#hero and villain encounter

[randomhuman45]

Hero and Villain Encounters I Made Cause I Felt Like It

Hero: Ha long time no see old foe

Villain: Cause my mum died you insensitive asshole

Hero: Oh ...well that gives you no right to rob this innocent shop you fend

Villain: Rob???? It's an urn store, I'm trying to find an urn for my mum's ashes!

Hero: But, then why are you wearing your villain outfit?

Villain: This isn't my usual costume

Hero: But you're wearing a vest, a long coat...

Villain: Cause I have a sense of fashion Daryl

Hero: And the all black??

Villain: Cause my mum died, omg just let me fucking mourn you piece of shit!

[jazztag]

Captain using his scary dog privilege to walk around the base..

[yuseirra]

Day after day, the same as the last, tomorrow no different from today. But then, at the very moment I thought, "This is impossible now, I can’t bear it any longer," You appeared, carrying a dazzling spark of the extraordinary…!

Help me, Mayday, Hero Idol!! Fly to me, Save Me, Hero Idol!! With a decisive, ultimate, never-missing rocket punch, Smash evil to bits, Hero Idol!!! Moral dilemmas, Unforgettable traumas, I’ll give you everything you need to shine. Rise above adversity, Hero Idol!!!!!

[inamindfarfaraway]

So Kyle was knowingly bait for Task Force X’s trap in “Zero Day: Part One”, but regrets it at the end, both because of how badly Clark was hurt as a result and because of the genuine, unwavering kindness Clark showed him with no personal benefit. If he’d actually been on Clark’s side, they probably could have rescued his teammates. Instead Intergang and an irrefutably heroic person are all trapped under the control of Task Force X, who are very torture-happy. Intergang are carelessly selfish, but they love each other, are naive, inexperienced criminals and want money and respect, not death, suffering and destruction. They’re way in over their heads entangled with the other villains. If the “work release program” is a lie and it was all for nothing, I can see them turning on Task Force X. Maybe even if not. I don’t expect them to fully reform (though Cadmus is good in this universe, so anything’s possible), but I hope they get some development.

[whumble-beeee]

Show Me What You're Made Of

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 2

CW: escape attempt, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), past captivity references, needles mention, tied up, gunshot, general violence

* * * * * * * * [There are some scenarios in which you will want to invite a staged escape attempt just to foil it. Usually, this is done as a way to give hope to your captured hero only to viciously rip it away, but it can also be useful in making them reveal any powers they may have previously kept hidden.

It must be noted that inviting a non-staged escape attempt is very risky and generally a terrible idea, as there is always a chance the hero will be able to overpower you. Don’t get cocky, and always have a fail-safe. If done correctly, a failed escape attempt can be devastating to both a hero’s emotional and physical well-being and aid in long-term hero-keeping.]

* * * * * * * *

Stan was not a fast runner in any capacity. Especially without the use of his cane or any magical intervention to help his knee move along.

He could run without a mobility aid, sure, but that didn’t mean that a sharp pang of protest from his damaged knee didn’t light up his entire leg with every heavy step, and it certainly didn’t mean that he had the balance required to keep running smoothly like your average able-bodied person.

That realization blasted him like a truck as soon as he stood up and took his first steps to bolt toward the door, but at that point, it was way too late to turn back. 

He pitched himself toward the wall and slammed into it with a methodically placed shoulder, using the cold cinderblocks to keep balance. With that support, and if he ignored the steadily increasing pain-filled protest from his leg, he could practically run normally! 

Then a yell. He could hear footsteps pounding up behind him, gaining on him.

For a brief moment, he could already feel the iron grip around his wrist or his shirt, or the arm snaking around his stomach, the heave backward just as his fingers brushed the door handle, the slam to the ground, how he’d be bound up and forced back to that stupid chair and probably be tortured or whatever else the mercenary saw fit to do to him. 

Fuck that.

If he couldn’t outrun him, he’d just have to fight him off.

Stan whirled around and sent out the sturdiest force he could muster to grab onto the bounty hunter's ankle. Just enough so that it caught in the air and missed the floor entirely, and the hunter pitched forward with a surprised shout and fell face-first into the concrete floor, the residual blue glow of the magic still half enveloping his leg. Stan could feel the energy seeping out of him like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t stop to see the rest of the damage before turning around and booking it again.

He slammed the mercifully unlocked door open wide and frantically ran outside, hesitating for just a moment because he didn’t expect to run face-first into what looked to be a warehouse wall, complete with a wide hallway he couldn’t see the end of, high ceilings, blank walls, and cold clinical lighting like a goddamn horror movie.

And no exit door in sight.

He raced to the nearest hallway turn, ignoring his pounding head and screaming weak knee and imminent exhaustion and burning lungs and the ever-threatening presence of the bounty hunter and just focused on the one and only task of ‘RUN!’ He couldn’t afford any other thoughts.

He finally barreled past the blind corner, and there was a door! Stan allowed himself a small relieved laugh at the sight of it.

A flash of the mercenary streaked in his periphery. Stan only squeaked slightly. He needed to get away, to slow him down again, he was so close, so close. So he twisted around to throw some sort of magic bullshit at him again when–

And his knee torqued.

He stumbled.

Lost his balance.

He shoved into the wall again so he didn’t fall flat on his face, and tried to push up again and run, or attack, or do something. And in that moment, despite everything, he saw a flash of red on the back of his hand that he hadn’t noticed before that drew all his attention; A tiny little smiley face, no doubt carved in the first time the bounty hunter messed with him when he was tied to the chair.

Then the bounty hunter tackled him to the ground.

Stan fought to get back up, but all he managed was a terrified shuffling of limbs and a feeble attempt at drawing up enough energy to fight the mercenary off as he quickly pinned Stan down with a straddling of the hips and threw a devastating punch across Stan's jaw that made him have to blink exploding stars away.

He held up his arms to protect his face, instinctively trying to curl up and away from the source of the pain. Noise surrounded him, that frizzy buzzing sensation filling his head with cotton and making it hard to think. His entire body felt like it was seizing up.

He wasn’t done yet. This wasn’t done yet.

“GET OFF!!”

Stan used every last bit of power he had to push the man off of him. The walls around them glowed an electric blue, and the bounty hunter lifted violently up into the air with a surprised yelp. But not before he grabbed the front of Stan’s shirt and dragged the hero right along with him with an equally terrified shriek. 

Then Stan slammed face-first into the ground, barely managing to get his arms under himself in time to soften the landing. One which was not made any softer by the person landing on top of him.

“Holy shit... you don’t know when to quit, do you?” the voice above him cut through heavy breaths, a suddenly prominent southern twang vibrating through a growl of his voice.

Stan felt a punch in the right of his ribcage.

His muscles seemed to stop working entirely for a moment. Then a strange blooming agony started working its way outward throughout his torso.

His eyes unfocused. He curled in on himself as much as he could. It wasn't much at all. He couldn’t move. He felt an increasing pressure emanating from the area, the unbearable stinging pain spread throughout his torso and he squeaked trying to hold in a full-blown scream, breathless yet barely able to suck in a single gasp into his shuddering body. 

He barely even noticed when a hand tangled through the hair at the back of his head until it yanked him up and arched his back, causing what felt like knives stabbing through his ribs. He gritted his teeth. If nothing else, he wasn't going to give the bounty hunter the satisfaction of hearing him scream. 

The hand slammed his face down into the ground. The sides of his vision starting to go dark. Then slowly receded back again. A ringing sound reverberated throughout his entire body, and he all but went limp pressing his forehead into the floor.

“Y’know, runt,” the voice of the bounty hunter penetrated Stan’s clouded mind with hard breath. He could feel the man messing around with his belt pouches as he pressed his knee sharply into Stan’s lower back. “I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to use this. I think it's demeaning and kinda inhumane, but you just had to fuck around and find out, didn’t you?”

Stan shook his head and squirmed fruitlessly, terrified of whatever this guy could possibly think was demeaning and inhumane. 

He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because suddenly a strip of smooth leather ran under his neck and pulled tight under his Adam’s apple. 

Stan froze mid-struggle. Clenched his hands, and his teeth, arched his back and pressed his face into the floor even more. He could only see bright white. 

He already knew what the collar felt like.

And suddenly he wasn't in the dingy warehouse corridor anymore.

"No, no, no no no NO NO PLEASE STOP PLEASE!!"

The red eyes flicked down to his sister, pressing her face into his side and squeezing into him as tight as she could.

Then back up to him, holding his hand out threateningly, blue glow dancing across his fingertips.

“How old is she?”

He snarled, arms protectively pulling her into him. “Stay AWAY from us!”

The eyes softened slightly.

So why was a gun still pointing at his head?

–

He threw his hands violently out at the person in all-black combat gear and a slight electric blue glow enveloped their side. Their narrowed their eyes and hissed in annoyance.

“Collar the older one, and for gods sake, find the younger one and dispose of it or something.” The person in all-black combat gear nodded at him. “She’s the only one we need alive.” 

–

He tried to fight back. He didn’t have the cane back then. Didn’t need one.

His powers were so new, and they were so many, and he was just a kid.

He never stood a chance.

The gun. The eyes behind it. Red sparkles, red and scary.

He faced them down. 

They were supposed to be gone forever.

Then the rough woven fabric of a collar too tight around his neck.

The large hands squeezing his upper arms painfully, forcing him forward.

Restraining him.

Fighting.

Held down.

Experiments. 

Needles.

NEEDLES.

Where was his family?

He clutched at the collar as it wrapped around his neck. He could feel his powers leeching away as he fought to keep his freedom.

CLICK.

The sound reverberated through his skull.

And now the cycle had begun anew.

An arm wrapped around his chest and strong-armed him to his feet. Stan would have screamed if he remembered how to. Instead, a strangled gasp choked out of his vocal cords as a heavy hand clasped onto his shoulder and propelled him forward. 

He immediately stumbled and fell to one knee, agonizing pain bolting up and down his bad leg and almost face-planting in the process, because when were his hands cuffed behind his back again? 

He felt the collar sitting on his throat and he tried to bring his hands up to rip the damn thing off, but he couldn't.

He couldn't, he couldn't, he tried but he couldn't.

A voice lilted somewhere all around Stan, and he could feel the hands grabbing at him. He shrieked and fell forward, scrambling all of six inches before he was backed up and shivering against the wall staring up at the heaving bounty hunter.

He did not look amused.

“You are so pitiful, you know that?”

Stan brought his knees up and pressed his face into his legs, as if that small protection could put the world between them.

“Chiquito, if you don’t get your ass up and walk with me back to that room, I will pick you up and throw you over my shoulder like a sack of goddamn potatoes and spike you into the fucking floor when we get there, do you want that?”

Stan stared glassily into the floor. “... you– you– y-you were– you were there-ere.”

“I was–... What?”

Stan’s gaze snapped to his eyes. Those dark eyes. He couldn’t see it now, but he was sure there was a red glint in the right light.

“You!” He shouted, as if that would clear up his babbling. “You were– it was you!”

The mercenary stared at him. Then clenched his fists, looked up, took a hissing deep breath, and released his fists again.

“You can have a mental breakdown when we get back, runt. Are you gonna walk there or am I dragging you there?”

He didn’t remember. 

Of course he didn’t remember, it must have been ten years ago. Stan was just a kid, and everyone thought he was a girl back then. He himself thought he was a girl back then.

Things were different now. Things were going better.

“I– I– We–... Walk.”

“Great.”

He reached down and dragged Stan up by the upper arm, completely ignoring the way he violently flinched and tugged back. 

Stan did his best to keep up, but in addition to hunching over the searing pain in his chest and trying to ignore the prickling bruise that must have been forming on his cheek, his leg was oozing spikes of lava up and down his entire hip and leg. Stan stumbled and almost pitched forward if it hadn't been for the bounty hunter's iron grip. 

The bounty hunter groaned incredulously. “Oh my god!” 

“Wait, wait, I– Don't–!”

That was all he managed to get out before he was swept off his feet and thrown over the man's shoulder, hitting the soft part of his stomach right on the bone, knocking the wind from his lungs and setting his side on fire all over again. And now he was upside down. His brain felt like it was made out of slime.

He barely managed to gather his bearings enough to start kicking and yelling when he was unceremoniously dumped against the wall, where his head cracked against the cold cinderblock and he bounced to the ground with a strangled gasp.

The world went bright white as the searing pain shot through his entire being, snaking around his brain and squeezing it in a chokehold so that there was no more thought, nothing else but the primal urge to curl up into a little ball to protect himself and the silent open-mouthed screams of a trapped animal clawing desperately for its life, seizing and twitching and paralyzed all because of a too hard smack to the head short circuiting any chance it had at survival.

Stan could barely feel anything over the deafening ringing in his ears, the buzzing feeling in his body as if he were entirely made of bees, the dizziness tilting the world around him on its axis like some bad carnival fair ride.

What was that all about?

Then he finally spotted the mercenary again, coming at him once more with chain in hand, and he may as well have been dunked in ice water with how fast that image sobered him up.

He clumsily kicked out with all his might, pressing his back into the wall as much as possible to get away while simultaneously realizing that with the wall behind him, probably concussed, dizzy, tied up, and in agonizing pain, there was no way he was going to win this fight.

He kicked anyway.

Even as the hunter seemed to grab the ankle of his good leg easily, he still tried to slam his foot into the hand of the bounty hunter to just get him off. He even managed to get a solid kick in, causing the hunter to jolt back with a pained cry and let go. 

Stan felt some sort of twisted sense of pride that he managed to get a hit in even in his sorry state.

Which was quickly crushed when two hands grabbed either of his ankles and lifted them up high into the air, so high that Stan was only touching the ground with the upper part of his back. He couldn’t even use his arms for extra support with the way they were firmly stuck near the small of his back.

There was panting above him. “Alright, you gonna–”

“Let me GO!” Stan yelled, trying once more to kick out of the hold, pressing painfully down into the ground with the back of his head and writhing around erratically in one last herculean act of defiance. He kicked even as his bad knee screamed for him to stop, to rest, even as the fists around his ankles just tightened and became more rigid in response, even as the mercenary grunted out a string of curses trying to wrangle him in.

He wasn’t just gonna give in.

“¡Basta ya! Fucking stop, you lost!”

“Fuck you, make me!”

A sharp kick struck him square in the middle of his spine, and he nearly cracked his teeth with the clench of the jaw he made trying to hold back the scream. He almost involuntarily had to take a moment to catch his breath, then before he could start his protestations again, the cold metal claw of a manacle clamped around his ankle and locked in place with a final click click click that made Stan’s hairs stand on end.

But he was still upside down. The mercenary didn’t let go.

In fact, he held Stan up by only one leg now, and seemed to be fiddling with something that Stan couldn’t see because of his own overturned and battered body getting in the way. He could hear each heavy breath the mercenary seethed out, each one filling him with more dread.

He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. The adrenaline of the situation finally started to ebb away as it started to sink in that he was well and truly trapped, leaving room for the much more paralyzing fear that Stan had been battling since the moment he woke up here. 

Not to mention the blood rush from being upside down for so long was stinging at his face and making his brain hurt. And dizzy. And everything felt like it was shrouded in clouds. Or maybe that was the concussion.

“Jesus Christ,” the mercenary finally breathed. “One hell of a fucking kicker…”

Stan wrenched his head up to snarl at the man and tried to kick his hand off his ankle.

He snatched it out of the air mid-kick, haphazardly pressing a small bundle of twine into his skin as he knocked Stan’s ankles together and held them there as he began to wind the thread around them.

“Yeah, no more kicking.”

Stan still tried to wriggle out with increasingly weaker and weaker cries of anger, even as his ankles were anchored together, even as the blood rushed to his head and made him more and more dizzy, feeling the pressure in his face rising, and his breaths becoming shallower and slower.

Even as all of his efforts did absolutely nothing, and he was left panting and shaking with effort to not go completely limp as his legs were still held up high above him.

Stan didn’t even have the energy left to fight anymore. Tears stung at his eyes as he finally let his head lay on the ground.

“All tuckered out?” the mercenary's voice came from above him. “This seems to work pretty well on you. Maybe I just just let you hang like this for a bit. I’ve got this like, chain thing in the middle of the room hanging from the ceiling, I could probably just like, clip this in–”

“No, no, no, no no no…”

“You’re sure?” The southern drawl was ever-present. “Just wanna make sure you learned to never fucking do that again… y'know, I could hogtie you, you’re already most of the way there.”

Stan felt something break just then. He heaved in a desperate, hitching breath. “Just… please just put me down. Please.” 

His voice was barely even a whisper. Every breath put more strain on his lungs.

A moment passed.

Then the hold on his ankles released, and his body came crashing to the ground. His feet hit extra hard, and his bad knee felt like it was being attacked by angry stinging bees. 

But he didn’t care.

He just rolled onto his side so he wasn’t lying on his bound wrists and lay there.

He heard the boots of the bounty hunter approaching him, and he used whatever energy he had left to open his eyes and stare up at him, pleading with him to not actually hogtie him, whatever that meant. He didn’t think he could handle more.

But the bounty hunter just stared back down at him, briefly meeting his eyes before giving his body a once over, then a small nod. He nudged Stan lightly with the toe of his boot, and Stan’s wandering eyes opened and focused back on the man before he even realized they had closed.

“Not gonna pass out on me, are ya?” the mercenary asked, as if they had just had a light sparring match instead of an irrefutable beatdown.

It almost seemed like he cared. Maybe he did.

Stan swallowed. “I’m– not.”

“Good. Don’t.”

The mercenary whipped around and started to walk away, giving Stan a faceful of the revolver strapped to his hip, still completely clipped in and unused.

He never stood a chance, did he?

Despite everything, a feeling of something akin to a mix of rage and sorrow bubbled up within his stomach.

“He-hey! Wait!”

The bounty hunter turned to face him again quizzically, and somehow that made Stan’s annoyance just grow.

“You didn’t even–” Why was he mad about this? “You didn’t use the gun! Coward!”

The mercenary’s gaze shot to his hip. Then back up to Stan. His nose twitched. Face blank, calculating.

Then in one smooth motion, the gun was out of the holster and pointing directly at Stan, and a deafening blast rang out throughout the entire room.

Stan felt a burning sting whiz by his ear, high-pitched and cutting through air microseconds before the blast shook him to his core. He screamed and ducked into himself, violently shoving back into the wall and cowering into a small ball.

Even as the ringing died down and Stan realized he wasn’t a splatter on the wall behind him, the stinging on the shell of his ear didn’t die down. It got more intense. He felt a single drop of something tickling down the side of his ear before dripping down onto his shoulder. Then another.

His attention ripped up to the mercenary, only to scramble further into the wall when he found the gun still pointed at him. 

Another drip.

The mercenary flipped the revolver once and shoved it firmly back into its holster.

“I’ll use the gun next time.”

* * * * * * * *

Next

taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy

[crazynerdandproud]

Alright that’s it, Gerry Keay is my favorite character in tma. Just listened to episode 111 and I am emotionally devestated. Also glad he gets to rest. Also I love him. I refuse to call him Gerard (cause apparently it’s that and not Jared Jon why have you been saying it like that) from now on I’m just calling him Gerry. That or goth king.

[angst-is-love-angst-is-life]

If I had a nickel for everytime an Arrowverse hero received a back related injury from a villain dressed in all black —during their first encounter with said villain— that caused them to lose confidence in themselves and have flashbacks during training that are totallyyyyyyyy not symptoms of PTSD— nope— they’re fineeeee

I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice right?

[gloriousmonsters]

Mememememe I want to see

please enjoy a selection from you're on a path in the desert, chapter 2: 'The Ancient', brought about by wondering what ganondorf's motivation is and being honest and brash enough he kind of likes you and is like 'sorry, kid' while murdering you to attempt a breakout in the first chapter. narrated by Zelda, starring Link and Ganondorf.

--------

You're on a path in the desert. Or... it's more of a beach, isn't it? You can hear the sea. Small crabs scuttle and hide among rocks smoothed by eons of lapping waves; the pristine sands glitter, here and there, with old coins and jewels set in tarnished metal. Pirate treasures, as if a ship was wrecked here long ago. A lonely blue sky arches high above, unmarred by a single cloud. A path of scattered white rocks, like sun-bleached bones, lead toward the edge of the water. At the end of this path, a man with evil eyes is imprisoned. A king. You, hero, must slay him; or it will be the end of the world.

Voice of the Curious: He didn't seem that bad!

- Yeah, he wasn't as bad as she hyped him up to be.

- Bad? He was very bad! I'm completely on board with the 'slaying' thing now.

- Hang on, how are we here? Didn't we die?

> I see what you mean, but he did very much kill us. That was a thing that happened.

Voice of the Curious: I guess, but he was so... sad. He just wanted to escape. He seemed like he'd been there for a really long time.

> He did.

Excuse me, who's this? And what are you saying about dying? Please don't tell me—

Voice of the Curious : We died and we came back to life!

- More or less.

- I died and it was terrifying and now I'm me and also this other part of me and they're both me and I don't know how that works or what's going on and I'm going to start crying probably

> This isn't the first time we've been here. Your 'man with the evil eyes' was the one that killed me, not the other way around.

He's not mine, and... It wouldn't be the same, the other way around. You need to slay him, not kill him.

- I get it. I'm a human, and he's a monster.

> Semantics.

Very important ones. Listen to me, hero. I hoped that this wouldn't happen, and I didn't want to scare you with the possibility. But please believe me—we're walking a fine line, now. All is not lost, but every failure widens his chance at escape.

Voice of the Curious: Really?

I do not like how you said that. This... voice, whatever it is, it seems very young. Don't let naivety influence you, hero. One failure means he's already found a chink in your armor—it is even more imperative you keep your guard up. Whatever he said, whatever he did, put it out of your mind. Focus on this. He is evil, and he will destroy everything if he escapes. You are the hero, the only one with the power to stop him. I—everything depends on you.

Voice of the Curious : That's a lot of pressure...

- I love pressure.

- I hate pressure.

 > Are you really sure I can do this?

Yes. You’re the only one that can. 

Voice of the Curious: Wow, she sounds... so serious. I don't know if I trust her, but I think she likes you.

Ha. That's... You matter a great deal to me. By definition, of course. You’re the hero, you matter to everyone. But we don't have time to sit here and talk about our feelings, whatever they might be. Your quest is the same, hero. It's time to go forward.

> (proceed to the prison)

N: At the edge of the water, the path of rocks continue—for a little while. Soon they're fewer and farther between, and in their place are footholds of debris, half-rotted hulls of wood, old chests rammed up on some invisible sandbank below the water. There have been many wrecks here, and as you pick your way forward, you see the largest of them up ahead. Splintered and broken, its massive hull impaled on the tall and jagged rocks that rise from the hidden seabed, like towers of some sunken castle. The rest of it is remarkably intact, but it looks ancient. Weathered, by years that have sapped color from cloth and wood and leached memory from material. Every detail blurred. The figurehead is faceless, nearly formless, like the... like the image of a loved one long forgotten.

> Are you all right?

Your path ends—or rather, takes a new form—at the side of the wreck. An old rope ladder leads up the barnacle-encrusted side. The old wood creaks as you ascend, but even that sound is... muted. This ship isn't just wrecked, it's becalmed. The muting of that sound makes you acutely aware of the absence of others. No birds cry in the sky; no fish splash in the water. The land behind you is already lost in a hazy fog. This is a lonely place.

Voice of the Curious: She's making it sound so depressing. It's sad, but it's also sort of cool, right? It's like an old pirate ship! It doesn't feel like a prison, it feels like... like a hideout!

Please be quiet. It's a prison. It might look... odd, but it's a prison.

Voice of the Curious : Do you think there's treasure?

...No.

Voice of the Curious: ...You want there to be treasure too, right?

I'm not interested. We have a very important job to do. To your left, across the weathered deck, a door leads to the fo'c'sle. It's not locked, but it's encrusted with barnacles, warped in its frame. Beside it, a sword is embedded in the wall, as if left there after a battle long ago. It gleams with its own light—

Voice of the Curious: It's not glowing, though. It's just a sword.

It's not—but... Ah. Yes. Well, it doesn't need to glow, does it? It's the hero's sword. It's made to kill evildoers and monsters. It's meant for your hand, and your hand alone. Take up the sword, hero. You'll need it if you want to save us all.

- But it's not glowing. Didn't you say it was important it glowed?

- What if I don't want to save everyone?

> take up the sword

- don't take up the sword

Sword in hand, you force open the door, rusted hinges screeching as you shove your whole body's weight against it. Before you is a sheer drop, lightless, only the first few feet visible in the foggy sunlight that filters past your shoulders. A rope ladder hangs over the ledge at your feet, vanishing into shadow. The air is musty, damp, and smells of moldering spice and rotting silk, wood permeated with gunsmoke and worried by the icy teeth of the ocean over the course of centuries. If this is the prison the king's been confined in, killing him will be a mercy.

His voice echoes up from the darkness, tired but commanding.

The King: I knew you'd return. Come here, boy. Let us speak face to face.

Voice of the Curious: He remembers us! And he sounds... older. I mean, he was already older than us. But he sounds much older now. 

Of course he's old, he's been in prison for a long time. Don't dwell on it or wonder about it, the more time and thought you give him the more dangerous he is. Just get down there and accomplish your quest.

> proceed down the 'stairs'

After what feels like half an hour of nerve-wracking descent, feeling for foot and hand-holds in the darkness, light begins to bloom below you. When you come to the bottom, a few minutes later, you find yourself facing another door—this one richly carved wood, remarkably well-preserved considering the state of the ship. It's hard to make out much in the light filtering through the cracks around it, but you can see intricate, geometric patterns, and the snarling face of a boarlike beast carved huge in the very center.

Voice of the Curious: What—

You waste no time fooling around and asking questions, and open the door. Striding within, you find yourself confronted with a surprisingly lavish room, dimly lit by old oil-lamps. Rich rugs cover the floor; a huge bed stands in the back of the room, partly hidden by curtains, and a huge desk carved with intricate details dominates another side of the room. Tapestries, paintings and maps nearly cover the walls, save for a section that seems dedicated to a number of weapons—at a glance you see twin swords and a trident. Everything feels a little... oversized, as if you're a child venturing into the room of an adult. When you look closer, you can see signs of wear and age—cracking paint, books with pages puffed by soaking and drying out, scratches in the fine wood and dust on the tapestries—but the overall effect is still opulent, overwhelming. This feels right for a prison meant to confine a king; it would be suitable for an emperor, confined to his office by the new regime, allowed to keep a pretense of dignity.

But across the room from you, there's a strangely bare section of the wall, interrupted by only two things: A porthole filled more by spiderwebbing cracks than glass, showing only blank darkness, and the King, who stands tall and studies you thoughtfully with pale gold eyes.

The King: You approach me, yet again, with your blade in hand. Interesting.

He's a big man, broad and heavy, a physique that might impress as brutish or sedentary if not for the way he holds himself. Straight-backed, imperious, with a hint of a fighter's grace in the way his stance shifts as his eyes track the step you take forward. There's no gray in his hair, or deep wrinkles on his face, but something about him gives an impression of great age and greater weariness. His face is craggy, but his eyes are delicately lined with black; he wears a topaz on his brow, and fine robes that inspire ideas of entrenched and confident authority. As he seems to reach an internal resolution in his appraisal of you, his teeth bare in what is hard to determine as a mocking smile or a grimace of pain.

The King: I suppose that if you try to kill me this time, it will only be fair. But I'd rather we talk.

Voice of the Curious: Ooh, talk! Yes! I want to know what's going on! Just, um, maybe we should stay at a distance.

Remember what you're here for. Don't listen to him, or him. Please, hero. Kill him now.

- slay the king

- kill him?

- You killed me last time, I'd like an apology before we do anything else.

> All right. Let's talk.

[yngai]

what i like about ada's report, & i'll get into it more eventually, is that despite it being ada explaining the plot (& her motivations) to you directly, it presents an interesting relationship between ada, a known liar & manipulator, & the audience. while she withholds information from other characters & skirts about on mystery throughout RE4 & separate ways, there is one person to whom she doesn't lie, to whom she does tell the truth, at least a part of it, & that is you, the player. it is a very neat narrative device that wouldn't work as well in a different medium

[burnsopale]

"Another self-referential touch comes at a scene in a tavern when Sir Percy, in disguise as a fat gap-toothed cross-eyed sailor, places a pepper pot on Chauvelin’s table (Way, p. 196). This apparently innocuous gesture, carried out with slow deliberation and accompanied by Sir Percy’s distinctive laugh, produces an instantaneous reaction from Chauvelin. He clenches his knife and fork, his cheeks turn ashen grey, and he strides quickly out of the room. This is a double humiliation, betraying emotional weakness and underlining Sir Percy’s power over him. Having failed to penetrate the disguise, he is depicted as a gullible victim of the Englishman."

From Baroness Orczy's Scarlet Pimpernel: A publishing history by Sally Dugan

*pulling out my megaphone* BARONESS ORCZY'S POOR LITTLE MEOW MEOW

*puts away megaphone*

Actually, no, I need to-*pulls out megaphone again* DO Y'ALL THINK BARONESS WAS AWARE THAT AS HER UNIVERSE BECAME SERIALIZED, THE SISYPHEAN NATURE OF THE VILLAIN'S BATTLE AGAINST THE HERO WOULD MAKE HIM INCREASINGLY PITIABLE? DID SHE REALISE THAT SHE WAS SLOWLY TURNING HER VILLAIN INTO A SYMPATHETIC PROTAGONIST AND MAKING HER HERO A TERRIFYING, MERCILESS FORCE OF NATURE?

[vassothmercar]

I am still going to reblog the jokes but I did want to say that it was just a weird take? To say that Rook is worst than or the same as Solas when the gameplay is making it very clear that they aren’t?Yes Rook fucked things up but they were actively stopping the magic equivalent of a Killing Machine while Solas was OPERATING that killing machine. Yes, we know Solas reasons, yes he was trying to fix things just like Rook was, but it’s still very different scenarios

[enchantingepics]

Story Prompt 43

In the dimly lit room, the air was thick with tension, and the man's raspy voice sliced through the silence.

He leaned in, his icy eyes piercing through the shadows, a history of battles etched into their depths. A blade pressed against the captive's skin, a silent threat in the dance of danger.

"I used to think I could save them all, you know," he muttered, bitterness clinging to his words like a stubborn stain.

The restrained figure stared back, a mixture of defiance and numbness in their eyes. "Maybe you just didn't have the guts for it."

A wry smile played on the man's lips. "Guts? Oh, sweetheart, it's not about guts. Life has a way of breaking even the bravest."

As the tension escalated, the captive's response cut through the room like a gust of wind. "You're not strong enough to face the storm, my friend."

The man's grip tightened on the knife, a flicker of anger in his gaze. "You think this is a game? You're playing with fire, and you'll get burned."

A soft, mocking laugh escaped the captive's lips. "You can't burn what's already ashes."

Their noses nearly touched as they exchanged words in the shadowy dance. "Paint me as the villain in your tale," the man hissed, the blade gliding smoothly against the skin. "I'll be the one to end you."

A spark of challenge ignited in the captive's eyes, a smirk playing on their lips. "You don't hold that kind of power. I am the storm."

[dabihawksluvr]

Here's an idea: Villain Iida gets disenchanted by heroes from a young age, so he becomes a villain. But a hero makes it their mission to not only save him, they also help him become the hero he never had.

[bebx]

Former villain working with the heroes to right the real big bad. Then sacrificing himself near the END of the movie after making things right is my favorite trope

Big fan of a redemption arc too. Though I’d personally prefer it without the Dying at the End part. Villains turning Good Guys and sacrificing themselves for the greater good is, in my opinion, overused it’s become cliche. I’d love to see a good redemption arc where the villain get to learn to live their life on the right path and learn that they can love and be loved too. Give me what happens after the character development that makes them good, let me see how they adjust to their new lifeeeee

[pendragora]

bestie, my single braincell is again wreaking havoc on my brain.

BUT, as I know you are a fellow enjoyer of jason todd, I'd like to say that he is the better man between him and aemond.

why? I shall illustrate it quickly.

his attempt at kinslaying didn't end up well (if you don't consider all the aus in which he does succeed, but hey...).

he has an actual code of ethics which involve never involving minors in his murder sprees, don't you think that's charming?

in conclusion, considering I loved jason since I was 18 my taste in men has grown worse.

alright, alright I am off, but babe I hope you are doing alright and having a lovely life!

If we do put them on a scale, I would say that Jason is a better man than Aemond due to his stable morals. I MUST ARGUE THO, they are completely different when it comes to the type of character they both are:

Jason is a tragic hero, a survivor, a very classic Greek Tragedy type. He is the by-product of what happened to him, of his trauma - the ressurection, the death by Joker's hand and receiving no justice whatsoever. The main motive for him is mainly in the fact that his death, his suffering was pointless and devalued because Bruce never took action Jason expected to be taken, which makes him take the action into his own hands. He does what he does for the sake of others, not for the personal gain, but because he does not want anyone to go through the things he went;

Aemond is... moraly grey perhaps? He cannot be called a hero at all. He also comes from a place of trauma, of neglect, of mishandling, of the harsh realities the world and society around him is shaped and shapes him. But he is not a righteous hero type. He is heroic, sure, in his own way, in the way he does what he does for his family, but there is so much boiling rage that breeds violence, and the more he allows himself down this path - the more he likes it and revels in the way he is. Aemond is a fallen angel that was corrupted by dark things that he learned from people around him and he learned to enjoy them (unlike Jason, who is neutral to what he does).

What they have in common is killing people, being a second son to a high-moral character, having a tragic fate, being a nerd and being doomed by the narrative. It's technicalities that make draw them out as different characters completely (tho Jason was Aemond-like piece of shit not so long ago ^^)

I personally like the tragedy and trauma aspect to both, but in my own mind I can't put them together because I enjoy them very differently (they are both hot tho. they are both so hot in all that dramatic tragedy-driven meow meow type of way)

ANYWAYS I WENT OFF THaNK YOU FOR THE ASK LOVE YOU SM BBY 💖🌹🥺

[alexjcrowley]

And we're back to season 1 with "maybe...mayhe Greg shoukd take over the company?"