#inundation

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

Something is hunting Darth Maul across the stars.

A presence he cannot touch, whispers that chase him from sleep. Answers seem to lay in a place he cannot go... at least, not alone. Before the Jedi and the Sith, before the Republic or the Empire, before the ancient Je'daii even, there were force users building temples and communing with the cosmic energies.

Somehow, even back then, there was a rule of two.

For Ben Kenobi, getting up each day is difficult enough, nevermind facing the past. He has one singular goal left to him: to be a guardian. A very distant guardian. Between the echoing emptiness of his cave and the war-torn memories that haunt him, he really just wants to be left alone.

Too bad for him that sleep-deprived sith lords aren't likely to take no for an answer.

[The long awaited sequel to Desertification is here!]

🔥🔥🔥 Read chapter 1 on Ao3, or scroll below the cut! Updates on Tuesdays.🔥🔥🔥

Bridges are a beautiful weakness. 

This one is massive. Natural stone that reaches across a wide span between stronghold and barren cliff. The architecture is sharp, angular, and modern, with little in the way of ornamentation. It is simply a functional pathway, the sole point of access for a utilitarian facility. The forces garrisoned here would have little trouble defending this chokepoint, under typical circumstances. 

A zygerrian guard rises off the ground, clawing at their neck, while the next shoots wildly, hollering for backup. Blaster bolts curve off unnaturally into empty air. The first alien loses consciousness and slumps, still airborne. Their rifle clatters to the stone. The second turns and manages to flee two steps before they are swept sideways off the bridge like a leaf in a storm. They plummet, screaming, twenty stories down and into the lava below. With a lazy gesture, Darth Maul sends their strangulated comrade tumbling after them. 

Lords of the Sith truly cannot qualify as ‘typical circumstances.’ 

He begins forward again as the next defenders rise to stop him. The formation they take is practiced, but he can see their quaking knees, feel their fear in the air. 

If these fools truly wished to challenge him, they would be far better served by calling their forces back and turning the compound’s anti-ship cannons on its own infrastructure. Burying him alive might actually slow him down… but the cannons remain fixed on the sky, and figures in golden armor pour out onto the wide, windy bridge. 

The price of such short sighted arrogance will be their lives. 

Maul finishes churning through the first of the stronghold’s defense forces. He scatters a forward line of pikemen, shielding himself from blaster fire using stones torn from the structure itself. The occasional bolt slips past these rocks, but he simply bats those away with his saber. 

The slaughter of their frontline gives the next group time to prepare. He is met with a more cohesive unit, backed by snipers. The cover fire does them little good. Maul ruins their formation by blitzing carelessly into the middle of it. His red blades lay into the panicking bodies around him and parry the long range shots back to their origins with impeccable soresu. 

While he picks off the remaining snipers in their nests with a few force-propelled rocks, a new line of troops with energy bows come forward, firing in rapid sequence. It is… quaint, he thinks. Few have the dedication to make such a weapon into a formidable challenge, and these guards could not have matched the skill or power of a dathomirian archer on their worst day. Perhaps it is because these soldiers lack an edge of desperation -for food or survival- whenever they practice their aim?

Regardless, their skill or lack thereof is ultimately irrelevant against a man who can predict where they will fire.

Maul reaches the halfway point unimpeded, and the zygerrians finally switch tactics to something more innovative. The remaining guards part, and a set of twins emerge to close with him instead.

Each wields a halberd tipped by shining blue energy blades. They fight together, resplendent in fanged grins and fine armor. Their movements, obfuscated by swirls of shimmering gold cloth, complement each other with the skill born of what must have been decades spent training in tandem. 

Facing such talent is the highlight of his efforts thus far, but even these warriors cannot match a sith. He tears their blades from them, and stabs each twin through the chest with their siblings' match. They die propped up on the hafts, slouching toward each other. 

Blaster fire starts back up, and Maul returns to working through the rest of the chaff. The air begins to reek of desperation so strong it can be smelt over the sulfur. Acetone-bright and cloyingly sweet. 

Quick as a lightning strike, an electro-whip cracks near his head with a sharp snap-fizz . A waft of ozone fills his nose, and the sith's forward momentum stutters to a halt. Resentful yellow eyes lock on the offender and he bares sharp, iron-stained teeth at them. The tall zygerrian only snarls in return.

Hatred rolls off Maul’s shoulders like heat waves in the force. That energy coalesces, and entropy descends on the whip-wielder. Their fur begins to dissolve as if they were being nibbled on by acid that simply does not stop, and the muscular form falls to the ground, writhing and screaming. They melt into naught but blackened ash under Maul’s baneful stare.

He turns to continue on, sunk too deep in the flow and lust of combat to examine the demise any further. 

Slaves are thrown at him next, driven out onto the bridge as his assault nears the stronghold's three-story double doors. An effort he hesitates to call a 'tactic'. Half of the scrawny chattel fall to their bellies before he has even reached them, quivering and silent as they choose the potential wrath of their masters over certain death upon his blades. 

Those who fight he kills as quickly as they come. Living and dead alike are left on the ground behind him, forgotten as soon as they pass out of sight. 

More guards, with flashier armor and even finer weapons are next. Insignia and marks of esteem decorate their shoulders; the royal guard, here to die for their liege. 

A sai cha strike with his saberstaff, and a head hits the ground before the body knows it is dead. Cho mok and cho mai, double-disarmed at the wrist. Their owner stumbles and falls off the bridge in shock, fixated on the remaining stumps. An angled shiak, down through the ribs just far enough to boil the blood in their lungs. Mou kei to the left leg, and another trips off the side to join the rest in immolation. Maul spins in a flourish of beautiful juyo at the gate.

Sai cha. Sai cha. Sai cha. 

Then there are no more guards. 

He pushes the double doors open with the force, and smiles to behold the reason he came here.

"Prince Trifenra," his croon echoes in the silence of the throne room, "I warned you not to cross me."

The lone zygerrian slams a button on the podium beside them, and the floor falls away with them on it. Maul gets to the edge in time to be stymied by a bulkhead closing the hole over. He sneers at it in annoyance, and starts cutting through with his lightsaber. 

Twenty seconds, and he completes a circle of molten metal. A kick with his cybernetic foot sends the cutout falling, revealing a web of catwalks over a field of lava. He jumps. 

The sith searches the platforms as he freefalls, but Trifenra is nowhere to be seen. 

Maul lands on a catwalk with a heave of force to lessen the impact. His eyes drift closed, chest expanding as he breathes in, swaying in whichever direction feels right, focusing… focusing…

The force whispers to him that his prey is that way .

Maul jumps the rail and bounces between causeways, reaching the correct one and pelting down it. The feeling ends at an arch built into the rough stone walls. Thick metal doors, locked tight.

He snarls and starts cutting again, a small circle just large enough to admit him. The sith punches this cutout, and somersaults through without touching the cherry-red edges. 

On the other side are holding cells. Row after row, multiple levels of hexagonal doors stretch out from the entry, each sealed by lambent red. Some are empty, some not. All the prisoners are exotic in some way. 

Maul glances over the occupants as he passes, walking deeper into the facility. Trifenra is here, he can sense it.

The chamber widens into a large, multilevel room around a center platform. A dead end. The prince's possible hiding places have multiplied yet become limited at the same time. Maul's mouth quirks at the corner.

"Come out, come out. Wherever you are~," he sings in a sardonic drawl, like this is a game of hunter and prey between younglings.

The airscrubbers hum through the walls, creating a deep resonance just on the edge of hearing. Despite what must be a robust air recycling system, this room remains steeped in the scents of the enslaved; bitterness and despondency, melancholia and hate. A multispecies cacophony of emotions that make his sinuses itch. 

He hears wheezing laughter, like the rattle of dry grass. 

"Ssssweet, ssssweet, ssssinger…" calls a hoarse voice from one of the cells. The force twinges, a plucked string.

The source is… across the room, on a higher level. Maul can sense the force warping in on itself somewhere nearby. Curious, he leaps closer to it, up a story and over.

The cell on the left is marked as 214, and it contains a nautolan in a rare carmine color. She is heavily pregnant, and pressed as far to the left side of her cage as she can be. 

The cell on the right is marked as 216. It holds a crab-like species he does not know, with a shell that looks like molten, living gold. It is quivering in the back of its container, in the rightmost corner.

In the center cell is a woman with wide pink eyes and an abundance of platinum hair. Her skin is white, like a palliduvan, but with an oily, iridescent sheen. She sits in the center of the room, naked, hugging her knees and shaking with that dry, rattling laugh. 

Her pink gaze zeroes in on him, and her smile grows…and grows… and- 

Lips spread like split meat as she grins from ear to ear, her teeth needle sharp. Conversely, her eyes are kind above the unnatural-looking maw. 

"Blesssssed sssssinger~" she croons sweetly, "the lit-tle king plays a trick  on you. Deceitful. Rude. Give him t-to me and I will blesss your path!" 

She shouldn’t be able to move her jaw like she is, with those facial muscles severed. The force perhaps, magic or alchemy of some sort. He considers her, and the offer, mildly. "I am not easily tricked.” 

She smiles still, and says nothing. Her presence feels like a tangle of razorwire, writhing and clingy. 

"Hm.”

Maul walks away, stalking the metal floors and surveying the open room with thoughtful eyes. The prince is here somewhere, but there are enough strange projections from the prison's myriad occupants that it feels… cloudy.

A mirialan glares at him as he walks past their cage. The man floats a foot above his bed, rail-thin and cross legged.

A dry-looking quarren ignores him in turn, crying weakly into their hands.

He laps the room, and finds himself at the center of this fusion of zygerrian and modern architecture. A control panel sits on a dias, with a map of the cell block and various monitoring systems running. 

"Hm!" he comments, "How convenient." 

He taps the icon for cell 216 and tells it to open. 

The sound of a ray shield powering down is shortly followed by more dry, wheezing laughter. He turns to see the woman step into freedom and launch herself across the room, trailing yards of platinum hair. 

She lands in front of 107, and presses herself as close to the ray shield as one could be without burning. 

"Knoc-kk knnnock!" she croaks. 

The cell's occupant shrieks, falling back in their terror, but then scrambles to the shield again to yell up at him. They appear to be a salenga, but something… something is off. Maul squints, trying to pinpoint-

"I will pay you whatever you want! Anything!"

He cocks his head. Curious. How would a slave pay- 

Oh. Interesting. 

"Put her back in her cell and I will make you royalty! I swear it!"

The unnaturally white creature hisses, no longer laughing.

It is Maul who chuckles, walking to the edge of the center platform and clasping his hands behind his back. "A marriage proposal is it, Prince Trifenra? Now that is a… curious bribe."

He waits for the hope to glimmer in their eyes, then waves a hand in a grand gesture. The console registers a command from a finger press that is not there, and obeys it.

All of the cells open. 

The salenga shrieks again, and melts into a clawdite changeling as they zip out and go streaking away. They make it all of three strides before disappearing under shimmering hair and vengeful pink eyes. 

The next few minutes involve teeth, tearing, and unhinged sobbing. Maul watches for a moment as dozens of aliens flee on either side of him for the exit, then grows bored and turns to his comm. Dryden's secretary answers for him, a softly spoken pantoran with a penchant for ancient art. 

"Hello sir. My apologies, Mr. Vos is in a meeting at the moment. Should I get him for you, or can I take a message?" Sochu asks.

Maul waves off the first. "Simply inform him that the treachery has been dealt with, and he has my permission to begin renegotiating with the other offer."

"Very good, sir. Anything else I can do for you?" 

"Mmno," Maul says and hangs up.

His timing is good. The room has cleared and the strange woman is levitating up to the central platform, slathered in blood all down her front. Something wet and purple is cupped in her palms. She lands daintily, and he raises a brow. 

"Ssssinger, c-c-clever son~ You figurrrred out the trick-k, denied the trick-ksster. Gave him to us ," she smiles sweetly, too many teeth in her mouth. 

Maul hums, watchful.

"A gift!" she declares, and holds out… it’s a liver, or part of one. 

He accepts it, amused, with the smallest of bows. “My thanks.” 

The woman giggles like rotten wind chimes and turns to leap off the platform. She lands below and goes padding toward the lava flows, leaving a trail of red footprints smeared by passing hair in her wake. 

Maul considers the slick bulk of the organ in his hand. Dense, warm, and evenly toned purple. He holds it up and gives it a sniff. It smells healthy- clean blooded and rich, and the fight did have him feeling peckish.

"Mm… waste not, I suppose.”

He chooses a corner and slides his teeth in. The woman’s sharp, clinging darkness in the force gives a final twist and melts away. Maul chews thoughtfully on his way out of the compound, disregarding the blood that drips off his chin. His robes are already too stained for a bit more to matter. 

[epithalamia]

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

SALVAGE THE TRUTH.

foreshadowing

||...sweet petal...||

Duty Bound

"Due respect, Commander? I was there when the Hive found us on Earth. I was there when we stopped them on Titan. And I'll be there when we wipe them out." —Sloane

Taeko-3 was smirking again. Sloane liked a lot of things about her. The smirk wasn't one of them.

"Sure. A weird Hive ritual. Nothing we haven't seen before, right?"

Sloane gripped the railing. "Everything under those waves is something we haven't seen before." The Hunter behind Taeko rolled his eyes. The railing crunched under Sloane's hand.

"You worry too much, boss! We've dropped a thousand Hive with our Sparrows. When the three of us"—the Hunter flourished a blade, and the other Warlock cocked a shotgun; did they practice this?—"are working together, we're unstoppable."

Sloane walked forward and put her hands on Taeko's shoulders. The smirk disappeared. The Hunter's blade dropped, but he caught it out of the air.

"Taeko. They're not always going to have your back. What are you going to do when you're the last one standing?"

The smirk came back. "Easy. Embrace the Praxic Fire."

<<Seek the whispers—they are faint, but they are calling.>>

The Black Needle

||...needle driven in flush with skin so that desperate fingers cannot pull it out...||

My head is throbbing, but I press on. This place I have found—it promotes pain. The Hive are fond of the anguish they bring. They will not deter me. It’s been months since I left the Tower. What do I have to show for my journey? Dead ends. Whispers. Nothing.

Whatever the Hive are plotting eludes me. Each location I survey holds the promise of answers, yet each has let me down.

||...unmemorable...||

||...a self-questioning answer...||

||...the thing which is unlike your beloved but arbitrarily recalls your beloved to agonizing effect...||

||...gray regret at the end of a fruitless day...||

Let this be the one.

I feel myself drawing near as the tunnels turn from rock and filth to tiles and pomp. Something… is off. I have yet to encounter even a single Thrall. I would count myself lucky, but I know better.

Stick to the shadows. Use the columns and pillars. Caution isn’t cautious enough.

I see ancient scrolls. Tablets. Something here must prove useful.

No.

Incomprehensible babble. Could I have been wrong all along? Are they as lost as we are?

A light breeze scatters the scrolls. A breeze? Underground?

“Eris…"

A voice carried on the wind. Sai? It can’t be.

A laugh from down the corridor. Eriana’s. “Come back to us, Eris.” Vell…

They’re dead. This can’t be real. I won’t fall prey to tricks of the Hive.

The gust picks up, bringing with it the dust and soot from the tunnels. It sucks the air from the room. I can barely stand.

“Did you believe it would be so easy?” Toland this time. The voice echoes all around me.

This cruelty…

“No, Witch. I thought it… would prove more difficult… to find you.”

A wailing scream assaults me. It’s a scream etched deeply in my mind. Poor Omar…

I won’t let Her shake me.

“Tell me, Archentrope, now that you have me… what will you do with me?”

Eriana appears before me, a construct of rock and sand. How dare She—

“Do? Child of the Hive, can’t you see? We are one. Do you hate it?”

I cringe with displeasure. Child of the Hive? Am I? Is this why I am still alive? I refuse.

“You are no more my family than a parasite is to a host. You will die, like your brother before you.”

She cackles. My stomach turns.

“If only you had gazed upon the dark majesty that slumbered beneath you…”

||...architrave of the no-window...||

Beneath me? Her words are twisted half-truths. Do not succumb.

The dirt and debris in the air spin wildly, colliding into me. I’m trapped in a whirlwind. My chest grows tight. Breath short. I can’t see. It’s all around me.

“To be so near, only to scratch the surface, must tear at the filament of your mind.”

The storm begins to die down; I hack up the grime, regaining my sight.

“Open your eyes, Eris…”

The color dissipates from the world around me.

As the dust settles, I realize I am not where I was. A green-black sun hangs in the sky and a glowing orb floats in the distance.

Darkness is all around me and I am alone. Again.

<<The cutting word is a doorway—the first syllable of hated salvation.>>

A Light In The Darkness

The days have become indecipherable. This harsh plane of existence bears only Darkness and cold—two things I’ve become reacquainted with since my banishment to this hellscape. No matter where I run, the glowing orb follows. It stalks me.

I’ve taken to quietly humming a tune to stave off the madness. I don’t enjoy it, but it helps. It’s worked before, when I was trapped beneath the Moon’s surface. Taken and Hive run rampant here. Around every corner. I’m in no shape to defend myself. My mind fights to stay alert. I just need to rest. Just a little…

A bright light awakens me. That glowing orb? Its radiance calls out to me.

No. Stop it. I’m losing my grip again. Hum the song.

“Eris!”

You’re making it up. Or worse. It’s the Witch again.

“Eris!”

The orb approaches. Could it be?

I stand to meet the light. And I collapse into darkness.

I am awake, I believe—though this feels like a dream.

“You encountered the Witch-Queen and survived.”

I am not sure if this conversation with Toland is real or a figment of my imagination.

“I’m no closer to discovering their machinations.”

“Tell me, what did she say?”

“It was riddles… taunts. She used you, all of you, perverting your voices… I was close to something. Beneath the surface. Slumbering.”

“Intriguing.”

Either way, I am in need of an exit. I must continue, no matter the pain.

“Where do you think you’re going? You’re in no shape to move.”

“I have to. I need to.”

“Are you telling yourself this to motivate, or are you blinded by your obsession?”

Now I am sure he is real.

“Aren’t you curious what was slumbering down there? I know I am.”

He piques my interest. I’ll allow this momentary reprieve.

“Go on.”

“Our time in the Hellmouth… requires further examination. I’ve often thought back to our glorious failure. Something has never sat right with me.”

“I imagine dying would leave one unsettled.”

“True, but this lies beyond that void. Our fireteam was comprised of some of the best to ever wield the Light, and yet we were eviscerated with ease.”

“They had weapons… we were not prepared.”

“While true, does the circumstance not bother you?”

“It haunts me to this day. I hesitate to believe anything She would say.”

“But why would She say anything at all?”

Why indeed.

“…She means to guide me, Toland.”

“Do not play into Her hand.”

“You lend credence to Her riddles. We must know the truth, no matter the cost.”

“Tread lightly, Eris. Or you may end up like me yet. Or worse!”

“My charge is the same, as always.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“There must—”

A flash of light, and once again I cannot see. I hear Toland call out to me, but I am pulled from him, from there.

It’s warm now. And bright. So bright.

“CLICK.”

I can feel their guns on me.

I’m surrounded.

<<Cleanse thyself of your decay, then will the mind be free to understand the value of transgression.>>

I think a world of balance would fight the Darkness, because Darkness unchecked is Darkness thriving. I think that a world of balance would never mistake the excitement of transgression or the grim necessity of trespass for a genuinely righteous act. We must remember the value of unshakable, irrational hope. The choice to act as if we lived in a better world can create a place for that better world to exist.

A Friend In Need

There’s a heat behind my eyes. I’d forgotten warmth, what it felt like. All I can make out are the weapons pointed at my face. If this is my fate, I will end with the fury of a tempest.

“Lower your guns!”

Petra?

“Eris Morn. Apologies for the welcome. Never know what will come out of there.”

The Dreaming City. I did not think I ever would set foot here.

“This place… it’s miraculous .”

“Don’t get used to it. We won’t be staying long.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see the Queen.”

“The Witch aims to bait me. I require your guidance, my Queen .”

“She is calculated, meticulous. Proceed cautiously. Her intent is obscured.”

My Queen is wise.

“Where do we begin?”

“Eris… there is understandable urgency in this matter…”

Not you too. Please do not think lesser of me.

“You were on the brink of death. That is not a loss I’m willing to bear.”

“The shadow of death cannot hinder me.”

She takes a concerned pause at my words. Did I misspeak?

“You walk a thin line between duty and obsession. Take it from one with experience.”

“I am driven, but only due to what is at stake.”

“And what is that to you?”

“My Queen … everything. Human and Awoken alike will wash up on the shores of death if we do not act.”

“No. What is it to you?”

“…vengeance.”

I watch as she deliberates the validity of my claims. To be dismissed as mad now would be my end.

“A noble cause.”

The same desire runs through my Queen’s veins.

“Savathûn’s cunning has its limits... We retrieved a log dating back to the Golden Age that may aid in deciphering Her riddles. It is one of many. The rest are scattered across the stars.”

“I must seek them all out.”

“You will not have to do it alone.”

My queen.

The months working alongside my Queen were exhilarating and treacherous. I’ve traversed more of the known universe than I ever thought I would see. Through all the vile creatures vanquished and treasures discovered lurks a new sensation… A place in this story.

We’ve collected several of the logs we seek. Each offers a new perspective on the threat we all face. The Golden Age understanding of the concepts of Light and Darkness were primitive, nascent. I wonder if in the millennia that will come to pass, our comprehension will be viewed similarly. It matters not, if we are unable to avoid our looming calamity.

We have come so far, and now I feel our journey coming to a close.

It’s here, in these ruins. I can sense it.

I push the refuse off an ancient chest.

Inside—what we’ve been searching for.

I read. My worst fears confirmed.

“My Queen … it’s been there all along.”

To think I must return to those twisted tunnels where the screams of my fireteam will undoubtedly reverberate throughout my mind…

My fate is eternally bound to that place.

There is no escape.

<<When imagined, your potential will infect, and spread.>>

Reunion

It’s been a long while since I’ve been to the Tower. Much has changed. I pray my departure hasn’t created an irreparable fracture.

Ikora… you must forgive me.

I’ll tell her what I’ve uncovered—where I’ve been. She’ll see the meaning behind my actions.

“When I heard your ship was approaching, I didn’t believe it. Yet here you stand. It’s good to see you.”

“Ikora, my absence was necessary. What I have learned, discovered... Danger lurks closer than you realize. You must trust me. We’ve stood too long ignorant of the cataclysm brewing before us. If we do not act, we face yet another Collapse. We must attend to that which the Hive have unearthed down below the lunar surface—”

“Eris. Breathe.”

Her words bring a fleeting rush of relief.

“We know about the Hive, as well as their recently erected Keep .”

A Keep ? They mobilize. It’s far worse than I knew.

“Then you will come with me, Ikora.”

“Eris, you’ve barely had a moment to rest.”

“You must let me show you the truth. Then you will understand.”

“I have responsibilities here. A lot has transpired in your absence. We’re still recovering from our… losses.”

What lies behind pales in comparison to what we face ahead.

But I won’t fight with her. Not again.

“Then I will go alone.”

“Eris...”

“On this I cannot negotiate.”

I can see Ikora measure her options. She does not seek an argument either.

“At least allow me to help you mount an adequate response to a threat that, mind you, we don’t fully understand. Let the Vanguard support you.”

That will take time. Always time. The one element we don’t have the luxury of.

“But you’ll be gone before they can mobilize, won’t you?”

“We all do what we must.”

“Promise you’ll stay in communication with me. I don’t want this to be like last time.”

I nod to Ikora. Always the beacon of benevolence.

She deserves more than I can offer. My calling is not here. There is still work to be done. One last stop.

“I have to go.”

Her concern is palpable. It reassures me, oddly. The wound between us can heal. If we live long enough.

“Eris… This thing you’re willing to risk everything for… What is it?”

“I warned of a storm.

Can’t you hear the thunder?”

Caliban enters the pit and makes their way through tunnels of the Hive colony towards the summoning ritual in the Chasm of Screams.

Taeko-3: You're right. There is a way out of this.

Ghost: What is it?

Taeko-3: Embrace the Praxic Fire.

||...the provably improvable.||

Dust

Fill up your mouths.

We fill them with dust.

Let us remember the great feats of our King.

In dust they are spoken, in dust of our skin.

One day, as the green eye stars set behind the far-away spines left by the machines’ failed injections, a Knight of Oryx met a Knight of Xivu Arath as they passed across a bridge in the Sea of Screams. To their north lay a strata of ossified corpses, tangled bones left by newborn beings who had hatched into this overworld from the weeping blistered souls of living worlds at the end of their sanity, only to become unanchored from the universe of matter and confuse their shapes with each other, until they became one screaming interchange of bodies and died. To their other north was an atoll of scriptures adrift on a sea of interpretations, gnawed at by heresies like white eels. To another north was one end of the bridge, and to the last north, the other end. All directions were north, but it was not at once obvious what lay at the northernmost place.

“North is toward Oryx my King,” said the first Knight.

“No,” said the second Knight, “Xivu Arath is victorious in all wars; north is toward my Queen.”

Thus announced, they drew their blades and struggled. At first, the Knight of Xivu Arath, She Whose Victory Is Idempotent, had the upper claw. Through inexorable campaigns and the absolute mastery of operontological warfare, which is the method of war which converts mere strategy into an attack on the enemy’s very fundamental modes of being and knowing, Xivu Arath had claimed great swathes of Oryx’s territories. But then the Knight of Oryx, First Navigator of Phase Spaces, Primogenitor of Possibilities, gained the poise and the momentum. For Oryx was ever exploring and opening new spaces, and all that He discovered weighed more on His existence than all He had ever known and left behind.

At last, battered like primordial worlds, their shields broken and their thick slabs of health eroded, they toppled in exhaustion. But each had one more way to fight: by the claim of truth.

“Xivu Arath is more powerful,” Her Knight claimed, “for She held a territory in Oryx’s mind even after She died.”

“Oryx is more powerful,” His Knight retorted, “for He has gone into the Deep, alone of all the Hive; He has spoken to that which is caustic to existence, and returned with some loan of its power. He has even relaxed in its presence, for He is friend to that which cannot befriend.”

Perhaps the Knight’s weapon had cut through the thin membranes of reality and drawn a tear of prophecy from the eye of time, which fell into the Knight’s panting mouth. For the Knight then said, “And my King is so mighty in His weight of causality that all which succeeds Him is in some way caused by Him. Even His enemies, in reacting to Him, ultimately obey the shape of His will, as a bandage must obey the shape of a wounded limb. So it is that the one who most hates and fears my King will also be the one to find what He seeks. It is this way only because it must be this way. Aiat!”

Now the other Knight knew the sound of holy writ, but could not surrender the fight. “Yes, Oryx was first to know the Deep,” the Knight of Xivu Arath said. “But first blood is not last blood; first to meet the Shape of Shapes is not last to touch that secret face. Easy it may be to dismiss my Queen for Her blunt strength and simplicity. But She causes exhaustion and ennui in Her enemies, which, in a cosmos where existence may be maintained by will alone, are the surest of killers. And as for your prophecy, I need not disprove it, for until it is true it is only a boast.”

Now neither Knight had died, and so they knew they had fought to an impasse: so they cast themselves from the bridge into the Sea of Screams below, to see where the currents would bear them.

For this reason a certain quantity of tribute did not reach one of Crota’s champions at the necessary time, and that champion lost a duel with a sergeant of Xivu Arath, causing the loss of a great number of temples and tributaries, so that Crota, upon slaughtering many liars with His sword, judged it best to sleep and recover His debts, with His soul proxied in a material cask so that He could use it as a piton to return swiftly to the Real. All afterwards proceeded as it must have proceeded. Aiat.

Hope

The Inundation of Hashladûn

Scream of me, o Thralls! Let the Knights beat their weapons on their knees and tear at their plates, let the Wizards shout my name in the speech that sunders, let my name come out of you like an itch comes out of skin!

I am Hashladûn, spawn of Crota. From the day I spilled from the egg, I possessed great strength; I was huge of crest and thick of arm, I was a Thrall who contended with Knights. I was large, as the storm is large upon the fundament, as grief is large among the grieving.

Seeing this, my father said “Let this one be inundated in the old way of floods; let her greatness be reduced to only what is greatest, for she has an excess, and excess is the capacity to be stringently purified.”

But I would not be taken to the floodplain; I was afraid; I contended with a hundred Thralls and ten Knights and was not beaten; I contended with an Ogre and I was exhausted; only then did my father, who is Eater of Hope, who burned with the secondhand melamu, who trampled the netherworld as hooves trample hands, come down from His throne, saying, “Do you love Me so hugely as to defy My edict, and so test the verity of My will? In this capacity you are also great.”

Then He brought me in His embrace down to the deep place between worlds, where I was impaled in six places to the floodplain. And the waters rose over me, and I was inundated.

Five times I was flooded. The first inundation is of bloodied hydrogen, which is like unto acid. The second inundation is of fire. The third inundation is of light, which is like unto the light of cloven atom. The fourth inundation is secret and rattles the bones. The fifth inundation is of words, and it aches at the joining-place between flesh and worm.

I was scoured, I was burnt; I was burnt again by the slow fire, I was tested on the rack of time. My flesh dissolved, it cracked and parted, it turned to black ash which peeled away. All the pain I had ever felt before would fit in one eyelash of that pain.

Then I was left to die.

But I broke the six impalements, and I crawled alone up the way to the outer world, gaunt, wounded, missing eight in ten parts of what I had been. And I killed the first thing that I found and ate it all.

Seeing the reduction of me appear before His throne, my father said, “You are great now, and you cannot love Me. For the parts of you that were Mine have been taken from you; the parts that were His remain.”

I saw the melamu upon Him, which is the light of god, and I assented, for I knew whence that light had come, I knew it for the light of Oryx Edge-and-Point.

And Crota cried out in joy and grief, and cut the sky, and sent me forth, lost to Him in triumph, never to enter His court again.

Poison

Oryx is dead! To deny this is to drink strong poison.

Oryx is dead and His throne waits empty!

[There must... be a strongest one. It is the architecture of these spaces.]

To accept this is to accept blasphemy into our hearts.

Our progenitor and forefather is vanquished. His court is scattered, His temples ransacked. The Knights like hot stone are dead. The beasts like scarred bone are gone from His side. And His killers have not assumed the mantle of the Taken King.

How can our mighty King, the spear that pierced a hundred million lying lungs,

-Deep, evenly spaced "throats" converged on a central cavity perhaps intended to serve as lung and stomach.

be killed by those who would deny the all-edged truth? Is this the end of progress towards the True and Final Shape? Is this the Entaoxuanna, the fate worse than extinction—the triumph of the oldest doubt, and the end of our way? Is it the incomprehensible fate which the Needle-Fingered One calls the Fraying of the Cord?

No. We are the people of the Real. We know the rod which separates the true from the dead. We know that whatever happens is so because it must be so. We accept that this has happened.

Let me tell you what has happened: Our King of Shapes has triumphed.

The one who murdered Him, who wielded His killers as a knife: she was once a liar drenched in the Sky. But she came among us, the children of Oryx, and we cleaned the lies from her, we scoured the confusion and fear from her, and we gave her the clarity of our sight: and she devoted herself to the task of comprehending Oryx, learning and foreseeing Him, thinking as He would think, knowing what He would know, becoming His one worthy enemy and so becoming like Him.

How could she do anything but challenge Him? And how, in challenging Him, in seeking a way between His pits and riddles, could she walk any path but the path He made for her? The mark of Him is upon her! She will always fear Him, she will feel the wound of Him in her mind as we feel His absence, she will seek out all that He valued, she will find all that He would want found—and lo! What has she found? What has she found?

The liars will come in their thousands and hundreds of thousands and slaughter us in our millions and tens of millions, and we will go rejoicing to our ends, for they are the blade He has appointed to whittle us into our shape, and she is the avatar He has chosen to mantle Him, and even now we sail the course He plotted! For she has awakened the truth which answers the lies. And His will has delivered the liars to us as His final test. And He is still and now and forever our King.

We will ask Him to return to us. And when we have pleased Him, He will answer!

||...call me Sri-cleans-his-brother's-stomach...||

"Am I to cast a Shadow?"

Gahlran knelt before his Emperor in a chamber of gold.

Every surface reflected a resplendent sheen that blinded him.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“Many things,” Calus replied, lounging with his cheek in his palm. “This chamber once held an Arkborn. The only one of her kind to leave the interstellar conduits of her people. It is the place where Valus Nohr earned her shield in trial by combat. Shadows were cast here. History made.”

“Am I to cast a Shadow?”

“Yes. You were bred to be a sorrow-bearer. I seek a Hive commander, but those are not so readily available. So I made you.”

“The Council says the Hive cannot be contained. They worry.”

Calus raised an eyebrow. “Who among them?”

“Councilors Rahl and Verloren.”

The Emperor shook the golden chamber with his guffaw. “Only a few hours old, and already your words have killed two.”

Gahlran pondered what his Emperor could mean.

“I will enjoy you,” Calus said, and keyed a hidden control on the armrest of his divan.

The ceiling shrieked as it opened like an eye. Gahlran craned his neck to stare as two hovering Councilors descended with a massive, plated helm from the vast iris above.

He could hear a litany of voices shouting down at him from inside the thing as it slowly descended. He thought they sounded like warnings, but there were no discernible words in the speech.

“What is that?” he asked his Emperor.

Calus finished the Royal nectar in his chalice before belching, “Your crown.”

Gahlran thought he could glimpse a faint violet glow on the inside of the helm as it drew nearer.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Calus asked, as the voices echoing from the helm grew louder.

“No,” Gahlran replied.

He thought he should run. He tried to stand, but he found that he could not, rooted to the floor before the Emperor’s throne by the will of the Councilors.

“I do not like this,” Gahlran said.

“This,” said Calus, as the Councilors crowned Gahlran, “is why you were born.”

The violet interior filled Gahlran’s vision.

“What does it feel like?” asked the Emperor.

“Fear,” Gahlran said.

Calus must have responded, but Gahlran couldn’t hear him over the cacophony of voices.

He suddenly found that he could see.

Through a hundred billion eyes.

And that he could eat.

With teeth enough to consume entire systems.

He felt beautiful.

||... a purposeful mob none of whose members know its purpose...||

Menagerie

TYPE: OWL SECTOR INTERCEPT

//CABAL “LOYALIST” BAND TRANSMISSION

//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//

They call themselves Hunters. Scouts. Survivors scavenging from races older and nobler—so that their people might rebuild what they’ve lost.

They call themselves Titans. Soldiers. Killers—slaying the enemies of humanity so that their City might live one more day.

They call themselves Warlocks. Martial philosophers. Harbingers of Light. Scholars searching for meaning when all is already lost. Their machine god abandoned them long ago.

They don’t understand yet, but they are, all of them, so much more.

It falls to you, my Loyalists, to show them the way. You’ve met them. You know their conviction.

So I unleash you.

Hinder them. Topple them. Teach them pain.

They will only ask for more. And they will grow stronger for it.

When they are ready, we will open the Menagerie to them. Even the strongest Lights have yet to explore that ancient deck.

I want them to see where our journey out of exile began. Ghaul and his conspirators meant for the Menagerie—for the Leviathan itself!—to be our tomb. But Ghaul could not predict what we would find at the black edge.

He could not foresee that we would grow fat from strength.

I call on that strength, now, one last time, before the black edge claims us.

Make no mistake. They will take your lives.

I know you give them gladly.

Your sacrifice shall spark the Shadows of Earth.

Shadows, showing truth by their casting.

IV: Whispers

I.I

Seek the whispers—they are faint, but they are calling.

I.II

Not all bone carries the sound of secret truth. Most are fragile, hollow things meant only to carry the weight of wasted lives.

I.III

In the feted remnants of yearning marrow, find love, find life, and in their lies you will discover the narrow road to all you never dreamed to be.

I.IV

However, whispers are but sound, as is the breeze. Not all who listen can share its purpose.

I.V

Know thyself, listen well, and do not fear when the whispers carve their welcome. Rejoice.

I.VI

The agony of the cutting word is a boon to those who embrace its severed logic.

I.VII

The cutting word is a doorway—the first syllable of hated salvation.

"On the path of the hushed tones, the cutting word will guide your unmaking."

—4th Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow

Prophecy

The Guardian approaches the Emissary of the Nine at Titan

Drifter: Hey. Three Eyes. Shaxx says you sang him a lil' ditty.

Eris Morn: What?

Drifter: Shaxx. Chunky Titan. One horn. Did you sing him a song on the Moon?

Eris Morn: What a senseless question.

Drifter: Yeah. I didn't think so.

Eris Morn: Stay off this channel. Should I need you, I'll call — wait.

Drifter: Uh, I didn't hang up.

Eris Morn: Does that oaf still keep that skull with him?

Drifter: In the Tower? Yeah. Hangs it over his spot. I wouldn't have tangoed with that thing.

Eris Morn: Desperate times. This… 'lil ditty. Did it go… ? [hums]

Drifter: That would be the one. Heh. What is it?

Eris Morn: Savathûn's Song. It's a viral chant. It can never be unheard. Now that Savathûn has announced herself, relics of the Dark across the system have begun to awaken… Tell Shaxx to remove that Skull immediately.

Drifter: Sister, I already tried.

Eris Morn: What did that oaf say?

Drifter: No.

[bills-bible-basics]

What Exactly is a Storm Surge? #HurricaneMilton #StormSurge #Asheville I was inspired to write this short commentary after discovering that some of my friends didn’t quite understand how a town or city which is located many miles from a coastal area, and which is hundreds or even thousands of feet in elevation, could be so seriously affected by a hurricane coming off of the ocean, such as in the case of Asheville, North Carolina, USA for example. I think this confusion results from not fully understanding exactly what a storm surge is, which is quite understandable if a person has never been through a hurricane, and if they don’t happen to live in a coastal area. Basically, a storm surge is an abnormal rise in sea level that is caused by the strong winds and low pressure which are associated with a hurricane. This rise in water level — which can be anywhere from a few feet up to as much as perhaps 30+ feet in the severest of storms — can lead to major coastal flooding, particularly in low-lying areas. The storm surge is driven by the force of the hurricane’s winds raising and pushing water — like a giant, powerful wall of water — towards the shore, in conjunction with the storm’s low pressure, which allows the water level to rise higher than normal. But that is not all. The height of that wall of water includes not only the storm surge itself, but the regular tide level as well. For example, let’s say that at the time a hurricane makes landfall in a particular area, there is a very high tide in progress, or what is known as a spring tide. Even worse is a king tide which is higher than a spring tide. If the king tide is 2.5 feet in height, and the storm surge is 20 feet in height, that means that when that powerful wave crashes ashore, it will be 22.5 feet in total height. Wow! My friends, not only is there unimaginable force behind a storm surge, but they move very fast, typically 10-30 miles an hour, depending on the forward speed of the hurricane itself. A storm surge is one of the most dangerous and deadly aspects of a hurricane, and is often responsible for widespread destruction and loss of life in a coastal area. Here on Guam, I have witnessed firsthand the results of a powerful storm surge rushing ashore. The level of destruction is absolutely mind-boggling, as if you are in a war zone. Everything is uprooted and just gone down to the bare rock strata! Nothing is left! Now, to be clear, the destruction that some people are describing at those higher elevations is NOT the result of an oceanic storm surge, because a storm surge can only penetrate inland a few miles at best depending on the topography of the land, the size, strength and speed of the hurricane itself, etc. The destruction at those higher elevations results from a different set of factors including the following: 1. Wind speed 2. Amount of rainfall 3. Topography of the land 4. Flash floods 5. Rivers, lakes, etc. overflowing their regular boundaries. For example, even though you live in a town or city that is at a higher elevation and miles away from the ocean, if that town or city is in turn surrounded by even higher hills or mountains — kind of like a bowl — it is going to be in serious trouble! Now, if that same town or city is also located near a body of water, or even near multiple bodies of water — such as a confluence of rivers — that town or city is going to be in even worse trouble, not just from the excessive wind speed, but from all of that excessive rainfall filling up those lakes and rivers. But that is not all. You’ve also got flash floods rushing down hills and mountains at tremendous speeds. Lastly, there are landslides to boot, washed out roads, etc. My friends, that is exactly what happened at places such as Asheville, N.C. It had nothing to do with the oceanic storm surge many miles away which could not possibly reach those elevations. I hope this explanation clears things up for some of you. https://www.billkochman.com/Blog/index.php/what-exactly-is-a-storm-surge/?feed_id=257286&What%20Exactly%20is%20a%20Storm%20Surge%3F

[fixquotes]

"A little and a little, collected together, becomes a great deal; the heap in the barn consists of single grains, and drop and drop make the inundation"

- Saadi

[beatsandskies]

Theme Deck Review Compendium: Judgment “Inundation”

Inundation A good old fashioned White Weenie deck. Official product information webpage (archived) Screenshot of page, circa 2007 Cheap white creatures and more cheap white creatures have always been a winning combination, and the “Inundation” deck is no exception to the rule. You should play your creatures as quickly as possible and attack early and often. With this deck, you have to play…

[aytonai]

The Great Flood

[schlorian]

[tenth-sentence]

A cataclysm occurred with inundations and earthquakes.

"20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" - Jules Verne

[stuckinapril]

Nobody gives a fuck about Biden very ambiguously “negotiating” with Israel, all while he continues funding the weapons it’s using to genocide Palestinians. Yesterday the IOF abducted 16 people during dawn prayers in Al-Aqsa Mosque, and there are still no reports of aid being allowed through the “opened” Beit Hanoun crossing. I say opened in quotation marks because no aid trucks entered Gaza despite Israel’s claims that they would permit “temporary aid.” It’s all smoke and mirrors—and it’s pure evil.

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

~~~Chapter 4 - Updated Tuesdays - Also on Ao3~~~

The Lars' speeder pulls up to Ben's cave with a recognizable whine. The jedi-in-exile looks up from idly watching the sand pile up from the wind blowing it in, curious about the visit. It's probably Beru, come to chat, or possibly Owen, come to make stilted small talk because all farmers knew that you kept in touch with everyone out here whether you liked each other or not. As a matter of practicality.

Either way, visitors were… nice.

Ben pushes himself up and moves toward the door to say hello. He doesn't get halfway before Owen is running inside and shoving a bundle of miniature chosen one at him.

"Here!" the man exclaims, dropping a shoulder bag on the floor, "We need you to watch Luke. The Roshan homestead is getting shot up by raiders and they need help! We can't take him with, damnit, time to pull your weight, wizard!"

Obi-Wan looks down at the eleven month old boy with a dawning sense of panic. Luke has the temerity to frown thoughtfully up at him, little forehead squinching up exactly like a fussy Anakin.

The jedi master swallows like he's been handed a live bomb. "Owen I-, I shouldn't-"

There's no reply. Ben looks up from the baby to explain that he can not, should not be trusted with the protection of children. Ever again. Or adults! He is a magnet for lethal levels of misfortune for beings of all ages. Guarding from afar is one thing, but Owen cannot expect-

Owen is gone.

He finishes the half complete walk to the entryway arch, and watches the speeder fling up a trail of sand and dust as it drives away.

"Blast," he curses, covering his mouth and watching it race for the horizon.

This is… not supposed to happen.

"Please, come back," he begs the dust cloud.

Owen does not. He is left holding the fate of the galaxy in his hands. Again.

His bloody, weathered hands.

"Bplbpbpplllll?" asks Luke, creating spit bubbles that go sliding off the side of his fat chin.

Obi-Wan takes a moment to get a grip on himself, eyes closed and face tilted up at the ceiling. Deep breaths. Luke is… not his father. He is just a cherubic little swaddle of pudgy baby. And he’s only going to be responsible for the child a few hours. Perhaps an afternoon. Overnight at a stretch. Unless the worst should happen and one or both of the Lars…

"This is a terrible idea," Obi-Wan states, forlorn. "I'm no good with children, you must understand."

"MnnpaH," the little one declares, then starts to make an angry face.

Obi-Wan shushes him automatically, tilting the bundle upright and patting his tiny back. "I'm going to need you to not listen to a word I say, alright? I've the wit of a brick when it comes to younglings."

"Mnnnpahpahpssss," Luke says, mood turning for the better at the discovery of 'sssss'. "Pahsss paasssss sssss!"

The jedi can't help the tight grin that tugs at his mouth. "See? Two minutes with me and you're already hissing like that horrible zabrak. I'm a terrible influence."

"Ssssuuussssuuuu Ssssshoooo. Heeee! Hsssss!"

"Come now, stop impersonating a sith lord," Obi-Wan insists, bending over carefully to pick up the shoulder bag Owen had dropped so unceremoniously. "Let's see if your papa has left you any toys, hmm?"

"Tee?!?" exclaims Luke.

"Toh ees. Toooyys." Ben repeats for him.

"Teys?!"

He snorts, "Better! You're rather good at this for being zero years old."

"GeeEeeeeEEE!" the baby squeals in delight, legs kicking in excitement.

Lunch time comes and an attempt is made to introduce Luke to black melon. Ben gives him a small sliver of rind to gum on. Luke sticks it in his mouth, makes a face, and then spits it up onto the stone floor.

“Really? Wasting food are we? Well. More for me then,” he replies to that, leaving the baby to his bantha milk and eating the rest of the melon himself.

Cleaning the spit in the middle of the floor turns into a mild tidying, which then becomes sweeping all the sand out of the cave. He has a broom of desert grasses bound to a long, gnarled bit of root. It’s more flexible than necessary, but it does the job.

The sand invades every nook and cranny of his house, as it does every day, beginning as soon as he finishes sweeping it all out. It especially likes to pile up in front of the raised bit of rock he sleeps on, and the wall by his food crate. It simply can’t be left to pile up, or it would bury the cave floor within a few days.

So he sweeps out the area by his bed, and sweeps out the corner by the wall.

Obi-Wan sweeps and sweeps and sweeps.

The rusk-rusk-rusk of the grasses on the stone floor as he works is almost meditative when combined with the faint creek of the root that makes up the handle.

Wait…

“Luke?”

He turns a circle, looking for the child.

“Luke? Sweetheart, where have you gone?”

There is a dreadful lack of baby in the middle of the floor, right where there was definitely supposed to be one.

“Luke Skywalker! Luke!”

When you are not connecting with the force, it is a great deal harder to find other people.

“Where did-!” Obi-Wan exclaims, hustling toward the nearest exit. “Where are- where are you?”

The front door and its window holes open to an empty spread of desert and stone, a bit of scrublands off to one side that surely couldn't hide a tooka nevermind an infant.

“How did-” he turns to go check the back door, heart thudding in his chest, “you’re barely crawling yet! How could you have even gotten this far??”

There is no precocious infant belly crawling to freedom behind his cave, either.

Dizzy. He feels dizzy. He's lost the chosen one. The chosen two? The second chosen… person. Baby.

Failed. Again.

Would the force even bring them a third chosen if he failed the first two this badly?

“Luke,” he calls out, struggling to breathe. “Please, don't go. Please, don't-”

“Gahhh?”

He spins around, wheezing, to find big blue eyes peeking out at him from under a spare cloak. Obi-Wan leans a hand on the wall and covers his eyes.

“Gahhh???” Luke asks again, chewing on the fabric.

Obi-Wan points at him, scowling. “So you are your father's son! Nearly giving me a heart attack over nothing!”

The baby looks at him dumbly for a moment, then his little face scrunches up in dire offense.

‘Oh…’ he thinks, ‘drat.’

Crocodile tears come pouring down, a serial offense in the desert.

“No, no, I didn't mean that, please don't cry-” he tries, shuffling over to unbury Luke from the dark brown cloak. “Come now, it's alright, everything is- it's fine. You're nothing like Anakin, I promise.”

He pulls the trailing edge of fabric from damp fingers, and the tears only work themselves up into operatic screams.

“I’m sorry, truly, that was unkind of me,” Obi-Wan offers, holding the child close and bouncing him a little.

Nevermind Luke's tears, the jedi finds himself sweating. The dizziness of distress has faded, only to be replaced with a feeling of weakness. His arms tremble in the aftermath of adrenaline, a complete divergence from the man he used to be. Something, admittedly, of an adrenaline junkie.

Luke's feeble infant upset is… it is a lot. All things considered, Obi-Wan decides sitting down is the better way to go.

“My dear, I know you're upset but you can't be gumming on dirty cloaks and hiding from your caretakers.”

That solid worldly advice does… absolutely nothing.

“I'm sorry I yelled. The yelling was the terrible part, wasn't it?”

Apologies are equally useless.

Obi-Wan tries patting his back, soft little thumps and the occasional circle. It seems to be helping…

…he looks down, and finds that Luke has discovered that this cloak tastes just as good as that cloak.

The jedi master makes a face of true dismay as sobbing turns into whiney hiccups.

“You're going to start screaming again if I take that away, aren't you?”

Luke hiccups extra hard. It's a sign.

“Yes, of course. Why did I even ask.”

Luke makes a face, just then. An odd face. A satisfied face. Obi-Wan is immediately suspicious.

A sniff test near the low back confirms his suspicions.

It's been a good while since Obi-Wan has had to change diapers. Since a long lost era where he was just a knight, and had served for a time in one of the youngling creches.

He manages.

Fresh drawers as needed, a bottle of bantha milk to settle, and half the afternoon is gone. Neither Owen nor Beru have graced his door, both suns are still up, and he wants nothing more in all the stars than a nap.

“You're going to escape if I go to sleep, aren't you?”

The response is a yawn, so perfectly timed it could only be a trap.

It is not a trap. The little menace curls up on the pelts of Obi-Wan's bed, and dozes right off. The jedi watches it happen, then turns away with a sigh.

“Your father used to call your mother an angel. I rather think you might consider taking after her. A delightful woman,” his voice grows thin, “a very good person.”

Obi-Wan lets his eyes close as he tips his head up toward the ceiling. There’s no reply, of course. He doesn’t expect one either.

“She would have adored you. Chaos and all.”

Luke snores quietly, a little bubble of snot building on his nose.

The nap lasts long enough for Obi-Wan to collect his thoughts, if nothing else.

“Mplbbb?” Luke asks in a sleepy voice a half hour later, pushing himself up into a sit in the usual manner of a pudgy uncoordinated infant.

“Mplbbb, indeed my young friend. Feeling rested?”

Luke stares. Blinks. Stares some more.

Then tries to escape the cave.

“Ohhhh, no. None of that. Out there is hot and windy and terribly dry. You'll bake.”

Ungrateful for the advice, his charge tries to escape four more times, and Obi-Wan's back begins to complain about all the up and down. The heavy lifting. The hip carries and the odd way it makes him stand.

“Ooof. I sound like pebbles in a jar. Goodness. Let's do something on the floor shall we? Do you like shadow puppets? What about a sock puppet? I do have a spare pair of socks.”

As it turns out, a playmate who can levitate things and make funny voices seems to be all Luke needs to have a great time. The jedi-in-exile ends up making a whole stage production with floating toys, giving each one a different characterization. That the plot mostly consists of a grumpy red rancor with a snobby core accent and anger issues, and a dashing blue fish who just wants a good cup of tea, arguing about donuts and going on a quest across the dunes for baked goods is… pure coincidence.

Okay, so he isn't the most creative individual.

Obi-Wan and Luke have a grand time, all things considered. When night falls with no sign of parental relief, they curl up on his pelts together. He decides to risk a doze, rather than risk being exhausted tomorrow.

With a warm little bundle on his chest, the jedi sleeps better than he has in… quite a while, actually. What irony, that it is Anakin's son who soothes the nightmares born of his father.

When Owen shows up the next morning -thank the force no worse for the wear- Obi-Wan packs up the distractions and diapers and puts Luke back into the arms he belongs in.

It is such a relief.

Luke stares back at him over Owen’s shoulder. Too-blue eyes watching him stay behind as they walk back to the speeder, brows furrowed with an innocent sort of confusion.

“Bii?”

Obi-Wan waves. He smiles. Luke frowns. They go.

The jedi turns away from the dust cloud and heads back inside his cave, where it is quiet, and calm, and there is no destiny awaiting him. No duties to fail, and nothing to mess up.

Nothing to gain and no one to lose.

[celebrimborium]

rings of power + central relationships*

*by gesture and touch

[bills-bible-basics]

What Exactly is a Storm Surge? #HurricaneMilton #StormSurge #Asheville I was inspired to write this short commentary after discovering that some of my friends didn’t quite understand how a town or city which is located many miles from a coastal area, and which is hundreds or even thousands of feet in elevation, could be so seriously affected by a hurricane coming off of the ocean, such as in the case of Asheville, North Carolina, USA for example. I think this confusion results from not fully understanding exactly what a storm surge is, which is quite understandable if a person has never been through a hurricane, and if they don’t happen to live in a coastal area. Basically, a storm surge is an abnormal rise in sea level that is caused by the strong winds and low pressure which are associated with a hurricane. This rise in water level — which can be anywhere from a few feet up to as much as perhaps 30+ feet in the severest of storms — can lead to major coastal flooding, particularly in low-lying areas. The storm surge is driven by the force of the hurricane’s winds raising and pushing water — like a giant, powerful wall of water — towards the shore, in conjunction with the storm’s low pressure, which allows the water level to rise higher than normal. But that is not all. The height of that wall of water includes not only the storm surge itself, but the regular tide level as well. For example, let’s say that at the time a hurricane makes landfall in a particular area, there is a very high tide in progress, or what is known as a spring tide. Even worse is a king tide which is higher than a spring tide. If the king tide is 2.5 feet in height, and the storm surge is 20 feet in height, that means that when that powerful wave crashes ashore, it will be 22.5 feet in total height. Wow! My friends, not only is there unimaginable force behind a storm surge, but they move very fast, typically 10-30 miles an hour, depending on the forward speed of the hurricane itself. A storm surge is one of the most dangerous and deadly aspects of a hurricane, and is often responsible for widespread destruction and loss of life in a coastal area. Here on Guam, I have witnessed firsthand the results of a powerful storm surge rushing ashore. The level of destruction is absolutely mind-boggling, as if you are in a war zone. Everything is uprooted and just gone down to the bare rock strata! Nothing is left! Now, to be clear, the destruction that some people are describing at those higher elevations is NOT the result of an oceanic storm surge, because a storm surge can only penetrate inland a few miles at best depending on the topography of the land, the size, strength and speed of the hurricane itself, etc. The destruction at those higher elevations results from a different set of factors including the following: 1. Wind speed 2. Amount of rainfall 3. Topography of the land 4. Flash floods 5. Rivers, lakes, etc. overflowing their regular boundaries. For example, even though you live in a town or city that is at a higher elevation and miles away from the ocean, if that town or city is in turn surrounded by even higher hills or mountains — kind of like a bowl — it is going to be in serious trouble! Now, if that same town or city is also located near a body of water, or even near multiple bodies of water — such as a confluence of rivers — that town or city is going to be in even worse trouble, not just from the excessive wind speed, but from all of that excessive rainfall filling up those lakes and rivers. But that is not all. You’ve also got flash floods rushing down hills and mountains at tremendous speeds. Lastly, there are landslides to boot, washed out roads, etc. My friends, that is exactly what happened at places such as Asheville, N.C. It had nothing to do with the oceanic storm surge many miles away which could not possibly reach those elevations. I hope this explanation clears things up for some of you. https://www.billkochman.com/Blog/index.php/what-exactly-is-a-storm-surge/?feed_id=239368&What%20Exactly%20is%20a%20Storm%20Surge%3F

[up-beattt]

Bruce Springsteen in Kyoto, Japan, April 1985. Photos by Neal Preston.

[coulsons-band]

pedro pascal doesn’t owe you shit.

it is absolutely fine to be disappointed by his absence at cannes. i am too. but he does not have to be there.

for whatever reason he’s pulling away from the attention. the esquire article talked about how guarded he is and his socials have really slowed down. maybe he’s unprepared or overwhelmed by all the tlou hype. i mean his follower count went up by the tens of thousands the day after the premiere. that’s insane.

but some of you have lost the plot. the ones wearing d*ddy’s little girl shirts in fucking public and yelling d*ddy at him at events and trying to convince everyone whether he’s queer or not and complaining there isn’t an explicit scene of him fucking in the strange way of life. it’s not a gay porn made for your fetish. ‘oh but narcos!!’ that’s called characterization. read literally any article from almodovar and understand why sex isn’t the point.

interacting with paparazzi content and making cute little edits - jfc. that’s creating demand and supply and paparazzi know no fucking boundaries. man’s got anxiety and no doubt the paps and fans watching his every move are probably making that worse.

let him make movies and rotate through his four shirts in peace. pedro pascal doesn’t owe anyone shit.