked her arm away. Valdor let her go without struggle, simply rising back with a singular, elegant motion, as if he were a dancer performing a long-awaited waltz. When she stumbles over another snow-covered rock mere moments later, he was there, as if he had never left, one arm gently wrapped around her waist as he hauls her upright. This time, when she tries to pull away, his grip only tightens, as if he was defying the very storm itself.

“The snow reminds me of him. The Cataegis Primarch of the IVth legion. You watched us duel atop a mountain not so unlike this one, my liege, when the storm ended. It felt like the top of the world. We were in a deadlock when you appeared, your attention straying just for a moment to our fight. I snapped his wrist with a twisting motion, and slammed him into the ground hard enough to snap part of his spine. Your attention had departed by then, but it was enough. You still remember the frost, do you not?”

No. No. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Valdor’s hand, so gentle, so damnably gentle, placed itself under her chin. It stroked her hair, his gauntlets’ touch heavy yet tender, the jewels flashing dully through strands of hair that were quickly becoming darker, swallowed first by brown and then by black. He had not forbidden her to cut it. Out of spite, she had ordered him to cut it for her. 

It didn’t matter.

The strands had grown back, with an unrelenting zeal, glossy and luxurious and flowing like ink over water. She was innocent once, she was mortal, she lived among men and walked amongst mortals, and she will never be again. She will never live again, and that truth was simply so jagged, so broken, so horrifyingly caught between her chest and her throat that it was as if something broke a little further every time she took a breath. Valdor had only quietly polished, brushed and glossed over her hair, his movements methodical and calculated, even when silent tears rolled their way down her cheeks, her vision blurred by the salt and the water but just visible enough to see the flakes of gold swirling in her pupils. Still clear enough to see herself die.

She had felt Valdor’s fingers through her hair then, braiding it carefully in an intricate style she had never seen before, but one that tugged at familiar roots she had never felt before. 

Her hair. Some mewling, broken part of her(was it her dream or His? Was there a difference anymore?) instinctively felt like it should be darker. Longer. Wreathed with gold, and weighed down by a crown. But it was her hair. It was her hair, once upon a time, and she had lost it strand by strand, inch by inch, as the gold swam up through her vision and blocked out her eyes.

A rock clattered over the side of the mountain, followed by dull, distant thunder. It jolted her back to her mind, to her body, to the world that she did not rule over and should have never ruled. 

Numbly, she felt herself shake her head. Valdor only raised an eyebrow, and adjusted the clasp.

“I remember the rock, my master.” Valdor was saying. His voice rose and fell like a litany, carefully retracing steps the Emperor had once guided him through, when He was a king and gods walked the earth. She felt so small against him, so tired, so far from the invincible god-warrior he had once served, but that was alright, He had returned to him, and he would shepherd Him, guide Him, protect Him, through this life and through this death till the last. “Even the rocks felt cold. It was black, and it glistened like oil whenever the sun shone. There were storms every day of that campaign, as if the heavens themselves were against us, as if the gods had conspired to strike you down, but yet you gave us the order to march. And the wind. You told me that you heard it screaming. Malcador jokingly asked that if you should live again, you would choose to enact Ararat during the summer instead, if only out of sheer annoyance from the wind.” Valdor’s smile was nothing more than a reflex. There was no humor in it, nor human emotion. “Do you remember it then, my master?”

The wind. Had it screamed then, as it screams now? Had it screamed, beneath the weight of the betrayal, wailing with the sheer horror of what it had taken? Did it scream, singing a threnody with the thunder, as the skies growl and hail shudders from overcast clouds ahead? She shivers underneath her layers. The finest climate suits had been prepared, coupled with the Custodian cloak over her shoulders, but she felt cold, so unspeakably cold that it was nearly painful. 

Oh Throne. She was cold, so cold. 

“Constantin?” she rasps. Her voice was not her own. It was rusty from disuse, and cracked, and weak, but yet some part of it resonated, it echoed like the tongue of a god, speaking through the plaintive shell of a mortal, just enough to hiss like a shadowy undertone. It should have been more sonorous, it should have been softer, it should have been the voice of a conqueror, it should have been the voice of a girl snatched away from her home by an angel and transformed into a god. It should have been hers, but it was His instead. She licks her lips and tries again. “Constantin.”

“Yes, my lord?” he was at her side(was he always so close?), the memory jarringly left unfinished. The hand once gently guiding her and became more insistent as he knelt down until they were eye to eye. 

“I don’t remember the mountain.” she replied flatly. Her voice was weaker than a whisper. She didn’t care. She knew he’d hear it anyway. And if he didn’t, she no longer cared enough to ensure he did. She no longer believed she had the strength to stomach that voice any longer. 

The cliff looked dizzyingly as she peered over the edge. She wondered if even a Custodian could survive a fall at such a height. 

“I don’t remember the snow, Constantin.”

“That is alright, my liege.” He was so sweet, so sickeningly sweet, so unerringly gentle. It made her want to claw at him, to crack him, to see what could finally burrow under that invincible flesh and make him howl. It made her wonder how the Emperor broke him to make him the man he had become, how deeply He must have laid His tongs in the forge of flesh and fire. 

She wondered what his screams would sound like, if he could scream at all.

“Do not trouble yourself, my liege. Your form is still young.” Of course, he could afford to wait. He had waited for ten thousand years, and he would gladly wait for ten thousand more. In that broken, delusional mind of his, it was only just, after all. He’d speak litanies of loyalty, roaring them over the screams of her brethren, he’d speak praises so numerous that they’d drown out the sobs of her family. “Your memories will return, when given due time. I can tell you about them. The preliminaries, the campaigns, the plans you undertook.”

Of course. They’d have to return. They must return. They will return, and He will live again, born out of this mortal shell under Valdor’s guidance. Valdor simply could not be, must not be, could not accept, could not live in a world where his liege has fallen forever. 

The snow was no longer biting her. It seemed to have been cowed, laid low beneath the vengeful eye of its rightful master. Even the storm seems to have settled, briefly, at least for now. For the eye of the King, the Emperor, the god-sorceror. 

It was so cruel, the revelation, the realization that welled up in her when she gazed dully back at him with listless eyes. The revelation that came for her, and not for him, for he would be nothing if not for his delusion. How quickly she understood the truth beneath why she had called him here, why she had suddenly finally accepted his offer to visit the mountain, when she had been delaying it, dreading it, putting it off for weeks upon months. 

The edge. 

The end. (And not the death).

She wondered if even a Custodes could survive a fall from this height. She wondered if it mattered anymore. 

The plan had been formulating itself for weeks now, brewing like boiled flesh in a cyst, nursing itself, grieving its wounds, growing stronger, gaining weight. First she had refused to eat, then to bathe, then to move at all, all the dreary, listless days crushed into the same monotony as brass as she had sat still upon a throne she did not want and stared off into oblivion, as he occasionally knelt by her and asked for her commands while she numbly stared off in the distance, her eyes a thousand yards away. Her gaze had been lost in a time beyond time, beyond memory itself, and not even dreams could steal her away. 

First it had only been how she stopped even trying to hide from him. She simply let him follow her, on her aimless, little walks aboard the massive ship that had become her only location. Then it had been how her tongue had stalled and she no longer even greeted the serfs that occasionally came by to deliver her food she did not eat, water she did not want, utensils she did not use, how she simply stared ahead, as reactive as a corpse, about as conscious to the world as the dead. Valdor had cared after her then, when even her memory had failed her, when she lay still and sullen like ash, the weight of the world upon broken shoulders, silent, painful tears trickling a cheerless trail from her eyes to her duvet. How he had lifted her up and cradled her to him, asking which stories she wished to hear, which glories she wished him to recount. Which memories that were not hers but soon will be, tales he regaled her of His conquests, of His victories and His lessons, His mantras drilled into her bones as they have been drilled into his.

She had left the world, bit by bit, husk by husk, until she felt as if she weighed no more than one of His eagles’ feathers did, frailly clinging onto the world with a whisper and a dream. It was as if she was sinking into some calm, clear, colorless water and feeling the waves close in above her, but there was no sensation of drowning, no voiceless cry in the deep. Simply the noiseless struggle in her own dreams, as she prepared herself for the final breath before oblivion. 

(Did she have the strength? Did it matter any longer, when he could overpower her no matter the answer?)

It was so beautiful, up here, at the edge of the sky. She could hear the storm breathing in the clouds. It was close enough that she could close her eyes, and dream of Ararat, listening to Valdor’s words. An end. An end, just like the Thunder Warriors He(and she?) slaughtered so long ago. The final unraveling. She didn’t want to die, but was she truly living? An immortality without life, without passion, without even joy itself, was that truly living when she was little more than a corpse, kept alive through obsession?

If the Emperor had loved them, He would have never created them at all. What merciful god would create such grotesque angels? 

If the Four were merciful, they would have sought Valdor, as they sought the Primarchs. They would have whisked him away, upon winds of change, tainted him with their mark, made sure He would never accept him as a servant again. They would have saved him, corrupted him, broken him, taught him what it felt like to dream, before the golden light shone again, and His dream took over his. 

But he was a servant, not a master. He was not a leader. He knelt, instead of ruling, and the Emperor had sunk in His claws so deep even the Four could not pry it out. And so he was His, forevermore.

He died ten thousand years ago. And somewhere, inside that twisted, broken Palace that was a mind, His dog was still waiting loyally at the door, waiting for Him to return. 

He was kneeling beside her now. She had never even heard him move. With infinite reverence, he cups her features, admiring the black strands falling over his gauntlets, the golden eyes - so broken, so gorgeous, so His - staring back at him.

“It was the end of the Unification Wars, my liege. And the start of your rule. The Imperium was born that day, your coronation happened atop that bloodstained snowfield, when Malcador held up that laurel, and crowned you King. How could you forget how I, the first of your Custodes, knelt first and rose last, when the ceremony ended?” 

So careful. So gentle as not to hurt her.

“Tell me about them.” a small, cruel smile had found its way onto her face. She was no longer looking at him, instead smiling serenely, blankly staring out upon the sky. The mountain truly was beautiful. It was such a shame this was where she would die. She should have felt something then. A sense of guilt, perhaps. A moment of horror for what she had become, for taking advantage of something so deeply broken into him that it was written into his very bones. Obedience was carved into his blood, seared into his marrow. He would know no other way but to obey. 

“The Unification Wars?” Valdor asks, the question poised so effortlessly, head tilted like a loyal dog, perfectly prepared to obey his master’s every word. 

It would be almost easier, she thought, if he had been a crueller man. Easier to break him, easier to hate him, easier to gaze upon that perfect, immaculate features and wonder what if he had lost those duels. If he had been taught to be mortal, what his screams would’ve sounded like, what sounds of pain he might wheeze out when his perfect, immaculate dancer’s grace falters and he learns, he learns the price for immortality. 

He was never meant to love. 

Not for the first time, she wonders if he can feel pain. If she’ll even care, if it’ll even matter. For a creature who loved no one but his master, would it even be a sin?A sin, to teach him what it meant to fear? To taste the copper tang of terror, to twist the knife in him as he had twisted the knife in her. And to die, exalted, knowing she would have hurt him, knowing she brought down a demigod. 

You can’t reason with a mad dog. You can’t plead with someone who knows they’re right. You can’t gaze into the eyes of Constantin Valdor and expect to see reason back, when his master was right in front of him and alive, so sickeningly alive he would rather kill than forget Him again.

Would he even mourn this time? Did he even know what mourning felt like? She had an inkling that he did, however twisted it may be. Because, for him, the tale isn't over yet, the tale must not be over. His Emperor is not dead, it cannot be, he cannot be, in a world without the Emperor, it simply is not possible. Without Valdor, the Emperor could not lead His Custodes, but without Him, the Custodes could not live. 

“No.” she replies. “The mountain. Tell me of them.” The smile that stretched across her face felt nothing like her. It did not belong to this life. It was too old, too heavy, too sad and too cruel for a face that was once joyous and wide with mischief. She had an inkling of the words Valdor was about to say, the bitter, treacherous words she would weep to hear, and regret ever having forced him to speak. 

“The Thunder Warriors.” she murmured. She had closed her eyes again by then. The plan was formulating, inking itself together with the same mindlessness of crawling, squirming things beneath the earth. And she didn’t want to see what the ground would look like when she fell. She didn’t want to see what it felt like to die a second time. This was only a distraction, a charade, a pitiful illusion built by a mind almost broken. There was no one here but a madman, a broken girl, and the ghosts of the storm calling out its mournful rage overhead. 

“Tell me what became of them. Of that Primarch you spoke so highly of. And no lies.” she sighs, and the voice that whistles out of her is too old, too broken. She brushes his hand away. This time, he doesn’t even insist on remaining. “Tell me what happened on Ararat. I want to hear the truth from your lips.” 

If there had been anything left of her heart, she might have mourned for him. For what he had become, living not for himself but for another. Living His life for Him. And when He died, what could become of him? What could become of him except to endure? When he had slaughtered brothers, lovers, children upon the snowfields, betrayed loyalists and watched life fade from their eyes, all in the name of Him, what could be left of him if not to serve?

He served, and loyalty was its own reward. Loyalty, unyielding, unbreaking, even in death his duty would not end.

Valdor tilts his head like a confused dog. “What good will it do now?” 

She utters a dry, raspy laugh. It had no inflection within it, no actual human emotion. 

“I command you, Valdor.” she spoke. There was nothing behind it, nothing even when the command hurt him. It stirred nothing but a deep, dull ache and the brief knife of guilt, which was quickly surpassed by the lasting numbness that did not seem to leave her bones. “I command you to speak of them. On Ararat. What happened on Ararat?”

She turns from him, walking slowly, and without care. She needed to be on a ledge. Distantly, thunder shrieks, and the storm crashes down. Lightning briefly illuminates her features, skin half-tanned, black hair flowing and golden eyes peering through the brume, and in that radiant flare of lightning she looked positively divine, a half-god caught on earth, if not for the weary, haunted gaze of a hunted animal. Her shoulders were hunched, her movements withered, as if her bones could no longer support her weight. She walked without a singular care in the world, and Valdor trailed immediately afterwards. She knew to jump was no longer an option. Even the stormclouds seemed to mock her. It was foolish, so foolish, she knew. He could not let her die. He would move faster than she could even think, he could catch her, snatch her around her waist and carry her to a safe distance before she could even advance an inch towards the edge. 

She could not die here. He would not allow her to die.

And they both knew that.

Voicelessly, soundlessly, she gazes up upon the stormladen sky. Its grey dances across her golden irises, the stormwind playing with her hair. Thunder crashes, and she feels herself scream back, wordlessly, soundlessly, without even conscious thought. Dully, she knew she was raging, screaming, that her mind was seizing at the clouds and tearing at them, begging them to save her, but physically she made not even a single move. Her body was frozen, the snow pelting her shoulders, Valdor’s cloak swirling from the wind. She felt frozen, too. Her mind was no longer wreathed with such self-pity it once had, it was churning, clawing, raging like a caught rabbit in a trap, desperately wishing the ground would open up and swallow it whole, not as a kind of freedom, but as a final form of spite to the hunter.

Thunder crashes around the two of them. Neither of them move. The edge was close, so dizzyingly close that she could feel the wind gusting around her. Valdor was watching her closely, the same way a starved wolf may watch a weakened deer.

When Valdor finally speaks, unable to resist the bluntness of her command, his eyes were still distantly focused on the memories of Ararat. And his voice was passionlessly dull, carefully kept neutral and utterly without pity. 

“I slit his throat.” he confesses dully, flatly, without even a hint of inflection. “The Primarch. I slit his throat on Ararat, from ear to ear, then from ear to clavicle. I only stopped when I felt bone scraping against the edge of my knife.”

Surprisingly she laughed, and the sound was garbled, as grim and as dry as bones. “I suppose you killed him then?” she asked. One more step. One more step and she would be at the edge. He would not let her. He would move faster than the earth could drag her down anyways. But it did not matter. Slowly, incredulously, she could feel herself smiling. It was going to be alright. She could feel it in her bones, the static, the storm. Even the snow seemed to be on her side. For a moment, she felt like a god, standing at the top of the world, the conquered earth groveling beneath Him, knowing that even the elements would fall beneath His gaze. 

She could taste the ichor then, sweet and lifeless and pouring from the sky along with the snow, the charge in the sky and the thunder. The vengeance it held. The sheer rage, an echo of her own. She would rule them. She did not want to rule. She would rule, for one singular moment in her wretched life, she would rule, and she would hurt him, as he had hurt her. For the serfs he terrorized, for the Sisters he slaughtered, for the martyrs he first betrayed and then hung out to die. All in her name. All for her wishes. She no longer wished to wish. She no longer wished to reign. 

Let her abdicate the throne of skulls. Just once. Just once, she prayed. 

“No.” Valdor shook his head. He was already moving, one hand reaching out to grasp her arm and drag her back before she could approach the edge. “It would have been a kinder fate if he had died then. It would have been a kinder fate if-”

“-if you had granted him an honorable death.” she finished for him. She spoke softly, plaintively, as if this was a comfort. She had turned her face a little, just enough to see him, just enough to see his elegant features illuminated by the storm. To gaze upon him, one last time. The way he held himself, like a dancer, his lean features accentuated by the lightning as the thunderbolt carved the sky open and struck the ledge beside her. The way his auramite had shuddered from the lightning as he had, for the first time in her memory, stumbled, his gait not utterly perfect before the divine rage. The first word she had heard him say that was not perfectly calculated.

The lightning snaps the ledge like bone.

The surprised intake of breath she had uttered, a squeal that was nearly a gasp as the rock beneath her feet had caved in, and then crumbled as she had desperately hoped, the weathered stone no longer capable of supporting its own weight bending and breaking and shattering as the lightning arced through it, the smite separating the ledge like the same way Valdor had carved through that serf. That poor, poor serf who had slipped her a kiss upon her request. It was little more than a peck, that poor thing. And he hadn’t even been able to scream when Valdor separated his bones like paper. 

In a silent vow to him, in a wordless vow to them all, the corpses he laid so she could climb atop her throne, she promised she wouldn’t scream as she fell.

Grimly, lips drawn in a tight line, she only felt the distant thunder as she descended like a one-winged eagle, her face utterly expressionless, lightning briefly dancing sparks against her hair as if in reverence. 

Valdor’s cloak, still wrapped around her, its silk as crimson as spilled blood, unfurled around her as she fell.

Distantly, from somewhere beyond the mountaintop, thunder roared. 

~~~~

It was warm, when she finally awoke. She muttered something, tried to turn, and decided to burrow deeper against the warmth instead. There was a rumble, a purr-like sound, and the slow, drifting scent of incense as one titanic hand came up to rest against her hair. 

With careful reverence, it adjusted the master’s laurel. 

“Welcome back, by lord.” the voice purred. “You expressed quite the interest in the Cataegis Primarch.”

She groaned. Golden irises flickered back and forth, as if in distress, beneath her lids. Valdor’s other hand reached up to stroke through her hair, careful not to upset the laurel.  

“I had thought you would have recognized him, my lord. It was, after all, his grave that I showed you that night upon the mountain.”

He makes a long, slow chuckle, almost like amusement, if he had been capable of it. “I had expected you’ve greeted him already, my master. You were standing atop his bones.” 

Somewhere, distantly, thunder growled. And without even being conscious of it, she shivered, and tried to burrow closer to his warmth.  

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[dragon-communion]

Given the title of my blog, I should probably drop some of my theories on Dragon Communion, shouldn't I? I'm starting this post with the basic facts I've built off of, so skip ahead if you want to get to the theorycrafting.

To my knowledge, there are five Magma Wyrms in the base game, which are the final evolution of Dragon Communion participants. Of those five:

• We encounter our first one in Gael Tunnel on the border between Limgrave and Caelid, who drops a sword forged in Sellia. That makes plenty of sense. It's near Dragonbarrow and the Cathedral, or at least vaguely on the way there, and someone from Sellia could definitely have partaken.

• The first named wyrm would be Makar, guarding the Ruin-Strewn Precipice, who we can collect the scalesword from. Why is he there? No idea. Dragon found in cave, fork found in kitchen. But he could theoretically actually be guarding it, as probably a former knight in service to the crown stationed at a dangerous breach in the border defenses.

• The next two, unnamed, are on Mt. Gelmir and one of them unlocks the Magma Breath incantation, which is pretty unique considering the rest of the basic dragon spells unlock automatically. I like to think the placement and acquisition of this spell (after you've probably already killed two or three other dragons) implies that this is around when your character would start mutating.

• Number five is Theodorix, a former troll, who drops the named breath and lives in the Consecrated Snowfield. He was a participant in the war against the Giants, which fascinates me, because we can actually draw some conclusions about who he was and where he got the idea. It's established that the ice dragons and the fire giants were in conflict, which could mean that Theodorix sought the power of the ice dragons to utilize against his kin. There's a history of troll knights in the Lands Between and I think it has roots in this specific war in a kind of gigantomachy.

I digress.

Of the other dragon communion spells, the first (and technically most accessible) altar we're directed to is the one through the Coastal Cave, courtesy of Yura, who seems to have experience with the practice. This is our See Spot Run, Baby's First Heresy selection of spells: Dragonclaw, Dragonmaw, and Dragonfire.

It's not clear what the difference is between the Church and the Cathedral, why one has more power to offer than the other. They both contain an ancient dragon corpse and what might be numerous symbolic offerings of smashed statues. Maybe the Cathedral just saw more use, maybe it's in closer proximity to a large amount of dead dragons, who can say. But what is clear from a gameplay standpoint is that the Cathedral's available spells are a step up from the Church, so I have reason to read way too much into it.

The spells available at the Cathedral are not the named versions, though. You obtain those through hunting and devouring those dragons yourself. So I think what remains on offer there are sort of echoes, memories of power from other sacrifices and other dragons that you can use as a stepping stone towards greater power.

I think, stripped of gold, the modern dragons are innately more aligned with fire. Even Placidusax and the Elden Beast technically use fire breath. My theory is that all other permutations of modern dragons are a kind of corruption, because for lack of gold their souls are more malleable. Where the ancient golden god once lived, on a metaphysical level, can now be occupied by other things: glintstone, rot, cold, so on and so forth. Comparable to the way the trolls are gutted of the Fell God, except the hole in them is a very physical thing.

Just to really drive the point home: I think modern dragons are tarnished dragons.

Maybe not necessarily banished, not an immediate fall from grace, but some kind of evolution that happened after the Greater Will left Placidusax.

Placidusax notably doesn't actually look like an ancient dragon. He's got the wings and legs, but the two heads we see have the ragged feathers and nose horns of the modern dragons. Whatever he is, he's something in-between, not strictly ancient or modern. And at this point it seems strangely deliberate that you can't eat his heart, same as Lansseax and Fortissax, but you can get his breath laser. But it's not classified as a Dragon Communion spell. It's not even a legendary incantation, that honor goes to Greyoll's Roar.

(It's actually classified as unique, comparable to Light of Miquella and Multilayered Rings of Light. Very fun to think about.)

I'm getting sidetracked though.

Of the other enemies we can encounter who have presumably undergone Dragon Communion, a couple of Banished Knights and also Eleonora, all of them utilize fire breath. Which leads me to believe that either they were eating a lot of fire dragons, or dragon communion just gives you fire breath by default if you haven't eaten a particularly special dragon. Both could be true.

Eleonora also uses Greyoll's Roar, and I'm not entirely sure how she got it other than to assume she killed a different dragon with the same ability at some point. No point in giving an NPC invader a totally unique dragon spell I suppose.

I would like to take this opportunity to say the Gael Tunnel wyrm should be able to use the Moonveil on us. I think it would be funny and benefit no one, but look cool as fuck. Maybe cast a couple Sellian spells too, though it's understandable if the transformation cooked its brain a bit.

Either way, I think the acquisition of Magma Breath is delayed because it's something we acquire after either killing enough nonspecial wyrms and somehow coding it into the altar, or it's acquired around the time we would start naturally evolving horrible lava drool as communion practitioners. I think the default communion spell is Dragonfire, because the default form of modern dragon breathes fire. And I am EXTREMELY sure the Banished Knight unaltered armor set incorporates dragon feathers into the tabard. Do with that information what you will.

And I think the eradication of the modern dragons is thematically the exact same practice as Godrick's hunting and grafting of the Tarnished, culling those spurned by gold to steal their strength.

[lee-hakhyun]

kim dokja answers lee hakhyun's question.

can anyone dream when they want to?

he's the oldest dream, the world's most omniscient yet powerless god.

...how many years has kim dokja been here, dreaming? is this still the kim dokja we know?

lhh tells kdj that he doesn't have to handle this. that was why hsy wrote this novel, to have everyone dream, to free him from this eternity. so why..?

「But I'm the only one watching this 'world' right now.」 「Do you think it's better for this world to disappear?」

in the star stream, stories that no one read disappear. if kim dokja wasn't watching this 41st regression, it would disappear. is it right for a world where the tragedy was predetermined to never begin in the first place?

lee hakhyun starts to say that this is still a real world, and if the world is about to end, with more saddess than joy- kim dokja cuts him off, asking if it's better without it.

lee hakhyun can't answer. even if the end is a tragedy, the sadness and joy will still exist. someone would find their own happiness in the destruction.

but someone has died because of this story. jung jaewoo, jung moonho, lee hakhyun can't forget their faces.

「But someone might have lived because of this story.」

people have died due to this story, but others have survived.

like kim dokja. if this story was not created, he wouldn't have survived. there are many kinds of stories. is a sad story bad, and a happy story good? is a story of destruction meaningless? is this world, a tragedy from the start, better off not existing?

tragedy isn't just the star stream's story. even in a world without scenarios, people suffered, starved, killed each other. people still died. is this universe really different from the star stream?

we're all in ruin. life and death are just stories in between. lee hakhyun understands that, but he can't accept it. he's afraid of death, he doesn't like being sad, he's afraid of people disappearing, so he wants to run away. all stories end. unlike him, kim dokja has accepted this. happy or sad, this world was just a story. he read, and he's reading. for an unimaginable amount of years. is this still the kim dokja we know?

he asks. are you still the reader he knows. he doesn't know if he wants kim dokja to lie. to say he's still the protagonist of this story, that he'll solve this somehow. that they'll see the end of the scenarios together.

he responds, "if that's what you think."

he doesn't take that well :(. lhh is nauseous. kim dokja, clearly standing in the snowfield, looked blurry to him. he asks why he's here. why the readers came here.

kim dokja doesn't answer. for some reason or another, he can't answer. there's something wrong with this snowfield. here, it feels like a fairy tale. they conversed like it was a fairy tale. in metaphors, and symbols. this snow garden was a metaphor for 'between the lines'. nothing is written down, but everything is in between. this kim dokja isn't really him. he's the 'oldest dream', scattered throughout the universe. so he must be meeting lhh through expedient. and then he says the most cryptic bs god DAMN it kdj you're making this really hard for me

「We are the ones that make the story, but at the same time, the story writes us. The answer you want, you'll know when you complete your story.」 「What was the asnwer you found? You already read 'WOS'.」 「I read it, and I never finished it.」

all stories are already written and being written at the same time. lee hakhyun has his reponse, now.

kim dokja's question. if stories of destruction are meaningless. he doesn't know the answer yet. but he knows one thing. at least for this world, he'll prevent the destruction. he remembers the readers. dansu ahjussi, kyung sein, killer king and literaturegirl, ye hyunwoo, koo sunah, kim kyungsik.

he will see the end of this world. he remembers jung heewon, who lost her father, and yoo joonghyuk, who suffered a terrible regression.

even if this results in even more changes to this worldline, he will struggle to the end, somehow. maybe his choice will lead to a bigger tragedy for the universe. maybe people will blame him for this. and maybe they're right.

but he's not the 'oldest dream'. he can't dream about such a wide universe.

all lee hakhyun sees is the world in front of him. people who read his story, and are living his story. a little happiness before the ruin.

「Cheon Inho.」 Kim Dokja said. 「No, Hakhyun-ah.」 In spite of myself, I looked up. There was Kim Dokja. The Kim Dokja I knew. Someone who loves stories more than anyone else was talking to me. 「Whatever it may be, tell me a happy story this time.」

he leaves the snow garden. waking up, he notices some changes. the star stream has noticed his existence. ☐☐ is subject to probability restrictions now. some features have been locked until he's qualified.

his 'loss' has been recorded on the 'final wall'.

two so far.

the final wall acknowledges his contribution, and his exclusive skill evolves.

...he will get additional benefits the more 'loss' he collects.

and, his new story has been created.

[The story 'Recorder of Things That Will Disappear' has been born.]

the end of this universe has already been determined. nevertheless, this story has just begun, and lee hakhyun has sentences to write. so he will write.

after all, he still loves this story.

[milkyplier]

You're gonna delete them? D: I wanted to hear more about when Legend fell into a Canyon!

(And also learn from me you might regret deleting them, may I suggest simply dropping them in an "abandoned" folder and either keep it on a cloud or zip the file etc? Sometimes I find old fics and see "hey I like this particular thing I can reuse it" or simply to see "damn I've improved a lot")

I am seriously considering it, yes. I’ve been caught deep in the throes of writer’s block, or something of the sort, and as a result each of these stories are not only unlikely to get finished, they’re also rooted in the bitterness and desperation of getting stuck time and time again. You will notice there are two documents about the canyon. That is because I tried once, I got stuck, and I tried again, and am stuck. Truly I believe these stories may never come to life unless I get out of this rut, and then when I do I may discover I never liked those ideas to begin with. Ah, I’m rambling—long story short, seeing all these stories that are a bit like symbols of my failure makes me a bit heartsick. That, and I am not a fan of clutter. You can still ask about them, that’s why I put them out there!!

For you, I’ll keep all these documents, even if they never become real stories. Now, onto the document of your curiosity: Legend falls into a Canyon.

This story was going to be set in Wild’s Hyrule, in the Hebra area. You know that huge canyon with the forgotten temple? Around there. A portal drops our chain into Wild’s Hyrule: Time, Warriors, Twilight, Sky, Wild, Hyrule, Four, and Wind are all deposited near the Tabantha Snowfield Stable (can’t remember if that’s its name but oh well). Legend, on the other hand, is dropped into this canyon—and none too gently. With some injuries to speak of, and pursued by monsters, Legend limps through the canyon for a way out—but alas, arrives cornered at a dead end, with his only choice being to turn and face the monsters chasing him.

Now, I abandoned “The One Where Legend Falls Into A Canyon” due to some inconsistencies that made me sick and picked it up in “Another Canyon Thing”:

As it turns out, Legend is not being pursued by just any monsters; rather by a group of five lizalfos, headed by Lizal-Dink himself. Legend fights them off successfully, but does sustain several injuries. His prospects are grim, and, unable to walk and out of potions, he sits down to rest and await his fate.

The rest of the chain has been searching for Legend, and as they arrive at one side of the canyon, they spot Dink crawling up the wall and over the other side, running away. They’re unable to pursue him, obviously, but the less eager members direct everyone’s focus to the spatters of black blood Dink left behind—he’s injured, and there’s only one person aside from themselves with the ability to inflict such damage on the lizalfos. With that, they drop down into the canyon and follow the blood trail, correctly suspecting it will lead them back to Legend.

I didn’t have a plan for what would happen beyond this point. I wrote about them finding Legend, but no further. That being said, I think it’s only fair to offer a bit of what I have written as an apology. Without further ado, I present to you a paragraph of “Another Canyon Thing.”

There are two parts, the beginning and then the end of the middle, sort of.

The Beginning:

Dusk blankets the canyon softly when Legend wakes up, cold, in pain, and alone. He blinks, licking his dry lips and trying to gauge the extent of the damage to his body. All he finds is a cold pin-and-needles feeling. That will undoubtedly change when he moves, so he braces himself to sit up, and slowly adjusts his arms to push himself off the ground. Almost as soon as he does, searing pain spreads through his chest, banishing the pins and needles and causing to inhale sharply. He exhales a string of curses, forcing himself to breathe normally until the searing seeps into a steady throb, with sharp stabs every time he breathes in.

He very painstakingly sits the rest of the way up, discovering along the way the remainder of his injuries. Overall, he lists broken ribs, broken ankle, violently bruised shoulder, and he tacks on a concussion, judging from the position he woke up in, and the location of his wounds.

And here is the End of the Middle:

It hurts to breathe, as little as he can, he can’t feel his extremities and the warmth that’s making them numb is beginning to seep into the rest of his body. Otherwise, it’s cold, and his body is growing heavier with every second that passes. He grips his sword a little tighter. He knows what Twilight meant, now.

“This pain…This fire burning in my blood���I can feel it.”

“It’s killing me.”

It’s killing me.

I’m not afraid to die.

[goji-pilled]

MK-S: I was listening to the new VaatiVidya “Prepare to Cry” episode on Millicent, when something stood out to me. I googled and apparently others have connected these dots years ago, but I still want to share what it made me think of. It relates to our understanding of Ranni, Miquella, and Those That Live In Death.

Now, I believe a lot of online discourse about why Ranni may be considered “evil”, aside from killing her brother’s soul, is the follow up implication that in doing that, she brought about what amounts to a zombie apocalypse, causing the rise of Those Who Live In Death (henceforth “Undead” for simplicity). Given typical game progression, it’s an easy conclusion to draw: She gets him killed in Soul alone, Godwyn gets buried at the roots of the Erdtree, and Death spreads from his body and across the roots all along the Lands Between.

But there’s one piece of information, one point of importance that, if feasible, connects the dots in a way that paints an entirely new picture. And this is where Miquella and the Eclipse come into play. There is a sword with a skill that makes it permanently kill the Undead, with a statement from Miquella asking Godwyn to “die a true death”. I don’t recall, but I think this is findable before reaching the snowfields. But the thing in the video that made things start clicking for me was about Castle Sol, that ghost spot with the Haligtree medallion. Here, it’s implied Miquella tried to use the power of an Eclipse to return his soulless brother to life. But several ghosts imply that this attempt failed.

It is this attempt that I have had a little revelation about. Again, some online realized it years ago, but for me it is a fresh discovery/interpretation. If the chronological order of these events is reversed to our encounters as players, then it changes our understanding of what happened and who is responsible. If Miquella first attempted to use the power of an eclipse to bring his brother back to life, and that attempt failed, whatever he did could have been responsible for triggering the rise of the Undead. (Which also gives more narrative purpose to the Eclipse as a whole; previously, it felt a bit odd and isolated, but under this view, it becomes the origin of the Undead.) This would also explain why the eclipse sword has a skill that gives it death blight, as a way to show that the two are connected. Following this, the sword that asks for Godwyn to “die a true death”, is Miquella trying to fix his own mistake.

This in turn means that Ranni is not responsible for the Undead. (Still killed her brother, but that’s its own topic.) Instead, Miquella is. And perhaps the resulting hatred of the Undead by the Golden Order, such as D, helped push him to actions we learned about in the DLC.

As for why the eclipse failed, perhaps it was because Godwyn had died in Soul alone; Ranni was careful to ensure that Death got its complete package, a body AND soul. In trying to bring back just a Soul, Miquella may have broke something.

(Also, the google search results pointed out how the eclipse sword and symbol look like the centipede brand and mending runes, furthering this connection.)

I hope this was interesting. You may have already known about this, but I just wanted to share what I learned. Good day to you.

this does sound pretty plausible actually yeah... i can rock with this

[fortifice]

“Good. You’re doing so good for me, baby, just relax. I’ve got you, I’m here.” Anyone who overheard the dialogue — the gambler softly murmuring praises, punctuating by the occasional breathy sigh or low moan — might have allowed their thoughts to drift somewhere lewd. Hah, if only. Sex was far less vulnerable than what was currently going on behind the locked door.

Aventurine kisses the top of the Captain’s head & warns him gently, “I’m going to touch the back of your shoulders now. Just me. If you need me to stop, just let me know.” He murmurs in a gentle voice. Warm, soft hands spread out over the soldier’s bare back from where he’s straddling Gepard’s hips from behind. He begins rubbing, massaging the areas where Gepard seems to be carrying the most tension, occasionally pressing down a bit harder to rub out the painful knots in his back.

Gepard’s body certainly held evidence of his struggles, every scar a symbol of what he had survived. Each time he touched him, Vasha explains what he’s doing & why, on an effort to prevent any instinctively fearful or volatile reactions. His lips press to the nape of Gepard’s neck sweetly, before he changes course, kissing softly an especially violent looking scar on his back which, judging by the look of it, came from the weapon one of those Fragmentum creatures carry, the ones that cruelly mimic the appearance of a soldier.

“Doing so good for me, darling. I can feel you relaxing…” he murmurs, trailing kisses across the back of his bare shoulder. “How are you feeling, heart-star?”

(( had to send in some soft after what we talked about earlier! ))

Gepard was not afforded liberty to such indulgences often, his routine pervaded with patrols that preceded paperwork and the allocation of duties, often establishing intermission only to promptly fill it, touching base with his comrades, genial talking over crackling pits of fire. There was much demanded of him as Captain and he dedicated himself sedulously to seeing they were all met. this meant he had insufficient time to see his own needs met, having reserved himself to be altruistic, even if it meant he was only given room to breathe every so often. Aventurine had a propensity for being candid with him, it felt harsh only because he was accustomed to others acquiescing to his blatant disregard for self care. even when his sister’s spoke up on the matter they often found him only able to assent half heartedly, more familiar with strenuous effort than respite. It took even more from him to allow the other in, vulnerability sat like narrow cracks running along the adamantine shield of belobog, irrefutable proof that in spite of his accolades he was still just one man. His body was attestation to that, white, corrugating skin that told tales of battles waged and triumph claimed, of snowfields defiled with the blood toll of conflict, he did not like others to witness those less than pleasant parts of him. He listens closely to the other’s words, breathy praise that feels salacious when isolated from context. Aventurine’s svelte hands were deft, easing tense muscles that had sat rigid for far too long, coaxing the groans of relief from the Captain even when he mustered all he could to stifle them. He wonders if there’s satisfaction in that, perhaps Aventurine’s smile was alluding to such things, he does not have to lay eyes upon him to envision it with clarity. He had grown fond of that subtle curvature, pressing chaste kisses to it and finding his own returning it in kind. while their relations had not been founded upon conventional means Gepard had found within him someone who could understand his plights, perhaps more so than many others could. Instinctively he leans into the other’s touch, allowing him room proper to knead the taut muscles into relaxation, golden lashes fluttering closed, his mouth pursed between an inhale and an audible groan. he doesn’t believe many are aware of the innate intimacy of permitting touch when it was affiliated so closely with violence, less excruciating to revere the men from a distance than witness the reverberations of battle that haunted their lives long after the moment passed. “ It feels good.” he manages, a little breathless, dull pain easing from his shoulders as Aventurine coaxes his tensed body to ease into alleviation. His kisses were gentle, adoring, appeasement to the parts of him that never truly departed from the frontlines, he could not elucidate the profound way he felt understood when at the command of his dexterous hands. “ you don’t have to be so gentle, I won’t break.” not from this, Aventurine knows that too, he thinks, their kindred hearts recognizing an analogous ache within one another. his fingers reach to graze the other’s, his index finger holding a long, narrow scar from the keen edge of a blade, his knuckles decorated with arbitrary scars from battle’s long ago. Aventurine had taken a liking to hearing his stories, he had never felt as encouraged to share them. In that hotel room alongside the IPC’s emissary he was allowed a rare moment of repose and he relished it for as long as he could. “ I would prefer it if you kissed me here.” the pads of his fingers rest transiently at his mouth, imploring further affection despite seeming quite satiated within the other’s arms. 

[doublegoblin]

Rituals and Red Tape Chapter: 4

The sun beat down on me; I missed my hat. Fresh produce in a wicker basket weighed down my right side; a decent kind of compensation given the unforeseen complications. Ma was, as she puts it, pleased as punch to hear that the members of her congregation weren’t exactly missing and would be back as soon as Ishmael and his crew did what they needed to. My coworkers would make quick work of the [produce names here], and maybe they would be a sort of peace offering to Andrea. I was going to get an ear full for sure. A warm wind traced across my cheek, I couldn’t help but chuckle, Ma always had an inkling. The paperwork was going to be a nightmare; with a flick of my wrist my office door broke through the desiccated soil. 

Setting the basket down I couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“...no way, are you kidding? Who makes a mistake like that, especially in their position?”

“C’mon how were they supposed to know, those things are supposed to be in the Bleached Snowfields, not The Farm.”

“Well I for one am glad they made it back alright, Ishmael and his team showed up just at the right time.”

Great; I was the gossip of the office for the moment. I was sure I’d come and go like a shadow, the clearing of a throat proved otherwise.

“Look Andrea, I know, I really scr-” an intoxicating cologne carried on a sweet summer breeze and cherry blossom petals dancing along the slipstream. I think I would have preferred Andrea.

Audible gasps and murmurs flowed through the office as a voice as smooth and luxurious as velvet tickled my ear “Glad you made it home safe and sound Alex, you had me worried sick.” My pulse quickened to their words.

Swallowing the lump in my throat I let out a heady sigh gazing into their shimmering blue eyes. Blond hair cascading over one side of their face, playfully pushed aside by a hand of marble white skin. A smirk crept across their mouth as they laughed coyly. Their body stood against the background, outlined by dark lines. My knees felt weak as they took my hand into theirs.

“H-hi HR.” I stammered.

“Alex, you know you can just call me by name, we have a special connection after all. Now,” during his words I had found myself drifting back to a wall, he rested a hand just to the side of my head and leaned in “I hear you had a little issue during this assignment, you’re the talk of the department afterall, was there anything you’d like to share with me?”

“I…I mean…I.” My head was spinning.

Leaning in closer, I could feel the warmth of his breath as he stared into my eyes “You mean what, Alex?”

“I…” the burning smell of sulfur snapped me from my trance as I managed to crack the vial hidden in the many folds of my robes. “I think you need to back up a little.”

HR frowns and steps back, several coworkers rush to comfort him, he shoos them away “Alex, I’m only trying to help you; you can be so reserved. Do you have any idea how hard it makes it to do my job?” His mouth quivers as cyan liquid falls dramatically from his tightly shut eyes.

Head still spinning I steadied myself “Doing your job or just getting the latest gossip?”

“Are they not one in the same?” He reached out to help, but I pushed his hand away.

“You will get the report just like every other board member when I get around to writing it out. No special treatment.”

I could see him winding up to argue again, thankfully his attention was grabbed by Tonya walking past stifling soft sniffles. Using this chance I slunk back into my office and locked the door. 

Slumping down into the dark leather chair I sat staring at my monitor. With electronic hissing the machine lurched to life. My keystrokes melded with all the other droning noise of the office. Blinking lines of green pixels gave rise to letters and symbols with each press of a key. Despite all the arcane and otherworldly means of record keeping, archives still insist on this antiquated technology. 

What the Board wants, the Board gets though.

Bookkeeping finished. I leaned back in the chair, lazily swaying from side to side. Something nagged at the back of my mind; how in the world did that giant thing even get down there and why? With a groan I rose from my chair. This was going to need more than just a cursory summary, I mean, it was my job after all. Stuffy air and cramped walls did little to facilitate proactive investigation.

I need a change of scenery.

Outside the wind tousled at my robes, the waves crashed lazily on the shore, and the creatures of the dense woods sang their haunting melody; perfect weather as always. New dreamers milled about the town with the Chaperones. A familiar wonder filled their eyes, well those that had eyes. The park bench beckoned me back to my well worn spot. A little people watching as I planned my route wouldn’t hurt. 

The contoured wood held me gently as the shade from the old oak protected the spot from the worst of the sun. I would need to stop at the CrabShack first and speak with James. From there though, well, I’ll let the wind carry me. For now I simply let the world move around me. 

This most recent batch of dreamers did appear to be a handful, it would be wrong of me if I didn’t stay. I did not envy Onboarding.

“Excuse me darling, you really need to keep your voice down.” The forced pleasantry of the Chaperone did little to calm the dreamer; her arm had begun to fractal down into smaller and smaller arms.

“Well now…yes I mean it is quite possible…but friend you really shouldn’t.” This pair I couldn’t see, but, I had good reason to believe a risque story was taking place.

“Buddy pal of mine, would you please do me a favor and explain how exactly it is you came to that conclusion?” Words spoke through a gritted grin.

“Pardon me! You there! Yes hello I see you looking at me, you without the corporeal form hello yes!” Well how about that, another fresh face.

Sufficiently entertained and sure I wasn’t needed I weaved my way through the throngs of dreamers and denizens, destination: Crabshack. 

The chime rang as I opened the door. The air inside was poured into the open world like a chilled soup. Inside dreamers milled about the shelves and countless coolers. The water soaked timbers diffused their scent with each footfall. Sand crunched underfoot as I made my way to the counter. James was nowhere to be seen, rarely was. So I rang the bell for service.

Heavy boots forced the warped boards into new shapes as they screamed their protest. The pungent stench of rotting sea life overtook the shop as a persistent dripping echoed through the now empty shop. Outside the sky had turned a sickly green and ominous clouds had blotted out the sun. The floor under me gurgled and hissed as the tide broke through the cracks and holes of the boards. From behind the counter a hand gloved in thick and scarred leather rose and slammed down with the weight of a bowling ball. Rain battered the windows as lightning cracked across the sky. A yellow raincoat, worn away by countless storms draped across the arm as nothing more than a mere suggestion as the figure rose. His breathing was labored, gasping with each inhale like a fish out of water, and each exhale trapped pressure howled and squealed. His body would tower over most dreamers, a wall of muscle. Most striking of all though, where upon his shoulders a head should be, was a writhing and snapping mass of crustaceans tangled and trapped in a twisted fishing net twice as wide as it was tall. In perfect unison all eyes fell upon me as seafoam billowed out from the cephalic ecosystem.

“Do you really need to do that everytime I ring the bell? You’re not going to get me again James.”

The netting shook with an oceanic crash as James chuckled. The store had returned to normal by this point. Some of the customers had turned their attention to the counter. With a hand that could easily palm a basketball James waved to his customers before returning his attention back to me. His large frame loomed closer as he set his elbows on the counter.

Not wanting to jump directly into business I thought it maybe best to make some small talk. 

“So James, how is business? I saw we had a new round of Dreamers, anybody pass through your store?” 

With a shrug James slowly rotated one of his hands up and down like a see-saw. With a short pause he shook his head.

“Ah I see. So I had to stop at The Farm recently and well, I had to stop in speak with Mah and-”

Before I could finish the sentence James placed a balled hand onto the counter with a deep thud. Unfurling his fingers a brand new hat sat there. Gingerly he pushed it forward with two fingers. 

“So what’ll this run me?” I pulled out a small pouch.

The claws of the crabs snapped quickly as James did his calculations. Once relative silence had returned he raised three fingers and then held out an open palm.

“Really? C’mon James this is robbery and you know it, can’t I get a loyalty discount?” A steady stare gave me the answer. 

Grumbling, I pulled three translucent crystals from the pouch and placed them in his open hand. The leather of his glove creaked as he closed it tightly. I grabbed the hat and stuffed it away. He brought a hand close to his head, palm facing in and brought it down, fingers held straight.

“So you probably know I’m not just here to buy a new hat. I need some information. My trip to The Farm didn’t exactly go as planned, long story short something that shouldn’t have been there was. I don’t think this was a summoning either, what could cause something to just be displaced?” 

Plunging a hand into the net James set a crab down onto the counter. With one swift motion he crushed it under a fist. Lifting the viscera covered glove a small scroll sat amongst the carnage. When I went to grab more of the crystals he held a hand palm out to me and shook his head. I nodded in return and grabbed it, being sure to shake off the small chunks of crab still clinging to it. The pieces then came back together and the crab scuttles up his arm and back into the mass.

“Awfully generous of you. Thanks.” Appreciative but leary I opened the parchment and discerned the runes inside. My heart skipped a beat “Shit, of course!” I tucked the scroll away and hurriedly made my way out of the store.

Grabbing my pendant I tuned it to all available auditing employees “Heads up everyone we have an unwelcome guest, class DD. Be on the lookout for any particularly strong anomalies. If you aren’t already on an assignment, get on it. I’m going to head back to The Farm. Alex out.” 

With a flick of the wrist I called forth a portcullis. In a single motion I opened the door and stepped through the threshold.

I was not at The Farm.

Inky blackness surrounded me. The air is heavy and thick. A pin-prick of light stayed centered in my vision no matter where I looked. A telephone rang distant in the bituminous distance. Of course they would know. 

An ivory phone sat atop a white marble table. The ringing was no louder within arms reach than it was from that doorway. The receiver shook and hopped with each reverberation. I answered the call.

Quiet static.

The aqueous sound of a thick sludge being stirred.

Moving the receiver away from my head a viscous substance poured from its holes. The droplets hung in the air and then came together to form a mouth that continuously wrapped in and around itself. Those drops that did not come together released pops of white noise as they fell apart. The mouth grew still as it spoke, the voice that came from it was my own but distorted and choppy, like listening to an out of tune radio or an isolated soundbite compressed beyond reason.

“Ruin”

“I know, I’m on it. In fact you are kind of keeping me from it.”

“Tumor”

“Saying it again with a different word doesn’t help here, please, what do you want from me?”

The mouth gnashed at its lips and tore into itself. The receiver shook violently in my hand as I braced for the impact. Hundreds of more mouths were birthed from the first and soon I found myself surrounded. Speaking in one horrid and deafening unison.

“Intruder”

My ears still ringing “Frank I know, I was already on it! I’ve got my people on look-out and he shouldn’t have gotten wind of it yet. I just got the information from James. Now can you please let me go do my damn job!?”

I was out of line. I shouldn’t have snapped like that at a Board member. Once my head had cleared I cleared my throat.

“My apologizes Frank.” The mouth all in twisted frowns reformed into a single entity. 

“Tolerance”

“Thank you Frank. If you could please let me go, I have a lead to follow. I will be sure to get in touch with Oracle as soon as anything comes up. Archives will not be kept out of the loop.” 

Satisfied Frank returned back into the phone and the pocket realm vanished in the blink of an eye. I stood once more among the rows of produce at The Farm. I shook the sludge from my robes and let out a relieved sigh. A giant stifled a raspy chuckle behind me.

The children silently watched from their porch as I made my way back down toward The Fountain. Hopefully Mah wouldn’t take too much of an offense. The cool waters of The Fountain swirled lazily among the pillars. Hovering inches from the water's surface I journeyed deep. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find, though in my frantic tour I was sure I had to have overlooked something. Livestock grazed peacefully upon their islands of growth once more as I passed. New growth spiraled up the pillars, nourished by the returned deluge. Bioluminescent fruit dotted the ceiling like stars in the night sky. It was pleasant to see it all back to normal.

Humming happily The Fountain paid me no attention as I floated past. Chunks of broken pillars hung in the air as they migrated back to their rightful spots. Progressing further and further back I followed the rippling distortions to the entry point of the beat. The air around the broken barrier swirled and churned in a chaotic dance. Dividing lines of two connected spaces blurred and shimmered much like when two competing liquids are coerced into interaction. 

So much energy in a single spot reflected across vast distance; class three interruption of continuity. The cracks of reality growing and shrinking to the unseen breath; delta bifurcation. Grabbing a small pebble from the water I took aim and tossed it towards the center of the anomaly. Vanishing from sight there was no return. A throughway. 

Calling in the repair request I step through the break. Where there was once warm humidity only biting and howling chilled wind screamed. The snow underfoot had been burnt away by the sudden release of stored energy and long hidden red grass broke the untainted blanket of white. Standing as an impromptu guard I waited. 

Grabbing a tome I began to organize my notes.

So, we have one side nearish to The Fountain and the otherside spits me out, turning I spotted the spire to the west about midway through the Barren Snowcap. Given the characteristics of it, scribbling my notes I added two crude drawings of The Farm and Barren Snowcap, safe to say this isn’t the origin point, but with what I do know maybe I can triangulate it…but where does that put me?

Staring at the map I almost didn’t catch the break being closed behind me. The final pop startled me, but that small jolt was what I needed. That’s it! Snapping the tome shut I summoned my own portal and stepped through.

The twilight of the forest was a welcomed contrast to the blinding snowfields. Making my way towards its center I returned to the ritual space of Jacob and his crew. Archives hadn’t gotten here yet and the catalyst still sat where I left it. Lifting the sac the answer was clear, everything had been up to code but not in the way Jacob or I had understood it.

The snapping of a dry twig drew my attention to the shadows of the trees. Stepping out from the bituminous drapery was a boy. Leaves tangled in the curls of his hair he cautiously drew closer. Setting the sac down I watched the boy. His eyes darted towards each small noise but held no fear; in its place, wonderment. It was when his gaze fell on me did he freeze. 

Lifting my pendant slowly “Cancel the search, I found them.”

My eyes stayed trained on the adolescent. His eyes did the same. He started to reach into a pocket of his weather jeans, but something caused him to stop. Eyes now filling with dread his skin turned from a sun-kissed tone to a corporate beige. He frantically began to pat his thighs and other pockets.

“Where is it?” He muttered anxiously “Oh man, c’mon where the hell is it?”

“Lose something?” My voice gave him a start.

“Oh…okay the robbed figure can talk, that’s new.” He spoke under his breath, not even looking at me anymore. 

“The robbed figure can also hear you.” I watched as he began to pace around the ritual area, looking into every bush and under each fallen log.

“Hey…uh…you haven’t seen a small device? Erm, a magical box I mean.” Still spoken away from me.

Crossing my arms “What do you mean?”

“It’s a magical box. Really advanced stuff. Like think, you need to get ahold of more of your murder cult friends, this box would let you do so instantly. It’s powered by lightning, so it's very dangerous.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Yeah! Has a lot of small symbols on it. Also, glass, but like this glass lets you safely interact with the lightning and special stones inside.” He lifted a stump that crumbled to dust in his hands, causing him to stand and cough.

“We know what phones are.”

He stands befuddled “I see. Well, can you help me find mine? I’ve got to document this, this is going to be my break! Harrold, Reality Shifter!” Excitement replaces his confusion as his search resumes.

“Look I’ll save you the trouble, you aren’t going to find it. More importantly we need to get you out of here.” I approached him.

“Not gonna happen; my dream, my rules!” He points towards me with fierce and undo determination.

“By accordance with the regulations stated in the interdimensional interaction stipulation,” golden chains wrap around him “I hereby take the authority and administration of acting department head and place the subject, that being any entity that has gained entrance into this reality through means other than the standardized and allowed means and procedures, into bondage. Until at which time it can be determined through thorough investigation and inspection that there is no major break of the continuity; the rules which govern our existence and allowed interaction with the sphere of influence we reside in, and can be released safely back into whatever reality they emanate from.”

Struggling against the chains “You can’t do this, I have rights!”

“Doesn’t work like that here.” 

The world around us grows darker until nothing remains as we slip into the void.

Taking a seat at the bar I nod to the bartender, he nods back getting to work on my drink.

“Well if my eyes aren’t turned the wrong way ‘round, if it isn’t my dearest of dear friends Alex. How have you been?” Painful enthusiasm, aggressive politeness, and a voice so sweet to make you sick.

“Oh hey Greg. Just working through some fog.”

A man too tall for his own skin looms over my seat. His olive green suit looking no different than when it was first tailored. His fingers, twice as long as his palm, wrap around the back of a bar chair. Taking a seat his feet lay flat on the ground but his knees rested just below his shoulders. With a smile looking to split his face in half he locked those slimy emerald eyes on my face and pushed his sandy hair back. 

“Word gets around the spire fast you know, so, how was it? Not very often we get a daydreamer.” A glass of water had been placed before him, he just traced the rim with a gnarled finger.

With my own drink now placed in front of me, I took a moment to inhale the swirling vapors. 

“Well, in the forest one moment and then here, so, I would have to guess it went well enough for archives standards.”

“Oh come now chum, nothing more than that?”

“Sorry ‘chum’ you’ll have to take that inquiry up with them and Frank.” I indulge in the sweet and bitter vapors once again.

A sour look crosses Greg’s face; mostly the eyes, his smile was never in any danger.

“Drats. Here I thought your own chaperone was allowed maybe a modicum of respect.”

“Do you by chance mean special treatment?”

“Are they really any different?” A chuckles wheezed from his throat like sandpaper.

“Speaking of chaperoning, saw a new batch of dreamers today. Surprised I didn’t see your beanstalkness out there.”

Leaning back in his seat he pours a small splash of water into his mouth. “Hivemaster had me attending to some more ‘important’ matters. Ol’ Greg is far above the meet and greet now.”

My head fluttering I withheld a height joke, he’d heard them all before anyway.

“Well, good for you. Here I was thinking it had to do something with your little meeting with HR.”

His face flushed red “H-how did y-”

“Word gets around the spire fast.” 

He mutters something I couldn’t catch while fixing the collar of his shirt. 

“C’mon Greg I’m only teasin’” I push on his shoulder gently, about falling out of my seat.

“Well it wasn’t a good ribbing. Those are personal matters.”

“Alright I’m sorry, didn’t mean to step on your toes.” a stupored snicker betrayed my sincerity by a small measure “Look lemme…lemme make it up to ya, wanna hear about the kid?”

“I think that would be a crackerjack thing!” He leans in close, though the advancement of the vapors causes a slight retreat.

Setting my drink down I lean on the counter with one arm and recount the previous encounter.

Greg’s laugh shook his wiry frame “Why do they always assume we are without technologies?”

“Right!? Look it’s not my fault that these things are better than the antiquated technology Frank is soooo insistent on us using!” I grab my medallion and shake it with enthusiasm.

“Mid 20th century, that’s my guess. They are usually the most stuck up.” Greg had had a few more drink at this point and slaps the counter, the sound not that unlike the swat of a flyswatter.

“Oh no doubt. ‘Oh gosh this is going to be my big break’ pffft,” I look at my drink, now empty and slide the glass back “like good job you crossed a dimensional barrier, maybe I don’t know, have some kind of concern? But noooo-” leaning back for emphasis I catch myself before falling over.

“Do they honestly think anyone would believe them?” Greg places a hand on the back of my chair to keep me in place.

“Greg…I don’t know. Even if they did, the only other way in is as a dreamer, and well ya know.”

“Amen to that, a blank slate is a happy slate!” He raises his glass, I raise my empty one and we toast.

His eyes drift to the distance as he sinks a little lower in his chair.

“Alex, we’ve both been at this for a while. Seen and done a lot. During the quiet moments though. Do you ever try and recall anything about the other you, do you ever think about who that person is?”

“Woah Greg, where…where is this coming from? I mean, not really.”

That was a lie. We all think about it from time to time. Some more than others.

Standing slowly he ducks under the overhead rafter and pats me on the back. “Some of us just have a lot of quiet moments. Thanks for the drinks Alex.” His eyes sparkled gently in the light of the bar as he left.

“You want this on your tab?” The barkeepers rough voice broke above the hum of other patrons.

“Huh?” looking down at the bill the edges of my robe fluttered. Outside I could hear Greg’s cackle. That bastard!

“Tab?” His tone was short.

“Tab.” I slumped over the bar hoping some form of oblivion would take me.

[yournextflame]

All those skeletons in the room with Radagon’s Red Wolf... Pupper was eating well.

There are so many questions about this wolf and people are arguing whether he was protecting Rennala or imprisoning her. Out of interest I decided to check the lesser wolves of Radagon to find a logic behind their placement and more story hints.

The first one lives in the graveyard in Caria Manor, near Three Sister towers and evergaol with Onyx Lord. 

Another wolf can be found around Moonlight Altar and near another evergaol (with Alecto)

I have no idea about possible lore implicaions

The third one guards the magic portal in the Consecrated Snowfield. The portal leads to the dead Minor Erdtree and the cave with the Golden Order Greatsword.

Greatsword made of light, modeled after the Elden Ring itself. Forged by King Consort Radagon to proudly symbolize the tenets of the Golden Order. One of the legendary armaments.Telltale signs betray that this was once the greatsword bequeathed to him by his first wife, Rennala. It’s reforged Moonlight Greatsword (a moon Greatsword, bestowed by a Carian queen upon her spouse to honor long-standing tradition). For some reason it’s wielded by random Misbeggoten Crusader, while the location, the Cave of the Forlorn is an unique catacomb with frozen dead dragons and lots of Miquella’s lilies. Near the cave I’ve met albinaurics, who were casting Discus of Light (a gift from the young Miquella to his father, Radagon)

I noticed holes in the roof and decided to check what was going on the surface, maybe the sword had fallen from some interesting place.

The location on top are the gates of Castle Sol and you can see a moon from here, it's the same moon which is mentioned in history of astrologers

the young astrologer gazed at the night sky as she walked. She had always chased the stars every step of her journey. Then she met the full moon—and, in time, the astrologer became a queen

Queen Rennala encountered this enchanting moon when she was young, and later, it would bewitch the academy

The last wolf lives in Nokron (how?!) and... the place of his inhabitation looks like Elden Beast arena

Nokrons were punished by the Greater Will for the creation of the Fingerslayed Blade and the Fingerslayed Blade looks like the damaged version of the Sacred Relic sword made from Elden Remembrance. 

Is there are some real connection or I’m just overthing similar design?

Now I have so many questions about lesser wolves too... Did Radagon bring the puppies in these places on purpose? Who taught the dogs magic? What did one of them do in Nokron and how the pupper made it here? Same question for the wolf in Consecrated Snowfield Why don’t they drop anything? Even amount of runes you are getting from them is pathetic The Golden Order Greatsword, just the Golden Order Greatsword, everything about it. Also, most of the wolves are living really close to Ranni’s places, but she does nothing with them.

[rottenbladeofmiquella]

👫 

His deathroot had finally found the haligtree after so long. After his deathroot nearly freezing over within the consecrated snowfield, he managed to successfully locatethe small town of Ordina. The place that leads you to the Haligtree itself.

His deathroot had been carefully traversing through the rot, his eyes carefully searching for who he was looking for. Miquella and Malenia, his siblings he held dear before they left.

He would eventually make his way to the haligtree roots. He would lay his eyes upon the Haligtree roots where his sister lies.

She would know a visitor had arrived when she could hear the sound of dripping water and the buzzing of flies. If she could see, she would see a dense fog had formed around her.

He would walk into her arena. Newly resurrected body at peak health, but beyond corrupted by deathroot. His hair was now a dull pale blond, and his skin a sickly white with purple tints. His eyes a dark grey that were clouded over. He dawned a quickly sewn up black cloak with his old blue robes hidden underneath. His eyes would immediately lay upon Malenia, being the first to break the silence between them.

"Malenia... is is truly thee?" His voice seemed to echo through the room, as if he was closer than she thought.

The Prince of Death has arrived at the Haligtree.

@deathblightprince

Symbol Starters

Malenia sat alone in the depths of the Haligtree. Never one for ostentatious displays of authority, she rested upon a humble wooden chair, though sized for her unnatural height. Her remaining rotting arm was raised, eternally stretched out towards the empty spot where once her dearest Miquella had taken root. There she rested, unmoving, kept alive only by the watchful vigil of those that remained.

Yet, the very instant that which did not belong intruded upon the inner sanctum, Malenia stirred as she had not in decades. Flies were not so unknown to the rotting, but they were not alone. Dripping water...here? And this cold, moist feeling...fog? In the Haligtree's heart? She knew not the source of this phenomena, but it was not welcome. Nothing that intruded on the place Miquella had most beloved ever could be.

Her body ached and responded slowly, complaining with even the slightest movement for such a long time of disuse. She stood even as every muscle screamed, walking to her dormant arm and helm. She carefully picked them up and placed them back where they belonged, setting her helm and blade into place as she turned to face the footsteps that now echoed throughout the chamber.

She had been prepared to speak, to give the intruder a name for their death, but her words died in her throat as that voice rang out. The Rot had not yet claimed her eyes when she had last seen her elder brother alive. Her senses had not yet heightened enough to take note of his unique presence...but there was no mistaking that voice. Her sword was half-raised as the peerless warrior was suddenly caught between her desperate desire to believe and her inability to do so.

For just a moment, she was a little girl again, finding solace and safety with her twin in her big brother's arms.

"...Godwyn?"

[jennajayfeather]

people are trying to guess voyager’s identity but i wish people would help me with Flat

i tease

i’m warming up to the idea of argos panoptes after reading up on wikipedia (because APPARENTLY the name argos may have been derived from “plains” which, you know is a “flat land” & argos panoptes in some ways can represent the city)

which i’m sure if he was, it wouldn’t be like...just a giant with a bunch of eyes in the myth but like, an AI or robot thingy

another note of interest (AND MY RESEARCH IS ONLY ON WIKIPEDIA SORRY) is that while argos panoptes wasn’t? known for like, a lot of impressive things, and one thing that argos was known for was slaying the bull that would attack Arcadia, and coincidentally right now the bull of heaven is headed straight for Snowfield while Gilgamesh is out of commission.

and then from a narrative standpoint, there can be some ~symbolism~ in that Flat w/ Svin teamed up to take down the Bird of Hermes.  Coincidentally (or perhaps not), Argos Panoptes was slain by Hermes so therefore (im reaching here to make an interesting parallel) Flat when he teams up with the El-Melloi Classroom, he can overturn his own fate and ascend into something beyond a watchman

another cool detail is that the Argos system is a satellite taking environmental data. I joked before saying that Flat could make a good ecologist because he’s able to interpret the environment around him & piece it together (and this kind of matches with “being a standalone looking down at the network sea)

So like

I was skeptical at first but honestly I can make a lot of good arguments at why/how Argos Panoptes actually makes a lot of sense for Flat, esp. since everything in ancient greece was robo shenanigans, it’d be the same for argos being like a system & also since he’s not really noted for all too much, it gives a lot of wiggle room for creative liberties

[utsukushigahara]

Climbing Japan's 100 Famous Mountains

Climbing Japan's 100 Famous Mountains is now a must-do activity for hiking enthusiasts. The list is based on three criteria: the mountain must have a particular characteristic, be at least 1,500 meters high, and have a particular historical or cultural significance. Mount Fuji, which looms over Tokyo, has become one of the country's most revered mountains and has become a part of the Japanese spirit. It attracts more than 300,000 hikers every summer.

The 4th highest mountain in Japan is Aino-dake. Most hikers combine it with Kita-dake. This mountain has a unique summit hump. While it is not the most impressive mountain, it does offer some spectacular views of the surrounding area. On the western side of the mountain, there is also Mibu-dake.

Fukada, a writer and mountaineer, compiled this book in 1964. Although his original intention was not to make a list of the 100 most important mountains in Japan, his repertory has since become a must-have for mountaineers. Fukada began writing articles about mountains in the 1940s and published his first magazine called Hyaku meizan.

Akira Chiba has climbed Mount Yarigatake, the last of the 100 mountains in Kyuya Fukada's classic book. Climbing these mountains is a life goal for many Japanese mountaineers. The exhilaration of reaching the summit is a powerful experience, but Chiba is also committed to continuing to climb distant peaks.

In the northern Alps, Shirouma-dake is the first major mountain on the famous ridge run. There are two routes to reach the summit. You can also take a year-round snowfield or descend from the Kurobe Gorge. The summit is surrounded by gigantic huts.

Climbing Japan's 100 Famous Mountains is a must-do activity for any mountain enthusiast. The list was first published in 1964 and is now known as the Nihon Hyakumeizan (100 famous mountains of Japan). Fukada's list was based on three subjective criteria: grace, individuality, and history. He has been a mountaineer himself for years and is a member of the alpine club. Climbing these mountains is a personal dream for him.

Mount Fuji is Japan's most famous mountain and is revered throughout the world. It is the sacred symbol of the country and attracts thousands of pilgrims each summer to the shrine on the summit. The image of Mount Fuji has been reproduced throughout Japanese art. Hundreds of works of art feature the mountain, including the famous Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji, which was published between 1826 and 1833.

[backyardfunfactory]

Why Do Kids Build Forts

Has your kid ever built a fort out of sofa cushions and blankets? Or made a secret den from branches and bushes? A snow fort? Maybe you used to do it too. Remember how great it felt to make up your own rules and have your own secret space?

You were probably having too much fun to know how much good it was doing you.

“fort egwards” by popofatticus is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Creating secret forts, dens, hideouts, and playhouses isn’t just any random kind of play. It’s a universal drive that’s rooted in kids’ healthy development, says educator David Sobel of Antioch University New England—the man who’s studied this behavior more than anyone.

Children all over the world organize these “special places.” He’s found them in woods, canyons, deserts, riverbanks, hedges, snowfields, crawl spaces, and yes, suburban backyards and basements—all private little worlds-within-the-world.

“It used to just happen, and the best thing to do was mostly stay out of the way,” he told me. “Now the impulse is still there in kids, but opportunities to act on that impulse have diminished some.” Kids play outside less, and they’re online more, says Sobel, who’s the author of Children’s Special Places: Exploring the Role of Forts, Dens, and Bush Houses in Middle Childhood. Younger ones are less likely to copy fort-building alongside bigger kids—an important way all kinds of play (hide-and-seek, freeze tag) get passed from generation to generation.

“Build a little tree fort in your yard” by Loozrboy is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.o

Why forts are so great…

The itch to create your own special spaces, Sobel says, starts around ages 5 or 6 (“around when they stop believing in Santa Claus”) and ends by 12 or 13 (“when they start looking in the mirror”).

At first, the play is mostly inside—making pillow fortresses, say, or walled off corners built with blocks. Around age 9, kids begin to want to branch out farther from parents’ view. A clubhouse in the bushes out back? Just the thing!

Developmentally, two big things are happening during these middle-childhood years to drive this play:

1) They’re figuring out their nearby world. Kids want to learn how all the pieces in their life fit together—the landscapes, roads, neighborhood, home…and their place in it. “They want to piece it all together, like a puzzle,” Sobel says.

2) They’re becoming more independent. Kids are also starting to create a separate self from the one defined by their family and their parents. They crave their own separate place in the world.

“The special place outside serves to symbolize the special place inside,” Sobel says. “It’s their own private chrysalis.”

read more…      https://www.kinstantly.com/