#is running smoothly for the other watcher's

[dreamyblanket]

https://www.tumblr.com/dreamyblanket/774993854186356736/humble-art-requestreader-hugging-caramel-arrow?source=share

Tbh I don't mind if you talk about her for that long because you drew her so well i hunger for more art of her so *throws another Caramel arrow x reader request at you* nyeh!

Aww thank you, have a flustered cara and rambling in the tags in return!

[haikyu-mp4]

You're not actors

Fluffy workplace romance as a streamer with your secret husband Kenma for my workplace romance event <3

requested by @dira333. word count; 837 – f!reader

Kenma loves his wedding ring. It’s just a piece of metal, but the matching one on your finger makes him giddy whenever he sees it, even if he doesn’t usually tell you that.

Unfortunately, he has to take it off for work. Your relationship wasn’t public, so he would rather not awaken any suspicions by showing his ring on camera. He’s a private person, preferring not to have everyone asking questions about his personal life.

You have separate streaming rooms on either end of the house so no noise would overlap, and so far everything ran smoothly. Sometimes, you would have to remind him about the ring as he kisses you before heading to his streaming room, and sometimes he remembers it himself. 

And sometimes you both forget.

This time, Kenma started the stream with his ring sitting snug on his finger and as time passed, he simply couldn’t move past this one level. It frustrated him to the point of running his hands through his hair and groaning at the seemingly impossible task. As the light from the screen hit metal, it glinted in the camera.

That’s how the speculations started. Is Kodzuken married? He never answers questions about his relationship status…

You’re a streamer too, often seen doing collabs with Kenma but never in person. You worried either of you might forget to act not in love while the viewers are literally observing your every move.

This time, you streamed alone. You recently started a Stardew Valley series where the viewers got to follow the progress with your fun commentary. It was very entertaining and gained you many more followers.

And Kenma knew you were streaming, so it was difficult to hide your surprise when a shattering sound ran through the house and someone hissed “Shit!”

Pausing the stream, you ran into the living room to find your husband surrounded by broken glass and spilt soda with a sheepish look. After sweeping some of it away and making sure he was okay, you hurried back to the stream and started it again to keep playing.

You pursed your lips, trying to act as if nothing happened. Unfortunately, you’re a YouTuber, not an actor.

That’s how the speculations started. Who does she live with? Is she in a secret relationship?

Following these two unfortunate events, you had no choice but to do the collab you had planned, as skipping it would seem suspicious. So just like normal, you both opened the shooter game and acted like you usually would while playing together, as if the comments weren’t bombarding you with these different rumours and some suggested your rumours were related to each other.

While you swore like a sailor at anything disadvantageous during the game, Kenma fell into the bad habit of watching your stream instead of his game, heart eyes evident to anyone who had eyes themselves. He would eventually sober up, getting revenge on anyone who went against you and then killing you so he could win alone.

His soft voice in your headphones made a shiver run down your spine and you wished the watchers were lying when they said Kodzuken is the only one you don’t curse at.

There were several heart eyes during this stream, and it was not just in the comments.

You both stood in the kitchen a couple of days (read nights) later. Kenma had accidentally woken you up by stubbing his toe on the bed and you demanded snacks so he pulled you along to the kitchen. The two of you talked about your latest work adventures or friend gossip while tapping your feet on the cold floors, a plate of apple pie in each of your hands.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Kenma said, holding his hand up when he knew you were about to say something like I’m happy you told me or else I’d miss it. “Maybe we should just tell everyone.”

When you looked confused, he flipped his hand around, wiggling his fingers to show off the wedding ring as emphasis. Your eyes widened. “That’s a pretty big thought, buddy, good job.”

He snorted, scooping up another piece of cake and feeding it to you. “I’m serious.”

“But I kinda like watching you try to keep it a secret,” you teased again before stepping closer and pressing light kisses along his jaw. Kenma sighed, pusring his lips and looking away with something that looked an awful lot like guilt.

“I might have just said I have a wife on livestream.”

Flashback to a couple of hours before, when some, probably thirteen-year-old, boy commented on Kenma’s apparent lack of rizz. A gen-Z concept Kenma had no interest in taking part in, but felt weirdly offended by.

“Bet you dont even pull, all the marridge rumors are so stupd.”

He would never admit out loud that it hit a nerve, but you wouldn’t need him to. It was evident. “You should see my wife, noob. She’s fucking gorgeous and plays better than whatever you pull.”

masterlist

/thank you @cottonlemonade for brainstorming with me<3

[vaguely-concerned]

I have so many thoughts I (ironically) can't put into words yet about the use of heightened and ritualized poetic language and phrases in connection to magic in Nevarra (or possibly within the mourn watch?). they don't default to an ancient language for it like tevinter predictably seem to, and while they do have a whole scholarly language for the academic side of it -- when they're actually casting it and interacting with the dead, they speak in common but through poetry and metaphor in ways we haven't seen any other culture do. maybe the avvar, as the closest, just in a different literary tradition. they speak to the dead, but in a living language. ingellvar rook gets a bit defensive and even reproachful during emmrich's recruitment quest when the other companion makes some sort of comment to question it. 'it's watcher tradition! >:('

'Open your hearts to the final day, companion of all the ages'. even a rook who doesn't take the almost religious element of the role of watcher as seriously knows that one by heart no matter what you make them say during walking the graves. when myrna in so many words says that the necropolis is still rook's home, the way they agree with her is simply to quote 'A home in life, a berth in death...' and her smoothly finishing the thought with 'a house of many mansions'. there are several times with emmrich where rook answers something he says just by quoting from some watcher text they both clearly know well. (if you do this to weasel out of answering when he asks if you're afraid of dying, he is understandably peeved you're quoting watcher 101 stuff at him, and rook clearly knows exactly what they're doing.) this shared base of literature -- and more than that a kind of oral tradition, it sounds like? it's just What You Say when you do certain things, do you think half of this is even written down anywhere? this shared inheritance of language making for a feeling of belonging and continuity is beautiful and moving in a way but also. a bit cold and distant, all mind and no body connection. which I feel might be a running theme around the necropolis haha they mainly seem to have interest in bodies once life has vacated them, they don't give that much thought to what makes it feel good to be in one while you're here. we can only imagine the psychological effects of growing up a crypt baby in this particular cultural milieu.

you know what it reminds me of a little bit in places, actually? the way the qun uses language and set phrases to convey layers of meaning. the qunari are an oddly poetic bunch. and I think there's also something here about like... cultures whose religious side are more about philosophy and the language used than an idea of the divine as such. yeah nevarra is technically andrastian, at least on the surface, probably largely for reasons of 'ugh it would be SO inconvenient to have an exalted march called on us :/ some of us have real shit to get on with you know this body isn't going to mummify itself. sure tell orlais we'll join their dumb club or whatever'. but within and beneath that the syncretism with and survival of much older traditions are still so obviously (and double ironically!) alive. how much does your average watcher believe in god, and how much and how immediately do they believe in the grand necropolis, and in their duty to what has been, what is and what will come after them -- the quest for knowledge? memento mori ass culture to the point of absent-mindedly forgetting about everything else including god (affectionate). maybe the maker exists, but he's just not that relevant down here. he may take the souls, but we still tend the graves. render unto the chantry what's the chantry's, and unto the watcher what is theirs!!! really is the whole thing huh

[serbarris]

I'll Crawl Home to Her 

Dragon Age: the Veilguard, some spoilers for plot, spoilers for Emmrichs romance  Pairing: F!Rook (Mourn Watch) x Emmrich Volkarin  Rating: M   Summary: Eight significant times Emmrich Volkarin called Rook by her real name. 

Length: ~2500 words

Read on ao3 here! 

Emmrich Volkarin first called Calliope ‘Rook’ Ingellvar by her name before she went by Rook. 

“Miss Calliope,” Emmrich called over the heads of the handful of students leaving his classroom. At the sound of her name coming from her favourite professor, Calliope instantly flushed and motioned to some companions that they should go ahead without her. “A word if you don’t mind.”  

“Yes, Professor?”  She asked biting her lip. Professor Volkarin was her favourite, not just for his fantastic necromancy skills, or how eloquently he explained such fantastic concepts, but he was also very attractive. At age 35 his hair was greying at the temples, lending him to look even more distinguished than his carefully put-together clothing suggested.  

“I’ve heard from others about your certain... proclivity, to have some ‘adventures’ outside of the Necropolis,” Emmrich began, shifting her paper to the top of the pile, noticeable stains and grease marks littering the off-white sheets. A disapproving frown crossed his face. “I will ask that your future work be submitted with less detritus than the most recent assignment.”   

Calliope looked at her paper and a brighter red coloured her cheeks and chest, “Of course Professor, I’m so sorry. I swear I don’t usually do work outside of the library, but something happened with –.”  

Emmrich held up his hand to stop the ramble from leaving Calliope’s mouth. A soft smile graced his lips, “Not to worry, my dear, but your work is excellent and you should take pride in it. Now please, I have taken up so much of your time already, run along and join your friends.”

 

The second time Emmrich says her name it’s when they meet again, 15 years later. 

Rook had yet to admit to Bellara, or Myrna and Vorgoth, that she did indeed know Professor Emmrich Volkarin, and of his work. Luckily her time away from the Watchers had helped steel her emotions, calm her once easy-to-flush cheeks, and made lies flow smoothly, but she had been anxious all week in the lead-up to their Necropolis visit. Bellara even commented on her makeup that morning, making Rook flush and attempt to wipe some away with the back of her gloved hand.  

-  

“Rook! Lovely to meet a fellow Watcher,” Emmrich exclaimed as he gripped her hand, shaking it politely. “I must confess I apologise if I have you confused, but Myrna had mentioned a ‘Calliope’ to me?”    

Calliope’s face dropped from her measured welcoming smile to a startled expression. Letting go of Emmrich’s hand, she attempted to speak voice unsteady, cheeks flushed. “Uh, yes Professor, Calliope Ingellvar. My friends call me Rook. It uh, caught on in the year since I left the Necropolis.”  

“Ah, no worries, my friend. I shall follow suit.” Emmrich turned with a flourish, leading Bellara and Calliope to the Belfry. Calliope internally kicking herself over the interaction.  

The third time Emmrich said her name was after they shared tea in the Memorial Gardens. 

“Speaking of home, have we really never met around the Necropolis before? Even in passing?” Emmrich’s eyebrows raised as he asked the question. Rook’s eyes widened feeling like a halla in the lamplight. An uncomfortable feeling churned in her stomach as she debated how much of her past to reveal. Especially, how enamoured she was with Emmrich as a young adult.  

“Oh um, I don’t remember everything from my scholar days. I only took a few advanced classes. Got too... busy.” Rook’s mouth dried at the admission. It was a half truth, she remembered nearly every moment of her schooling, growing up with the senior Watchers as guardians, and more books for company than friends, she was in advanced classes at a younger age than many of the other Watchers her age. 

“You know, I’d heard we had a young Watcher getting into scrapes on the streets of Nevarra around then...” Emmrich mused, Rook could almost see the cogs whir in Emmrich’s brain as he searched his memories for a young Rook.  

“They weren’t scrapes! They were... extracurricular learning opportunities.”  

“Aha! That's it! Calliope, you were in my Advanced Fade Studies and Etheric Flows class!”  

Hearing her name from Emmrich’s mouth took her breath away. She had rather hoped he wouldn’t remember her from her scholar years. Calliope couldn’t deny the butterflies fluttering in her body as he remembered her, almost regressing to her 16 year old self, and she endeavoured to change the topic from herself as quickly as possible.  

“Yes, I... your class was most enlightening Emmrich, but I couldn’t help but hear you mention homesickness?”  

The Fourth time Emmrich says her name, it’s a revelation. 

Fighting on the beaches of Rivain always pissed Rook off. It was always too hot, and too sandy. She hated the sand in Rivain, it felt... so coarse compared to the finely milled sand that tracked through the Necropolis. Of course, the scenery of Rivain was stunning and the smell of the ocean air was refreshing, as long as the Antaam weren’t burning gaatlok in her general direction.   

Rook dove for the gaatlok-armed Antaam, pushing her body to flip and attack the hulking Qunari with her imbued daggers. Necromancy pulsing from her hands as she struck true. Pulling her weapons free she could hear Emmrich and Taash finish off the last of the Antaam soldiers who had ambushed them.   

“They just seem to be around every bloody corner here, don’t they?” she exclaimed, wiping her daggers on her bloodstained clothing.   

“Until we can get to the Dragon King,” Taash remarked. The team had tried to track down the Dragon King to no avail, however his poorly planned traps had to lead somewhere.   

“We’ll get to him soon enough Taash, then you can set him straight on Dragons having queens!” Rook stretched to pat Taash on their shoulder in consolidation. Suddenly a loud explosion pierced Rook’s ears, throwing her to the ground some distance away from where she stood. “Calliope!” Emmrich shouted over the ringing in her ears, she felt sand being kicked near her face as Emmrich’s familiar boots came into frame, and a distant squelching noise of an axe being buried into a body barely registered. “My darling are you alright?” Emmrich asked, sending his warming magic over her body to check for internal injuries.  

“I think I’m okay, can you help me up?” Emmrich slowly manoeuvred her to sit, taking stock further before helping Calliope to her feet. He gripped her waist tightly to keep her steady as she threatened to sway, waiting for Taash to make their way over. 

“Hey, Emmrich.”  

“Yes, Taash?” Emmrich was exasperated, whatever could Taash want at a time like this?  

“Why did you call Rook ‘Calliope’? She’s called Rook?”  

The Fifth and Sixth time Emmrich called her Calliope, she had a cold. 

Emmrich looked up from his desk to the sound of Manfred hissing and raising his tray, proud of his assortment of tea, soup and some bread. “Ah Manfred, have you prepared this for dear Rook?” A pleased hiss resonated through Manfred's skull, Emmrich straightened the papers on the desk and rose from his chair, peering through the windows above to where the sun was coming through the windows. “It is about time to give her another tonic. Thank you, Manfred, I can take this next door.”  

Emmrich gently knocked on Rooks’s door, hearing soft snores from behind, he quietly pushed open the door and rounded the middle of the room to the table closest to the sofa. The dim light from candles and the fade fish illuminating his path. Placing the tray down, he crouched down near Rook’s face, and gently rocked her, “Rook? My darling, it’s time to wake up.”  

A grumbling “Mmph” was the reply he received. “Calliope, I brought you some soup.” He drawled elongating her name, much like himself, he knew the food would rouse her from drowsiness. She was often second to the kitchen when food was served, her childhood in the Necropolis meant she often had to go without, and why she often picked up odd jobs around Nevarra City to purchase items that weren’t second or third hand.  

Calliope’s eyes slowly opened, blinking, she noticed even with her lying down and Emmrich crouching he towered over her. As she shuffled to extricate herself from the blanket and sit up there was a thud of a book dropping to the floor. On instinct Calliope reached for it, however Emmrich’s longer reach picked it up far swifter than her lethargic body could match.  The book read ‘The Obverse of Reality: Studies of the Fade in the Waking World.’ A soft gasp left Emmrich as he noticed the book as one of his very own works, Calliope’s copy was too well-thumbed and too battered to be from his own study in the Lighthouse. Calliope noticed his recognition of the title, her face becoming hotter despite the chill that cloaked her body after removing the blanket. “You never told me you have read any of my works, my dear.”   

A shyness crept over Calliope, her eyes darting away from Emmrich’s face as she replied, the congestion in her nose lending her voice a nasal tone, “Well, I was in this class, I had to get your book, it’s even a first edition!”  

“It must have been sixteen years since I published this –” Emrich mused,” I'm sure I’ve published much more recent findings on the Fade, especially since it started to thin.”  

“I like it, I can hear your voice as I read it.” Calliope started, her voice slowly getting quieter as she admitted, “It’s um – comforting, to read a book I know so well.” Emmrich rose from his crouch, placing a gentle kiss on Calliope’s forehead and moving to sit next to her on the sofa. His earthy scent relaxed Calliope instantly. “Well, how about I read some passages aloud as you eat my dear, I also brought another tonic, it should keep your symptoms at bay and allow you to rest.” Said Emmrich, motioning to the tray on the side table.  

Emmrich’s voice was gentle as he read, often musing on additions he would make to the text, or discussing Calliope’s scrawled annotations in the margins. Making note that she used tiny skull shapes to punctuate her ‘i’s’ and exclamation marks. After Calliope ate, she leaned back against the sofa, her head resting on Emmrich’s arm as he continued reading. Emmrich turned the page to the next chapter and Calliope stiffened as she saw the doodle on the page, Emmrich let out a deep chuckle, noting the words written in a loosely drawn doodle of an anatomical heart. Calliope swore she could almost feel every blood vessel in her face expanding, a beet-red flush falling over her face as she scrambled to close the book. Emmrich moved to hold the book far out of her reach, a devious glint in his eye as he drawled “Calliope Volkarin, eh?”   

The Seventh time Emmrich said her name it was to give a gift. 

“My dear, please sit still or else I shan’t be able to give this gift properly.” Emmrich teased. Of course, he’d give her the present no matter what. But after finally acquiring a fitting token of his affection, his love, he wanted to give it to Rook exactly as he imagined.   

Stepping behind her perched on his desk, he opened the soft bag that contained her gift, he peered around to ensure her eyes were tightly shut, letting out an exhale of satisfaction Emmrich moved Rook’s hair to the side, holding it tightly in his hands he twisted her hair up and out of the way, a wry smile on his lips as he pulled lightly on the bundle. Rook let out a gentle hiss as heat pooled in between her legs. “If you could please hold your hair?”   

Satisfied, Emmrich proceeded to undo the clasp of the necklace, threading it around Rook’s neck, his fingers ghosting over her skin as he did so. After it was joined, Emmrich’s fingers lightly traced the chain over her clavicle, placing tender kisses on the back of Rook’s neck. Rook felt the cool weight of the necklace on her sternum, reaching up to feel the pendant, gasping as she raised it into her view. Finely detailed skeletal hands grasped a large garnet, it was hard to tell upside down but it almost looked like the stone was vaguely heart-shaped. “Emmrich, this is far too much! I can’t imagine what it must have cost!” Emmrich paused his careful mapping of Rook’s neck with his lips and moved closer to her ear, his light stubble scratching lightly at Rook’s skin.  

“I saw this when we were back in Nevarra and I couldn’t resist picturing how it would look around your neck, Calliope.” Added to the ministrations on her neck, he knew the reaction she had to Emmrich saying her real name, how a delicious red painted her cheeks and chest, creating the perfect trail for Emmrich’s fingers to follow. Calliope’s squirms brought herself closer to Emmrich, her back hitting his chest as he gently grasped Calliope’s neck with one hand, his other tracing the long line of her tattoo down towards her soft lower stomach. His cool rings icy against her heat.  

“Emmrich” she gasped, breath hitching, reaching for the back of his neck, bringing him closer, and kissing him deeply. Soft moans emanated from the both of them, Calliope broke away inhaling trying to extricate herself from Emmrich’s grasp, but he tugged gently, coaxing her back to her original position. “Calliope, this is about you, my love.” 

The eighth time, wasn’t really the eighth time. By then Elgar’nan had been dead for nearly a year. Emmrich and Calliope had returned to the Necropolis, Emmrich to his shaping of young minds, Calliope to the library, her younger self’s sacred sanctuary. On occasion they would jointly lecture on what they discovered during their time fighting against the Evanuris, careful to still keep some secrets. Manfred was flourishing under the tutelage of the Mourn Watch, his curiosity leading to amusing stories over dinner.  

On this particular evening, Manfred had delivered a sealed note to Calliope, asking for her to arrive in the Memorial Gardens when the dinner bell tolls. 

The flowers in the Memorial Gardens seemed to burst with fragrance as Calliope entered. A bouquet of lilacs stood on the table where Calliope and Emmrich had their first real date when they first started to truly get to know each other. A wisp danced across her vision guiding her past the ledge where a small table was set, taking Calliope back to when they first visited the Memorial Gardens together for the mourning rites, eventually the wisp paused at the steps that led towards the grave covered in snaking Shroud’s Kiss. Calliope thanked the wisp and continued up the steps, and onto the pathway which was littered in a cacophony of flower petals, lilac and yellow beckoning towards the figure at their juncture. Emmrich closed the gap, eager to reach his beloved. “Thank you for coming my darling, I admit it is poor manners on my part for such short notice,” he said entwining his hands with Calliope’s. “Emmrich this is quite the surprise, what’s the occasion?” 

“Well my love, I -.” Emmrich started, clearing his throat. “Calliope Ingellvar, my dearest Rook. Would you be so mad as to agree to a lifetime with a besotted fool of a professor, and do me the honour of becoming Calliope Volkarin?” 

And that was probably the most significant time Emmrich said Calliope’s name. 

[boozenboze]

2. Hound Dog

Tf!141 x Roberta!Male reader

Summary: Don’t mess with the people he holds to dear. He will get blood on his hands for them.

Women/Female Aligned DNI

While going through the endless amounts of older articles and private information. Price hadn't found much significance in the writings, though there were a few things he took to mind. Some of the poorly taken photos were clear to be of M/n. However, there was something weird under the information. He used to be under an elite squad way before he joined the 141. The call sign he has now Teleiotís, wasn't even his original call sign. Having gone under the codename Hound. "The hell were you up to lad..?" Price murmured, eyes focusing on the name. It was another word for a dog, a wild beast. M/n wasn't like that, he'd always been the perfect soldier. Even if he did act robotic sometimes. Despite the decent amount of info that was given, there wasn't enough to piece many things together. Why was he so durable, strong at that. He'd met many other soldiers in his time, yet there was nobody like this. Nobody like him.

Going a bit further, he found a folder in the corner of the screen, the slightly hidden folder having caught his full attention. He clicked on it, watching the screen flash black, extracting a look of wary from his face. 0...13..26...45...60..76...89...95...100..loading.

A knock on his door swept his attention away from the screen, Price now looking towards the door.

"Time to start headin' out," Laswell called out, leaving Price to sigh in response. He still had shit he needed to do, that would have to wait. They still had a job to do. In the moments that Price put his hat on his head, and headed out the door, a description was shown of a man. In bold italic letters in red, showed something that could change a lot. The Blood-Hound of The Inner Circle.

—————-

Everything went to shit, leaving Soap beat up on the ground with Gaz tied up to Price, arms to their backs. They don't know what they'd done with Ghost, but he's a tough one so they try not to worry much about it. After almost acquiring what they needed, the whole operation having gone too smoothly for their liking ended with them being led into a trap. M/n was nowhere to be found, hell he hadn't even come on this run with them. If anything he should still be at the base, doing whatever work he does when they do go on a mission without him. "Watcher-1, do you copy?" Price grumbled, voice sounding hoarse and dry. He struggled against the rope, wrists having rug burn on them causing a stinging sensation. "Shit.., Soap...lad you alive?" Soap opened his eyes, having had them closed moments ago. He looked roughed up, having run his mouth more than needed towards the enemy. Left him with a bruised cheek and busted lip.

"Never been better sir.." Soap groaned, feeling the pain in his back as he sat up groggily. He pushed himself up against the wall, working his wrists only to feel that he was tied too. "Got this shit bloody fucking tight- ugh." Soap struggled against his restraints to no avail, his wrists beginning to sting due to his struggle. He leaned his head against the wall, sighing out of frustration. As far as they could tell, they were unable to hear anything going on outside the room, and the only thing there for potential escape was a ventilation system high up on the ceiling. They were stuck, no doubt, with no possible way of escape. A few moments passed, Soap lolling his head to the right, hearing the door to the room they were being held in being unlocked. Adrenaline rushed through their bodies, an unspoken sentence going through their heads as their eyes set heavy on the door. Be ready

The door creaked open, Gaz shifting in his seated position, fully being on edge. With the door fully opened, they found themselves staring into nothing. The hallway was completely dark, the lights occasionally flickering. "The hell..?" Price murmured, squinting at the dark abyss of the hall, attempting to land his gaze on something, anything. Then he saw it, the familiar sight of the red substance he and the rest of his fellow soldiers often got on their hands. It looked fresh, and as the lights flickered again he could see the extent of it all. An audible gulp was heard from Soap, which was understandable. They weren't able to hear or see...whatever the hell happened, but there was no mistaking the sight of Ghost walking past, the large man stopping when he found his team. "Bloody hell..." Ghost said under his breath, rushing to untie Gaz and Price from one another. "Well look at that, L.T. here saving the day." Soap cheered cheekily, though the look Ghost gave him shut him up. He let the man untie him, nodding his head at him once finished. The 3 took the chance to stretch, needing to be ready to move again. "Mind telling us what going on?" Gaz questioned, referring to the flickering lights and blood-splattered walls. "Dunno wasn't me though." Ghost replied gruffly, his gaze coming in contact with the others who held a look of confusion and a sense of uneasiness. If Ghost hadn't done this, that'd only mean one thing. Someone else was here

"Where were you-, what'd happened when they took you," Soap asked, shifting his weight to his right leg. Silence filled the room, Ghost just staring at each of them.

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

Thwack

Thwack

Thwack

Blood was spat out of Ghost's mouth, and his mask had been ripped off his face, leaving him with his balaclava. He was being interrogated, his silence having ticked off the enemy soldiers badly. "Hell's it gon take to make ya talk eh?" The soldier said, the annoyance prominent in their tone. Ghost's head was to the side, his gaze to the ground.

"Oi...speak damnit!" A loud thud was heard, the butt of a gun making contact with Ghost's skull. The soldier went in for another hit only to be stopped by the other soldier in the room with a hand to the shoulder. They scoffed, backing away and letting the other soldier have his turn. They turned on their heel, walking out of the room, leaving Ghost alone with the other soldier. The man stood there for a moment, looking down at Ghost who was also looking at him. A look of distaste clear in his gaze, moments going by with just this. "You're gonna have to talk," He stated shortly, the soldier, pulling a chair to now sit across from Ghost. He sat, lounging in the wooden chair casually, potentially trying to appear laid back. An often yet effective tactic. "And hell if I don't?" Ghost said back, hardened stare not leaving the soldier who visibly became uncomfortable under his gaze.

"Well, ya teammates seemed pretty worried bout ya earlier." The soldier said, staring back at Ghost with his newfound found hand. The fucker was holding the lives of his team over his head, and quite frankly. That's not something he'd want to happen.

He glared, the smirk appearing on the other man's face pissing him off with each second it remained. "Lay a damn hand on any of em and I swear I'll-" Ghost was cut off by the sound of a blood-curdling scream, followed by the sound of glass shattering. The enemy soldier stood up, pulling his gun up steadily. The screams faded out, a cracking sound echoing through the now silent hall. The soldier stopped in place, the sound of footsteps being heard making their way down the hall. With a shaky hand, he grabbed the doorknob, slowly opening the door and peeking out of it.

His breath hitched, at the sight of the soldier who was originally inside the room with his neck twisted where the back of his head should be. His mouth was ajar, blood spilling from his mouth, worse part about it being that he was still alive. He wasn't getting enough air, choking on his own blood while using whatever air he had left in his lungs to breathe. Or at least try...

The soldier backed away, the door creaking open on its own, enough for Ghost to see as well. He tensed, gazing hard at the now dying soldier. Not even a second later, a gun went flying towards the soldier in the room with him. The man got thrown back, the gun sending him flying into the wall, the head of the gun piercing the man through the mouth and out his skull. His body now hung from the wall, completely motionless.

The remaining man, Ghost stared at the whole scene. He couldn't move, gaze shifting to the doorway again to see someone standing there. He was locked in, being able to hear his own thoughts yet couldn't move a muscle even if he tried. His pupils dilated as the figure approached him slowly and tentatively. Upon closer look, he had a black surgical mask on his face, with a familiar uniform on his body. Was he worried about that at the moment though? Not at all.

Ghost's eyes lost their sight on him once they went behind him, feeling the enigma untie his hands. He still hadn't moved, yet a look of confusion was now held in his eyes. His breath hitched when he felt something land in his lap, relaxing when he saw his mask. He looked back up, about to say something only for the man to be gone.

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

The three stared at Ghost, looks of equal confusion and intensity in their eyes.

"Let's move, can't risk gettin' caught up with whatever the hell's going on." Price said, quickly moving to lead the others out. They had to be quick, or else there'd be a possibility that they'd end up having the same fate as those other poor sods.

As they moved through the large building, swiping whatever guns or knives the fallen soldiers had on them. Gaz had to cover his nose at one point, the metallic smell of blood making him feel sick.

"Where we even goin'..., place s' like a labyrinth," Gaz murmured, staying close on Price's 6 while Soap stayed a bit further back with Ghost's imposing figure.

"Should be an exit somewhere-." Price held his hand up, the others stopping in suit. There were two people at the end of the hall, both throwing punch after punch at the other. With a quick and swift movement, the soldier who was clear to be the enemy lifted the other up, slamming him onto a table that was for some reason at the end of the hall.

"You really thought I couldn't recognize you...," An unfamiliar voice spoke, possibly the enemy soldier. The sound of a gun clock echoed through the quiet hall, the 141 members hiding around the corner, silently watching the whole spectacle. "I know how you fight, hell we were from the same regiment.

"Hmm, well I do recognize you..." The other voice spoke, Soap's ears perking up at the sound of it. If he wasn't dreaming, it was who he thought it was, despite his tone being so... different. A scoff of amusement was heard from the same man.

"Why don't you just shoot me eh? I see that look in yer eyes." The enemy spoke, glaring down at the other man. "You were an asset to our plans, yet you up and left us like an old toy. Boss wasn't very happy bout that..." Silence came back into the room, Gaz looking back at Soap who had a look of familiarity in his eyes. "What?" Gaz whispered, staying as quiet as possible. Soap held a hand up, a silent motion to tell Gaz to be quiet.

"Come back with us Hound, stop pretending to be some weak-ass hero. Come be the man you were before." The man pushed, smirk clear in his voice. The four men's eyes widened, their teammate? No, it couldn't be...how... "Markov would love to see this pretty face again y'know."

A low chuckle left the other man.

"Well...I am tired of it all, but once I'm done here, my job will be done," The voice spoke back, undoubtedly belonging to their teammate. The enemy backed away, gun still in his hands as he watched Hound intently. With the way his gaze lay on the man, it was clear there was something else he wanted. Hound, being the quick-minded man he was, sighed as he sat up a bit more on the table.

"Still being cautious, understandable." The sound of a belt unbuckling made Price quickly move slightly from around the corner, ready to shoot the man. Without missing a beat, the lock on Hound's belt opened, revealing something other than a belt. The sound of shots firing made Price back, the enemy yelled out in pain, falling to his knees.

"You fucking!- AGH." The man was cut off when he was suddenly lifted off the ground, Hound landing a heavy blow across the soldier's face. "You think I'd lower myself down to your level again? Pig," Hound spoke, glaring down at the soldier who looked shocked. Another punch to the face, then the stomach. The enemy spat out blood, knees buckling yet Hound's hold on his shirt unwavered. Another punch was heard, only this time a loud crack was heard. Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost listened intently, an uncomfortable feeling in the pits of their stomachs to the sound of bones breaking. "I'd never go back, not when I have them," Hound spoke, voice void of any emotion towards the beaten and wounded soldier "They're my family and my loyalty...my protection...my love is for them. I'd be damned if I let them go, or have you try and take me back to that shit hole."

It was like a pang to the heart, despite how sinister his tone was coming off. It was refreshing, he really did care for them despite how he behaved. Though, they couldn't ignore the fact that...he'd been associated with Markov. (A/n: I tagged those who asked to be tagged or be made aware of when this came out in the comments of pt.1) @byakuren100 @d0wnwthecl0wn @thefanpov @sochigonzo

@hashslingingslasherofficial @hauntedapplefarm @incubusx @king825

[fimrila]

Reflections on a Dwarf Mourn Watcher

I've finished my Mourn Watch dwarf run, complete with an Emmrich romance for the peak Watcher experience. This is certainly the most glamorous dwarf I've ever had!

I will say that while I found the Grey Wardens more immersive and narratively fulfilling, the Mourn Watch offered a fresher, more exciting vibe; it gave me roleplay opportunities to play a more cunning/witty character (based on the amount of extra studies a dwarf Watcher would have taken on) that I wouldn't have had with a no-nonsense Grey Warden.

However, I ultimately felt that the Mourn Watch faction was mainly written for mages. I was never really clear on what exactly warriors brought to the table. (Maybe I missed a dialogue branch or codex that would have explained this.) I honestly would have been fine with dwarves being hired as crypt guards or something Carta-like. Instead, it just felt like a few lines were tossed in to acknowledge the rareness of dwarves.

I first noticed this disconnect during Emmrich's "Walking the Graves" quest when he asked Manfred to kindly step aside so we could light the candles. Dwarf Rook commented: “I’ve resurrected simple undead before, but I’ve never seen a wisp animate a corpse so smoothly.”

I handwaved this as a writing oversight since dwarves couldn't do magic, but then it would happen again and again with Rook asking Taash if their "necromancy" bothered them or with Rook using the royal "we" in Johanna giving their necromancy a bad name. It wasn't a big deal to reload and just pick a different dialogue option to sidestep these references, but it was immersion breaking. To be entirely fair, there were several lines to acknowledge the lack of spellcasting: "I'm not a spellcaster, but any Watcher can recognize a necromantic evocation."

Either way, it was still a mixed bag.

On the whole, I enjoyed leaning into the savagery of the Reaper warrior specialization and experiencing firsthand the code-switching between Watcher Rook and Emmrich. Since I took him with me everywhere to maximize the amount of banter from him, I had a fresh perspective of the Fade and magic in general because of his insights. I appreciated his compassion towards the other companions and felt that he was a one-of-a-kind character. Both Ingellvar and Thorne definitely scratched different itches.

Favorite Mourn Watch-related lines: Isabela: "Great show. Guess the Mourn Watch are good at fighting more than just skeletons." Rook: "Well, when you think about it, we're always fighting skeletons. Sometimes they're just still inside people." -- Neve: "I follow the leads I've got. What, you don't like a good stakeout?" Rook: "I'm a Mourn Watcher. If I can sit through our ceremonies, I can sit through a stakeout." Neve: "Oh, the picture of patience." Rook: "(Laughs) When I need to be." -- Emmrich: "Unbelievable. Johanna's stolen a chamber from the Grand Necropolis and transposed it under Blackthorne Manor!" Lucanis: "Mages. You want contracts on your life? This is how you get a contract on your life."

[blackjackkent]

The bloodspattered key that we got off the Illasera display under the Ilmater temple doesn't have any indicator on it of what it goes to, so Rakha's only option is to try it on every lock in the Flophouse, I suppose.

She does take a quick look at the house rules in a book on a table in the lobby:

And the tenant logs on the counter:

None of these names ring any bells to her. There's also this in a book behind the counter, though, which is interesting:

"Extensive top floor extension?" Wyll says, reading over Rakha's shoulder. "Didn't notice that from the outside."

"For twenty gold, you would think they'd have done a better job," Jaheira murmurs dryly.

Upstairs, a stocky fellow in worker's clothes accosts her as they're trying to look around:

"What d'you reckon, lass?" he says, with the cheery conversational tone of someone who doesn't have anything better to do. "You trust these Steel Watcher thingymajigs?"

"Sure, why not?" Rakha says distractedly, already focusing on scanning the room for possible uses for the key in her pocket.

"Aye, do you now?" the man says impatiently. "Don't trust the whole thing, meself. S'all right while we can get work repairing 'em. But what happens when they build something else to do that? It's no good, I tell you."

Rakha, who did not ask to be part of this conversation, finds the beast in her head idly considering whether the man's body would fit into the nearby wardrobe if it were chopped into pieces.

She's distracted from pursuing this line of thought, however, by another set of voices from the other side of the dormitory area:

The master? Rakha thinks curiously. There are a number of troubling potential meanings for this - the Absolute? Bhaal? Bane? Gortash?

[STEALTH] Listen in.

Rakha is, in the general run of things, not particularly subtle - but these people are not paying much attention to their surroundings.

"The master said we have enough. The Black Mass is about to begin," the woman says.

"It's not for the master," the man says with a gleeful sneer. "It's for me. I want a beating heart there, ready for me when the Mass is complete and we're finally granted our freedom." He turns his head, enough that Rakha can see his eyes are glowing pale red. "After two hundred years of rats, I think we deserve a real drink."

Rats. Rakha remembers her foray into Astarion's mind the night he drank her blood - and the image in his memories of his teeth sinking into the belly of a squirming rat, draining it dry.

These are vampire spawn.

"There's no time," the woman says. "We are expected back at the palace."

"Relax." The man laughs. "The Black Mass won't start until master drags Astarion from whatever hole he's hiding in. We have time to find one more person."

(A/N: Had to pause here and look back to see what exactly Rakha knows about Astarion's history, because she managed to avoid learning anything about his scars. At this point - she knows Astarion was a slave to Cazador and that Cazador sent hunters after him, but not really much beyond that.)

All of Rakha's suspicions are confirmed. These are, indeed, more of Cazador's spawn, out on the hunt for victims in the way that Astarion has described from his past. Some of what they're saying doesn't make sense, though. Freedom?

As usual, Rakha is nothing if not direct. "What's a Black Mass?" she asks matter-of-factly from behind them, making both spawn jump.

A broad smile slides easily onto the man's face at once as he turns to face her. "Hello, beautiful," he purrs, winking at her. "I didn't see you there."

Wyll and Lae'zel both bristle at once at Rakha's sides. Rakha, for her part, doesn't move, though she feels a shudder of disgust as the vampire's eyes rake over her.

Wretch. Kill him, murmurs the beast urge in her skull. Show him how it feels to bleed...

"We were just discussing a... celebration being held in the palace of Cazador Szarr," the woman says smoothly. She, unlike her companion, seems uninterested in Rakha as anything more than a distraction; her smile has a pasted-on quality.

"You should come!" the man echoes eagerly. Rakha can see the subtle curve of his elongated incisor teeth. "It'll be the talk of Baldur's Gate."

Rakha stares at him, deeply puzzled by this conversational gambit. She still doesn't know what a Black Mass is, but the general implication is obvious. They are luring victims. "I don't normally accept invitations from strangers," she says coldly.

The man's smile widens. "Thank goodness we're such good friends, then!" he says brightly.

The woman rolls her eyes. "This is not the time, Petras," she snaps.

Petras gives an exaggerated sigh and lifts his hands in surrender. "Yes, dear sister, I know we have places to be. We'll leave once our good friends here have departed." Again that smile that shows every one of his teeth. "I look forward to seeing you at the palace, though," he tells Rakha. "It'll be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, I promise."

Rakha's mind is racing. The beast is growling, awake and angry after the strain of the past few days and all the people around her that she has held back from striking. And the clear and unmarred part of her brain, though weak in comparison, is also angry.

These are Astarion's brethren, eagerly seeking new targets for consumption and torment. They, it seems, are willing servants to whatever Cazador is plotting at the moment - something that he needs Astarion for. They are dangerous; they are monsters.

Wyll hunts monsters. This is a killing with purpose. It must be. It would protect their victims; it would protect Astarion.

Before she can fully process the thought, her knife is out in her hand, lashing forward, and she has a brief glimpse of a flash of alarm across Petras's face...

And then her blade passes through empty air.

Jaheira laughs under her breath, not unkindly. "A sight I have seen all too many times," she murmurs. "I could have told you it would do no good."

Wyll smiles slightly and reaches out to put a hand on Rakha's arm. "One of the nastier tricks vampires have up their sleeve," he says. "But I can't say I don't agree with the sentiment, anyway."

[rainnycloudstorm]

GhostFace x FemReader (NSFW 18+ Only!)

Warnings: DubCon, some violence, cussing, nsfw, smut, just a random GhostFace no explicit character.

Summary: GhostFace has been stalking you for days, watching you, remembering your daily tasks plotting his next move to strike in. You’ve heard about recent murders on the news so you take precautions but that wasn’t enough to stop him from getting you and what he wants…

You were hearing, watching the news of the latest outbreak of murders around your town growing more anxious, constantly looking over your shoulder, checking the locks on all the doors and windows of your home.

Tonight was like any other expect for the nasty thunderstorm raging on, and you were exhausted forgetting to check on the locks.

You laid in bed, passing out as soon your head hit your pillow. Only to be awoken by the feeling of your bed sheets being ripped off of you, you sat up; eyes still blurry from sleepiness once your vision focused you could see a tall, masculine man with a Ghost mask on. He stood at the end of your bed breathing heavily that you could hear it through the mask, his chest raising with each breath. You sat upright in complete silence,shock, and fear. “You’re not going to scream, or I’ll kill you right where you sit.” You looked at him, staring practically in a trance you couldn’t believe this was happening this had to be a dream right? “I’ve been watching you for some time now, I’m not much of a watcher but with you…” he paused, slowly crawling over the end of your bed, making his way to face you. “You’re just to pretty to kill…” He said as he lowered himself on your legs trapping you beneath him. “P-Please… please don’t hurt me…” You finally snapped out of your fear driven trance, your body beginning to shutter. “Oh… Oh… Shh…” He took his pointer finger and thumb gripping your chin pulling your face towards his mask. “I can’t promise you that, because I am going to hurt you…” His hand never leaving from your chin the other gripping at one of your wrists. You sat there shaking, but a part of you was beginning to feel warm feeling this strong and dangerous man sitting on your knees and gripping you so tightly was causing your uterus to tingle, but you didn’t want this guy to know. “Get off…” you said softly with a tremble in your voice, he chuckled quietly at your demand. “Oh Kitty… I plan to get off but…” He paused, moving his hand from your chin to run his gloved hand over your cheek tenderly but within one quick motion he gripped your neck causing your breath to hitch in your throat. “But you’re in no place to make demands princess.” He replied, pushing you back down by the neck. You tried to rip his hand away from your nape but it was no use he was to strong, to determined to get what he came for. He held his grip, using his other hand to raise your shirt to expose your bare breasts. “Heh… Well look at that, your nipples are already so hard, I bet your pussy is wet to hmm?” He chuckled in an obnoxious tone. You squirmed beneath him in protest, you could feel the heat raising on your cheeks and the way your pussy was already puckering in need. You couldn’t believe yourself, how could you possibly be turned on by this!? You thought to yourself. But before you knew it he hesitantly ripped down your shorts and panties with his free hand, taking his hands to lock them under your knees and forcing them up, pushing them into to chest. You gasped at his rapid action, “Stop! Please!” You yelled out, but he ignored your cries and protests. He adjusted himself over you moving his forearm beneath your knees keeping them pressed into your form. He slid his hand under his mask bitting onto the end of his glove tearing it off. “Look at the cute pussy.” He hummed out, taking his bare fingers to slide smoothly against your soaked folds. “Damn girl… You’re already so wet.” He growled out, you couldn’t help but let out a soft mewl. “That’s it princess, let it out.” He said with husky tone, you could tell his eyes beneath the mask were fixated on your heat. “You want it so badly, don’t you?” But before you could reply or protest you could feel his finger slamming into your cunt. You cried out in a moan, his finger thrusted into you hard and fast. You could feel the knot forming in your stomach, you were about to climax and he could tell. “Not yet little one! Not yet!” He growled out, you whimpered out at the discomfort of holding back. But he couldn’t take it anymore, he had to take you. He leaned backwards undoing his belt and ripping it out of his belt loops, swiftly undoing his jeans and lowering them just slightly letting his hard, thick cock spring out. He gripped it and began to stroke his cock while the tip pressed against the entrance of your wet, hot pussy. “Fuck…” he groaned out between gritted teeth, he slowly pushed it inside.

You could feel the stretch of his cock, it caused a shiver to run down your spine, the knot in your stomach becoming almost unbearable. “Fuck, you’re so tight and so goddamn wet.” He began to thrust into harder and faster, the sloppy wet sounds of his cock slamming into your raw cunt filled the room. The overwhelming knot forming within you, the smell of his musky scent, and his heavy breathing, light moans were to much to bare and with that you broke completely. “Oh my god! Fuck!��� You screamed out in a moan, wrapping your arms around his back, nails digging into his shirt. “That’s it, let it go and cum for me kitty” He demanded, and with that you started to climax your insides trembling and spasming around his cock. You could feel his body shivering as you came around him, “That’s it baby…” He huffed out, leaning forward and wrapping a hand around your neck, his other hand gripped your hip while his chest pressed into yours. “You’re taking my cock so well.” He praised with an obnoxious attitude, you cried out in a moan, you were becoming to feel drowned in pleasure and pain your head started to feel light from the lack of blood flow. “I’m going to cum inside your tight little cunt.” He snarled, his hips were slamming into you so violently you knew you were going to be bruised. With one loud groan from him you could feel his dick pulsating inside you, the warmth of his seed filling you. “Fuck…” He sighed breathlessly, pulling himself out and placing his fingers on each side of your folds, spreading you open watching as his cum slowly spilled out of your abused pussy. You were speechless, shaking while you laid there your head was pounding. But to your surprise, he slowly raised his mask only exposing his mouth he was pale, and a black stubbly beard. He leaned in forehead kissing you deeply, biting down on your trembling lowering lip. “Don’t worry princess I’ll be back…” he smirked down at you, and giving your cheek a firm smack. He got up, fixing his jeans and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Walking towards the open window, he removed his mask completely but kept his back to you. He lit up a cigarette, with one long inhale he blew his smoke and said. “Next time I won’t be so gentle.” He chuckled and slipped out the window. Leaving you to lay there trembling, full of cum, and the smell of sex and smoke that burned your nostrils. Your mind wondered a thousand miles per hour, you couldn’t believe what just happened you couldn’t believe you enjoyed it and honestly you couldn’t wait for more…

[contentloadingandstuff]

Mortuarius - Chapter IV

The flame disappears before his eyes. Adler snaps his fingers quietly, the flame returning as soon as the movement is complete. The small void dances over his fingertip, devoid of the characteristic crackles of fire. He gets his other finger closer, and the flame smoothly passes on. Adler repeats that action time and time again, marveling at the feeling. It feels like silk gliding across skin. 

Or, at least, that's how he remembers the sensation. 

The important, yet dull monologues of his colleagues fall deaf on his ears. Divisions, emplacements, mine fields, assault groups… discoveries of the recent, so-called "war games" rouse the younger commanders, dressed in clean, pressed, black uniforms. Despite their positions, they seldom wear armor. He sighs at this image. Some of his fellows, as time-worn as him, call this the collapse. The collapse of tradition, the collapse of old morality. Even of the old world. Although he would disagree with this nihilistic perspective, the reality doesn't elude him. 

Old guard. Those words resonate within his soul ever since he first heard them. That's what the new bones call him and his peers. No longer do they look at him as a shining example, the main display of Umbra's military prowess. Now, they see him as a rather dated decoration, an old yet charming vase. He's still seen as a source of general knowledge, but he's not perceived as the leader he was before. Not anymore. 

Adler sighs. Where did he go wrong? Is it even his fault, or rather - the inevitable advance of warfare? 

"Lord General?" 

The voice brings him back to reality. He swiftly extinguishes the flame, and looks back at the table. Almost every skeleton is looking at him, their eyes flickering with excitement and expectation. The officer that asked the question, whose name Adler couldn't remember to save his unlife, is pointing at a set of intricate wooden carvings of Legionaries and Rankmen, placed over a bridge. 

"Lord General…?" The man asks him again, fully snapping him back. 

"Yes." Adler clears his throat. "I see your point, and I can get behind it."

The commandant, seemingly satisfied with the answer, turns back to the table. 

Although he can very well grasp and understand the idea of artillery and gunpowder weapons, he can't comprehend the change these two brought. Suddenly, large regiments of melee troops were "undesirable", "risky". Heavy cavalry, so favored by Adler, was labeled as "pointless" and "too expensive to remain effective". Seemingly overnight his entire concept of warfare has been flipped on its head. 

He still doesn't see anything wrong with a good shock cavalry charge. The roar of a hundred hooves, the clouds of dust brought up behind the terrifying echelon of bone, armor and pointed lances… Yes! He still remembers it vividly from his time commanding the troops in the War of Vengeance. There's no amount of divine help that can save a man impaled halfway on a three meter lance.

Adler smiles and the black flame on his fingertips shakes as memories of violence come back to him. He remembers his formation tearing into the line of armored infantry during the battle for the capital, lances punching through shields and the men wielding them as if they were nothing but paper. He recalls discarding his weapon and drawing the axe, cracking helmets and skulls from the top of his undead mount. 

The sounds of screams, the sight of bodies crushed underneath the stampede of skeletal horses and the enemies routing in panic fill his mind. Too immersed in thought, Adler pays no attention to either the officers slowly leaving the room, nor the servant cleaning the table. His running thoughts are interrupted when a familiar figure sits on the opposite side of the table. He raises his head to meet Watcher's gaze. The other undead smirks. 

"Reminiscing old times, are you?" The liche crosses his arms over his robed ribcage. 

"Hm." Adler hums in response, putting out the black flame with a flick of his wrist. "There's nothing wrong with going back to the better days."

"That's all you have been doing recently, hasn't it?" 

The general scoffs. Watcher glances at his watch, and quickly straightens his gowns. 

"At least try to look presentable. They should be here any second now." 

Adler fondles his armor piece by piece, making sure everything is properly attached. The proper meeting was about to begin - it was in his best interest to show himself from the best angle, especially due to the caliber of individuals that would attend the meeting. 

And, of course, only a fool would look sloppy in front of any of the Death Knights. Let alone three of them. 

Right as the door opened, both skeletons jumped to their feet, their ornate chair scraping the floor loudly as they stood up. 

Three figures emerged from behind the wooden barrier. Adler didn't have to see to recognise the first character - the stench of rotting flesh and decay was so strong that it transcended mortal senses, making his very soul shiver in disgust. Plague came in with his more formal attire - out of all of his fellow Death Knights he was the one that favored variety of the wardrobe the most. Instead of his armor, a black frock coat covered his figure, featuring golden buttons with intricate carvings on them. Despite tightly fitting his fairly unimpressive frame, the clothing lay on him as if there was actual flesh underneath. His skull was practically indistinguishable underneath the combination of a black top hat with a wide rim, and the white leather crow mask, contrasting fashionably with the rest of his outfit. His hands, clad in white leather gloves, rested on a hardwood gentleman's staff. As he entered, he tipped his hat slightly in a gesture of greeting. If not for the oppressive stench, Adler would find him quite unimposing. 

Suddenly, the now serious voice of Watcher sounds out in his mind. 

"Don't look at Sibtu. This is one case where ignorance will do you good, Adler."

His eyes immediately dart to the floor. As much as Watcher likes annoying him, he never threw around warnings haphazardly. Listening to his words of advice, especially spoken in such a stern tone, would do him only good. The only sight of Fear his eyes register are the ornate boots, dated in style even by his standards, decorated with square, iron buckles. 

Adler looks up at the last newcomer. The first thing that catches his attention - as it always does - is the uniform Adaru wears. It is a somber ensemble, tailored from a deep, lustrous black fabric that seems to absorb both light and attention from everything that surrounds him. The coat, adorned with intricate silver embellishments, hangs sharply on his frame, giving him an imposing silhouette. Despite his fairly narrow stature, Adaru stands at an unnatural height, casting an imposing shadow on those before him. The angular lapels and precise stitching hints at meticulous craftsmanship, while the black gloves, tight and sleek, add to the oppressive air of formality. As customary for the members of the Commission, Adaru's face was wrapped carefully in pristine, white bandages. His hat was not unlike that of the newer generation of officers, and of course - black. 

Black, black, black. Why is everything they want to wear black? Is this, perhaps, another characteristic of the new era? In his time, black was the color of commoners, not one suiting the top of the hierarchy. Nowadays it seems to be the cornerstone of order and elegance, but he just couldn't shake the association with grime and soot. Despite multiple offers and suggestions to do otherwise, he never ditched his old heraldry. In his opinion, most of his colleagues could use some color. 

His thoughts were suddenly halted when Adaru turned to him, stretching out his arm for a handshake. Carefully, the skeleton took it, cautious so as to match the strength of his superior.

"General Aldehan Adler. It is always a pleasure to see you." Even if his eyes were covered, Adler was sure they were focused somewhere else. He relaxed slightly, comfortable in the notion that he was too uninteresting for the Knight. Having his attention was never a good thing. 

Adler nodded, forcing a friendly note into his voice. "The pleasure is all mine, Lord Bearer."

Without another word, Adaru moved to stand at the head of the table, with Sunqu to his right and Sibtu to his left. Adler was seated on the other end of the table, with Watcher to his left. 

"Gentlemen!" The Bearer of Pain spoke, his voice smooth and fairly modest in tone. "I am pleased to see you here in full attendance. The meeting will now come to order."

With that signal, everyone took their seats. 

"It has recently come to my attention that the soul transplant procedure, at last, yielded results." The glance at Plague is enough of a suggestion, promoting him to reply. 

"Indeed. Thanks to some improvements in the process, methodology and, of course, the appropriate host - for which the credit goes to Sibtu - I have managed to keep the subject stable and alive." Sunqu turns to the former humans. "I have placed him in the care of two of my most trusted associates."

"It is our honor, Lord Adaru." Watcher responds, placing his hand over his chest. "We appreciate the trust placed in us."

"I applaud your selection of assistants, brother. General Adler is a fine choice when it comes to martial matters." Pain smiles at the skeleton in question, before dropping his voice slightly, gaze pointed directly at him. "Even if the means and strategies change as the ages go by, his mind remains sharp and his constitution noble. And so does his sense of fashion."

Adler feels his long-gone heart drop. The feeling of three pairs of eyes burning into his very soul freezes his vessel, rendering him speechless. With a considerable amount of effort, Adler makes the motion to clear his throat.

"Thank you, Lord Adaru. I serve the Great One with all my strength."

Adaru smiles, slightly clearing the air. Gazes drift away from Adler. "Anyhow. I have yet to see the results in person. Would you be so kind as to share any information regarding the subject? How can we be sure he is fit to survive?"

"I have found this human to be very resilient, very resilient indeed." A dry voice echoes from where Fear sits. It is dull, but constant. Every vowel is spoken with a different layer of the same, mechanical tone, varying in pitch and volume. "His grip on life is impressive, and his resistance to Necro is beyond anything we have encountered before."

“I see, and I trust your judgment. Now, we need to pose ourselves the question of what to do with our new acquisition. Has any Bearer voiced a particular interest in him?” 

“Sakurai Denki is yet uncontested.” Sunqu chimes in. “He is still an unsure investment. He appears to be stable, but his capabilities are still being tested.”

Adaru nods. “General? How is the subject’s performance during training? Are your perspectives positive regarding his future in the military?”

A trick question. Should his views be too optimistic, he might be considered a fool, but if he is too negative, his reputation as an objective authority will take a significant blow. He needs to find a middle ground. “The Sakurai is in good physical condition, but the Necro inside of him is quite unstable. It seems to fluctuate, although I can see no pattern in these changes-” 

“Denki is still unstable, as fresh undead tend to be.” Watcher interrupts, his eyes focusing on Adaru who listens on with interest. “But the changes have yet to cause any damage. I believe that with our assistance  - and Lord Sunqu will second me in this opinion - he will stabilize soon.” 

“... Even if he makes mistakes quite frequently, he does not suffer a shortage of determination within him.” Adler continues, throwing a bitter glance at his predecessor. “I have yet to see him yield, even under my most… invasive methods. In my opinion, Lord Adaru, Denki has potential with a strong base to build upon.”

“Thank you, General.” Adaru straightens up, and puts his hand to his chin. He remains quiet for a moment, immersed in thought. ”I will admit this, gentlemen - the Adarian State Commission suffers a shortage of reliable field agents. If Sakurai is indeed as promising as you make him out to be, then I could find use for him, provided that he isn’t needed elsewhere.”

“Ah, I see what kind of a use you have in mind. But that depends. An individual of unchallenged loyalty and unshaken resolve is needed here. I can assure the former, but does our subject have the latter?” Sunqu moves his hand, subtly signaling at Adler. 

The undead thinks for a moment, making sure to do so in images rather than words to make his considerations harder to read. Isn’t it too early? Denki is young to be a soldier, perhaps too young. And certainly he shouldn’t be made to…

“General?” Sunqu speaks again, his tone lacking malice, but the sting of his gaze is quite a telling signal. 

Adler stops himself, and speaks out without much hesitation. “I will do as you ask, but I am not willing to take responsibility for the results. Your proposition can influence him in significant ways, all of which may make his training… harder to complete.”

“Have some trust in my handiwork, General. But very well, I will humor you - the responsibility for this test will fall on me personally. On one, single condition.” Sunqu smiles, his polished teeth reflecting the light cast from the chandelier above. “You will test his mettle tonight. I want to see if this venture is worth my time.”

Adler looks down at his gloved hands, and sighs in quiet annoyance. 

“I shall do as you command, Lord Sunqu.”

—

Waltz eyes his guest as he uses the silver pincers to lift the blue crystal to his jaw. He promptly crushes it between his teeth and lets the shards fall through his mouth and down into the ornamental bowl below. The juicy, sweet taste of a cold strawberry (or rather the memory of it) pulses pleasantly from his core and throughout the rest of his skeletal body. 

What spoils the delightful taste in his soul, however, is the crude sight of Denki’s whole hand clenched around the fork’s handle as he shyly picks at the Coq au Vin on his plate, wielding the cutlery as if it was a dagger. Not even the rich, opulent decor of the private lounge he rented can distract him enough from the sorry sight in front. 

Waltz clears his throat, making sure to keep a steady expression against the odds. His right hand grips his wine glass, the other straightening out his collar. 

“I take it, Denki Sakurai, that you are not from here.” He starts out, and Denki looks up. Waltz’s white pinprick eyes meet the gray pupils of the human. “Your name is reason enough for a particular speculation, but it is not appropriate to make assumptions.”

“I’m Inazuman, sir.” Before he can elaborate, Waltz cuts in.

“I see! That explains your… unfamiliarity… with the cutlery. Allow me.”

Without hesitation, Waltz jumps up from his chair. The screech of the wood against the floor stings Denki’s ears. The skeleton starts moving over with decisive steps, circling around the long table. His heart drops as the realization hits it and with that, time seems to slow around him. 

Mistake. Mistake. He made a mistake. He made a mistake and there will be consequences.  

Denki’s heart is picking up the pace, and so is his breathing. Not yet. His hands adjust around the hilts of the silverware, his mind darting from memory to memory, searching for any reference. Every step Waltz takes feels like a painful eternity. 

He was told, wasn’t he? He was taught how to use these, but he forgot, and he knows what that means. Punishment, forgetting means punishment. He disappointed Waltz and forced him to waste his precious time to correct him. 

His thoughts overwhelm him like a river’s current. His eyes turn azure, setting loose memories. Instincts. Lessons from the past years and what followed, dealt by hands of the teachers. Waltz’s skeletal visage twists into a pale face wrapped in bandages before Denki’s eyes, his Vision twisting into a glimmering Delusion. 

Not yet. Not yet. The footsteps draw closer. Denki can still taste the blood on his gums from today’s earlier mistake, his jaw still aches dully, he can’t take one more.  It was going so well. He explained things to him, gave him food, treated him well, and this is how he repays Waltz?

There’s no time. Nothing comes to his mind. He wants to beg, plead for just a moment longer, promise that he will do better, but is unable to. Fear turns into terror, constricting his throat and silencing his voice. Desperation. But Denki knows better than to cry and be pathetic. Nothing will save him now. He lowers the cutlery with shaking hands and latches them to the table, seeking any comfort.

Waltz says something, but Denki can’t make it out. He stiffens, gaze obediently fixed on the plate before him, away from Waltz. The footsteps stop, and in a split second the man’s mind is flooded with their toolkit. Open palm. Fist. Kick. Whip. Cane. Baton. His body tenses in preparation for whatever torture is about to come. He knows better than to resist, it will only make things worse. 

Denki sees hands coming towards him. Too much. Too soon. He lets out a quiet gasp and it turns into a cry of pain as he feels something cutting the skin on his back. 

Suddenly, silence. No new pain, no slur, no laughter. 

Denki opens his eyes, preparing for a disciplinary blow. Instead of his teacher, however, he sees Waltz, frozen in his tracks with his arms still outstretched. Through the mist of his tears Denki can read an aura of concern emanating from the undead.  

There's a moment of silence. The skeleton lowers his arm, letting it drop limply against his side. The narrow points in the undead’s eyes shrink further, not larger than grains of sand. Waltz narrows his non-existent brows, and slowly moves closer to Denki, placing a skeletal hand on his shoulder.

“Are you unwell? Should I call a medic?” He asks with a stern, yet worried voice. Denki takes a deep, shaky breath and wipes his face with his sleeve.

A sense of shame overcomes him, the sort of shame that encourages him to scratch out his very eyes and flee to die in a dark corner. 

Denki swallows the embarrassment and tries to speak. “I’m sorry-”

“No-no. It's alright.” In response, the skeleton softly pats Denki on his shoulder, looking him straight in the eyes with a sense of camaraderie and understanding. “The fault is all mine. With what I know about you, I should have been more careful. Now, Denki Sakurai, would you mind if I showed you how to use these?” He points to the tableware. 

Denki nods. With slow movements and a steady tone, the general showcases the proper method of handling the tableware and, before long, Denki operates them with more confidence, allowing Waltz to return to his seat. 

“Although I am unfamiliar with the exact details, I do know that your passing has been, shall I say, less than ideal.” He gestures towards Denki. “When you were startled, your eyes turned blue. May I know what that means?”

The young man remains silent for a moment, pondering the question. His thoughts are interrupted when the searing pain on his back catches his attention. He slides his hand behind his collar and traces his fingers down where the pain originates from. Suddenly, he feels the familiar warmth of blood and a large, fresh gash on his back. After retracting his arm and confirming his suspicions, Denki answers. 

“I’m not sure, sir.” The blood on his fingers is a deep crimson, contrasting with his nearly snow-white skin. “I wasn’t aware of it until now.”

Waltz nods. “It seems pointing it out to The Watcher might be a good idea. Anyhow, please, help yourself to the food. It won’t taste as delightful when cold.”

After discreetly using his sleeve to wipe the blood clean, Denki tastes the meat doused in brownish sauce and is immediately hit with a rich, intense and slightly alcoholic flavor unlike any he had experienced before. He closes his eyes, letting it dissipate pleasantly on his tongue. 

Waltz smirks at his companion's reaction. He chews another piece of candy, this time the taste of a freshly baked, buttered bun. His hand instinctively reaches for the wineglass, finding it filled to the brim with fine Clochette Terrestre, the memory of which has been meticulously formed into a dense, red mist. As he lifts the vessel to his jaw and tilts it upwards, the substance pours down his bones, latching onto the copper wires lining his spine, flowing down into his core and dissipating. Waltz revels in the rich, deep flavor of someone's finest memory of the drink. 

His eyes find their way back to Denki, who is picking the meal apart with his fork. 

“Is everything to your liking, Denki Sakurai?”

The man seems startled by the question as he freezes, but promptly clears his throat and relaxes. 

“Yes, general. It's a bit different, more intense than anything I had in the past. That's all. Also, if I may…” Waltz gestures encouragingly with his hand, and Denki continues. “In Inazuma, the family name is usually said before the first name.”

Waltz's irises flicker and he frowns. What a fool he made of himself! His mind scrambles for an explanation. He didn't know! Right, yes. 

“Forgive my ignorance, Sakurai Denki. My home nation, Fontaine, is everything but close to yours, and so is Umbra, in which I spent the last fifty three years, meaning my lack of knowledge is a somewhat natural result of my situation.”

Waltz sends Denki a courteous smile. His foot starts tapping on the marble tiles below with impatience. 

“It's no problem.”

Waltz deflates, the façade of his smile turning into a genuine expression of satisfaction. Crisis averted. 

“Speaking of, your lineage must be truly worthy of respect. After all, who else is there to honor for raising such a well-mannered young man?” 

The other shifts in his chair. He hesitantly tastes the next portion.

“Thank you. My parents made multiple contributions towards the safety of Inazuma, but they never received recognition from the public. Their occupation was a lot less flashy than that of other nobles.”

Waltz can't help the smile. “Ah! So you're of high birth… That would explain your eloquent speech and predispositions. I see why the Great One chose you.” Denki doesn't seem to think much of the praise. Instead, his face remains blank, but the wrinkles of exhaustion seemed to deepen. The undead clears his throat. “Although the way you speak of them encourages a certain conclusion. My condolences.”

A slight, dismissive nod comes as a reply. Denki chews quietly for some time, causing an awkward silence to envelop the table. Waltz lets out a nigh inaudible sigh as he takes another sip of his wine, waiting for an answer. 

“Forgive my bluntness, Sakurai Denki, but it seems that being a good conversation partner is not your forte.” Waltz leans forward in his chair, a note of annoyed disappointment in his voice. “Which is unusual considering your origin.”

Denki's eyes flicker with a purple tint. “General, I’m sorry that you find me uninteresting. My social skills might not be on a high level as I didn’t have the opportunity to learn everything. I… didn’t have enough time.” “Oh. Forgive me for my insensitivity. How old were you when you passed, if I may know?”

For a moment, the human tries to recall the last time he called Narukami Island his home. The memories are blurry, with many undated gaps between his departure and revival. “I think I was around seventeen, sir.”

Waltz takes a sip of his wine and nods. “I see. You are a proper young man it seems, but your intelligence is quite beyond your age. I’m sure you had an easy time making friends in your earlier years?”

A small smile starts to turn Denki’s lips as the first pleasant words in his recent memory warm his soul. He shakes his head slightly. “To be truthful with you, I wasn’t the type to enjoy outings or parties, neither formal nor informal. I spent most of my days with a book in my hands.” “That’s commendable, Sakurai Denki. Especially seeing as youth tends to dismiss education these days, no matter where they are in Teyvat. What I had seen in Fontaine seems to apply to Umbra as well.” The general’s skeletal head turns with interest. “Speaking of Umbra, what are your impressions?” “It’s very cold here. Whenever I look out the window of my room or train, it always seems to be snowing or raining. Inazuma isn’t a warm nation, and I had some…” Denki pauses, searching for the right words. “... experiences in Snezhnaya, but still I cannot see the climate as anything but… sorry.”

In response, Waltz lets out an echoing chuckle. “Then it seems our opinions are alike. I also miss the temperate weather of the continent. I miss the hot summers, the brightness of nature awoken by spring - I even long for a winter. It has been too long since I’ve seen clean, white snow instead of the brownish slog covering the city now and then.” After seeing his glass is empty, the general raises his hand. A living attendant comes shortly, dressed in a proper three piece suit, and refills Waltz’s cup. “I have always wondered why the only season here seems to be autumn.” “Maybe it’s the wind?” The same waiter comes to take Denki’s plate. When the man asks if he wants dessert, Denki shakes his head and places a hand on his heart in a universal gesture of gratitude, prompting him to leave. “I have read that, in some parts of Teyvat, Anemo is strong enough to form currents that can push and pull clouds over thousands of miles. Maybe Umbra is near one of them.” Waltz nods. “It’s plausible. The people here, however, seem to have their own theories.” “What do they believe?”

Denki stops himself from lifting his cup of green tea right before it touches his lips. He lowers it and looks inside. The tea is comfortably ordinary with nothing unexpected inside. Relieved, he takes a sip.  

“You see, Sakurai Denki, they believe it is a curse. A punishment from the Gods, to be precise. It is said that when the Cataclysm took place, a group of desperate survivors prayed for salvation to death itself, hoping to avoid punishment for their sins against the heavens. The Great One took pity on them and came to their aid, taking them in His care. With His power he tore out a piece of the ocean’s floor, carving out what is known as Umbra to this day as a safe haven for them. In return, they accepted Him as their leader and god, serving him both during their lives and beyond. However, Celestia loathed The Great One for harboring the unworthy. For his rejection of their rule, the Gods doomed Umbrians to life in this eternal, cold, hellish mudscape you see around you.”

Silence falls as Denki takes in the story. A question suddenly shines in his mind. “Why didn’t the Gods punish The Great One directly?” Waltz shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps for an immortal god, seeing their people suffer over a span of centuries is punishment enough?”

“Maybe you’re right, sir. At the end of the day, we might never know for certain. It is the gods we are talking about, after all. We aren’t in a position to understand them.”

“They are higher beings indeed. Even if we have transcended our mortality, our souls and minds are human still, and will likely remain so.”

Suddenly, a series of knocks on the wooden door sounds out. Both of the men turn their heads towards the noise. Waltz frowns. “Who goes there…” He whispers the phrase through his grit teeth, and changes his tone into a louder one. “Come in!”

The waiter opens the door and two skeletons, dressed in uniforms of similar fashion as Waltz’s enter the room. One stands near the door as the other marches up to the general. He leans in and whispers words into where the general’s ear once was. Although Denki can’t tell apart the words that are being spoken, their sounds suggest they are in Umbrian. Waltz listens intently, leaning towards the envoy with a pensive expression. 

After relaying his message, the skeleton steps back. Waltz turns back to Denki, and raises up. 

“I apologize, Sakurai Denki, but duty seems to call - in the most frustrating of moments, as usual. I’m afraid we will have to postpone our conversation until our next meeting.”

Denki stands up slowly. “I understand.”

He watches as Waltz draws a small block of white paper strips. Pulling out a black fountain pen with a golden tip, he makes several writings on the topmost one with just a few flicks of his wrist. Waltz tears it off and hands it to the waiter. 

The skeleton’s eyes find their way back to the human. Waltz stretches out his hand, flashing Denki a smile. The man approaches him and takes the gloved hand in his, shaking it gently. 

“Thank you, sir. The food was outstanding and it was an honor to be in your company.” As he speaks, Denki bows out of habit. Waltz doesn’t seem to mind, the feeling of a smile never escaping Denki’s mind. 

“Ah, nonsense! I should be the one thanking you for your time. Someone of such a reputation and unique situation as yourself surely measures his time in Ether.” Their hands part, and Waltz places his hand on Denki’s shoulder. “Besides, you must have trained hard today. You are surely exhausted.”

Their eyes meet, and Denki’s heart warms at the sympathy he finds in Waltz’s irises.

“I wish you a restful night, Sakurai Denki.”

-

But there was no rest to be had that night. 

Around midnight, when the pale light of the moon was the most prominent, Denki was shaken awake. Without a moment to question or even understand his situation, he was forced to spring out of bed and dress up amidst shouted orders. The skeletons that came for him wasted no time, shoving him out of his room and practically dragging him through multiple corridors and staircases. 

As he marched through the fortress, he could finally collect his thoughts. The most instinctual part of his mind raises alarms - it wasn’t the first time in his life when his privacy and rest was violated. But this time, it is the undead that ripped him out of the bed. What would surely scare the majority of people, however, brings him a sense of comfort in separating the memories from the present. 

He sneaks glances at the soldiers that are escorting him. Their weapons are absent from their sheaths, but the rest of their equipment is in place. Black, matte plates lined with similarly dark padding underneath effectively hide every bit of bone from the onlooker. The padding stretches from their heavy boots, over their rib cages and up to a high collar, tucked into their tight-fitting helmet on their skulls. In the front, the metal visage of an expressionless man covers their features, but Denki can still spot their glowing, white eyes within. He has seen their kind of armor before - he wore it during his training, learning how to put it on and getting comfortable with its weight. Without a doubt, they are Legionaries, the same that Denki saw Adler around many times before. 

Despite the exhaustion imprinted on his face, Denki smiles. Will he become one of them?

They lead him towards a side door that the human assumes to be, based on the lack of any windows, several layers beneath the ground level. Without knocking the soldiers push the door open, and motion for Denki to go inside. In the room stand two more Legionaries in full uniform, a skeleton in a flowing black robe and Adler himself.

The commander approaches Denki right away. 

“Ready?” He asks with a demanding voice. 

Denki nods, but his voice comes out slightly mumbled. “Yes, sir.”

Adler frowns, and turns his gaze left, where a large, open barrel stands. Several cloths are partially submerged in the water within, likely used in cleaning the soldiers’ equipment. Adler submerges his hand into the vessel, gathering water into his glove. Promptly, he turns back to Denki and splashes it across his face without warning. Denki recoils and gasps as the icy fluid instantly brings his senses back to working order. He coughs out the water that got into his mouth, and Adler crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Feeling awake yet? More confidence! You’re a man, not a teenage girl, Denki.”

“Yes sir!”

“Better.” He points to a rack with a complete set of equipment, polished and ready. “Get your armor on, pronto. Everybody is waiting for you.”

Denki wastes no time and rushes over. He starts with the leather jacket, draping it over his shirt and quickly buttoning it up. Despite being designed primarily for undead, the cotton reinforcement was left exposed from the inside, giving the wearer surprising comfort, along with plenty of warmth. Adler watches closely as Denki puts on the lower part of the fit, replacing his nightgown bottom with a thick, protective layer of dark leather and sliding heavy boots with studded soles on his feet. The armor plates are next - the most difficult part of the process. He quickly throws the top plate over his chest and starts clumsily buckling the straps, securing it tightly to his muscular chest. What comes after is easier - the greaves, braces and other limb protection doesn’t prove as challenging to fit. Soon his equipment is finished up with three belts - one for his waist, fitted with small pouches and two for his sides, with that for his right thigh holding a sizable knife, and the other an empty holster, with a secure strap on the top. Denki adds the helmet, tailor-made for his flesh-covered head, and reaches for the mask.

“You aren’t a skeleton, are you now? You don’t need that.” Adler says, and motions for Denki to come over.

The man obeys. Adler reaches down with his left hand, unbuckling his holster and drawing the weapon inside. He turns it so that the handle is pointed towards Denki, and the human takes it in his hand. 

The gun is unlike anything Denki ever saw in his life. A flintlock pistol from Fontaine is the closest item that it could be compared to, but it would still do no justice to how different the contraption was. Instead of wood, most of it was constructed from metal, this weapon’s being painted a dull gray with accordance to the nighttime camouflage pattern he was wearing. Instead of the multitude of parts one could see in a musket, this armament’s jaw was made up of a single element - a hammer-shaped piece of metal that would strike the unusual, box shaped part located right next to it when the trigger was pulled. It was shorter, yet heavier than a flintlock pistol. In spite of how often his mentor made Denki handle such a gun, he was still unsure every time he took it in his hands. The occasional tournaments in Inazuma were almost impossible to attend due to the noise, and firing such a device was all the more difficult than watching it in the hands of someone else. 

Still, he needed to swallow his worries. He won’t become what he is meant to be by being fearful.

“Reza Model 22. Rules.” Adler eyes Denki with expectation. The latter takes a deep breath, and begins reciting what he was made to remember.

“I keep the safety on until the mission begins. I only use it in an emergency. I never aim it at my teammates. I keep my finger off the… the…” His heart skips a beat as he sees the skeleton’s aura darken. “T-trigger.”

Adler nods. “Good. Now load it.” 

Denki takes the small cartridge box from Adler’s hand and cracks it open. The bullets within are as unique as the weapon itself. The outer layers of each are made exclusively out of brass, with the shell hiding what he was told to be the gunpowder, with the bullet, mounted at the tip and shaped like a dull spike of sorts being the only exposed part of the whole cartridge. 

He picks out five of them. Cocking a small lever on the side lets the barrel be moved. Denki carefully slides each round into a chamber, taking care not to use any force this time. His arms still ached from holding himself up as punishment for when his recklessness caused him to damage the barrel of his training pistol. After filling the chamber, he puts it back into place. 

“I need to put the safety on.” He says before Adler has a chance to instruct him again, a glimmer of approval shining in his eyes.

Denki uses his thumb to slide a small, wooden cap to the side. It shifts to rest between the hammer and the cylinder, preventing an accidental firing. He then slides it into place on the back of his left thigh. 

“Well done. It seems that you can follow simple commands.” Adler chuckles, turning around to face the rest of the skeletons. 

They stand near the undead in the robe, their backpacks on and crossbows in their hands. Denki slides on his gauntlets, made of thick, dark brown leather with small armor plates on the outside parts. They are painted, just like the rest of the metal - to prevent light from reflecting off of them and giving the wearer’s position away. Snatching the rectangular shield and his shortsword from the rack, Denki focuses his mind on the weapons, and soon enough, they glow a bright yellow. He marvels at them as they fall apart into small, shining dust before completely fading away. Despite their dematerialisation, he can still feel they are nearby. He flicks his hands as if attacking something with the sword, just like Adler taught him, and surely enough the sword reappears in his grip. Denki dismisses the weapon and eyes the final weapon on the rack - a heavy crossbow. He takes it in his hold, and at last he joins the rest of the group. 

The lich raises up from the floor, uncovering the complex chalk drawing on the tiles. Copper wires line every part of the symbol, connecting at the small red crystals placed on overlapping points of the icon. 

There’s a moment of silence. Adler talks to the mysterious skeleton in Umbrian, Denki being able to recognise just a select few of the words spoken. His shoulders are quite close to the heads of the skeletons around him. 

Was he this tall before? Suddenly, a violent screech fills the room, making Denki almost drop the crossbow. He looks up at the source of the noise, one hand over his ear, and sees… nothing. Where the wall was just moments before, there’s a tear - just as if someone outlined the area and painted it black. However, no light was reflected by as much as an inch of the surface. 

“Let’s move.” Adler says, and the skeletons step forward. 

Without hesitation, they just walk into the rift, their frames vanishing into the void beyond. Denki approaches from the side as his last comrade walks through. He finds that it is not, in fact, a crack in the wall, but rather a space floating in the air, directly above the chalk circle. As he moves his head to view it from the side, he finds it to be… invisible? He looks back at the front, and the black gash reappears. And yet, when he views it from behind, he can see only an impatient Adler-

Denki’s eyes widen, and he springs back to the front. He waits for a verbal correction, but none comes. 

“Fascinating, right? I wasn’t believing my eyes the first time I saw a portal, just as you are.” He walks towards the rift and places his heavy arm on Denki’s back. “I can tell you more about them, but later. For now, get a move on.”

A slight push forces Denki to step closer to the passage. No sound, wind or smell comes from within. He tightens his fingers around the stock of the crossbow in his hands, and runs into the rift.

For a brief moment, his vision goes completely dark. Then, a barrage of colors, some of them he would be unable to even name. They twist like worms, flowing into various, repeating patterns with spike-like protrusions. Overwhelmed, he feels his knees give out and he falls forward, plummeting face first into the ground. 

Denki's head throbs. Unable to see with fractal patterns dancing before his eyes, he feels the ground with his hands. 

Mud. Slick grass. He takes a breath. The air is cold, humid, but not frigid. Sounds of rain surround him. He feels the droplets sink into his clothing. 

Finally daring to open his eyes, he sees what he has nearly forgotten. Grass. Fresh, lush, slightly bluish in the moonlight. He drags his fingers over its blades, unable to feel it through his glove. Slowly, he raises up, snatching his crossbow from the ground. 

Rain pours down from the black sky above as he examines the area around him. Grasslands, barely visible in the dark, stretch in every direction, sprinkled with birch and oak trees here and there. The terrain houses many bushes, fallen trees and rocky irregularities, but remains mostly flat. 

His team is barely visible to him, but squinting his eyes reveals their silhouettes, even darker than the backdrop of the rocks they crouch behind. Denki wastes no time and scurries to a lone stone, hoping his small stumble didn't earn him a punishment. 

Adler stands several meters away from his position, looking around. Denki cannot help his curiosity, and looks behind the rock he is resting against and in the same direction Adler's gaze stopped on. 

Despite the fog raised by the rain, the city is clearly visible as the lights within pierce through the obstruction. It's walled and positioned on a small rock isle, a stone bridge lined with lanterns being its only connection to the mainland. On top of the towers, several, multi armed windmills draw his attention, completely still in the hostile weather. 

He sits back down. How did the opening carry them from Umbra up to here, a thousand kilometers away?

The commander raises his hand. A skeleton approaches him, and after a brief exchange takes off to the side. 

Minutes pass. Denki's shirt is soaked, the rain pouring through every opening in his armor without pause. He lets loose an involuntary shiver, his breath turning to fog in the night's cool. 

At last, Adler speaks, breaking the monotonous rustle of the rain. 

“On me.”

As one, the skeletons raise up and jog up to their commander, with Denki following suit. His boots sink into the muddy road, but he presses on, splashing it around with every hastened step he takes. Before Denki can even fully warm up, their units stop abruptly. His comrades part, letting Denki see Adler motioning for him to come closer. He complies. 

“Over there.” Adler points, Denki's eyes following his clue. Right away, he notices the warm, orange light of a campfire some distance away, accompanied by several rugged tents. “Hilichurls.”

Although it takes a moment, Denki notices a handful of lean figures through the rain. “Are they who we are looking for?”

“Well, in a sense, yes. Our target practice.”

Denki furrows his wet brows. He knew what they came here for, but hearing Adler's words, acknowledging their meaning and consequences makes him uneasy. 

Hilichurls are monsters, yes - just like slime, like Vishaps or Whooperflowers. But there's something exceptionally human about them that sets them apart from the rest. The way they can build, light fire, speak and form groups always seemed eerie for Denki. 

He grips his crossbow tighter, the weapon of fast approaching murder. 

It's just Hilichurls. Monsters. They are dangerous, he thinks. They need to be removed, else somebody might get hurt. He knows this, and yet, the idea doesn't spark excitement in him. 

“We're going to go to the right, over there. See?” The skeleton points again. “Near those bushes. We’ll get a clear shot.”

Just a few seconds are enough for the unit to change their position. Adler kneels down, Denki joining him before the undead’s armor could touch the ground. Denki knows what to do. 

“Five in the camp in total, three asleep. I don't see any noteworthy weapons in the tents.” He whispers, eyes darting from figure to figure. Despite how barbaric he knows them to be, they seem harmless. Peaceful even. 

“Very well. I want you to take out the one sitting on the log to the right. It should be an easy shot for you to take.” Adler switches his language, tone remaining firm but quiet. “Load.”

Denki understands the command and quickly lowers his crossbow. He slides the metal now underneath the sole of his shoe. After freeing the string, he pulls it upwards. Every muscle in his torso and arms tense as the heavy crossbow creaks quietly, but eventually he pushes the tip of the line into a dedicated slot. Opening a pouch on the back of his belt, he draws a short bolt and places it carefully on the track. 

“Aim.”

Denki raises the weapon, lining the tip of his bolt with the humanoid figure by the fire. His heart pounds. His right hand rests over the trigger, ready to push upwards in a split second. 

His arms wobble under both the weight of the weapon and the sinking feeling in his heart. Denki bites his lips and props his right elbow on his raised leg. His aim grows still. 

“Fire.”

Denki pushes the level upwards, setting the projectile loose. 

Simultaneously, five more bolts are released as the team fires with him. In a flash, Denki's arrow finds its mark. The missile sinks into the Hilichurl’s side with a full thud. It lets out a yelp and falls from the trunk. 

A second passes. Then the next. The only sounds are the droplets of rain plummeting from the sky. In the camp, there are no movements. The Hilichurls lie still on the mud and in their tents. Some of them never woke up. 

“Clear.” Adler says, raising his hand and waving it forward. “Let's go.”

The company moves as ordered, this time at a normal walking pace. As they approach the campsite, the fog clears enough for Denki to get a better look at the tents. Calling them makeshift would be an insult to all things provisional. The cloth is made up of various fabrics differing in color, stitched together with thick threads. The water weighs heavy on the covers, coming through the ever present holes in slow, steady streams. Despite that, as he enters the camp, he can tell the hay inside every single one is at least partially dry. 

“Search! Grab every valuable item you can find.” Adler orders, and the undead get to work. Denki picks out the shelter closest to him and goes in. 

There's no monster carcass inside. Instead, he finds it full of crooked pottery and rudimentary boxes with red paint chaotically splashed across them. Denki strikes the top with the butt of his crossbow. The lid proves tougher than he expected, but another more forceful blow shatters the shoddy construction. The man can't see its contents through the darkness. He reaches for the pouch on his belt and draws a crystal. He unwraps the wire, and right as it is untied it starts glowing a bright yellow light. Using the Electro crystal’s light, he examines the contents. Rotten fruit, bags of stolen grain and rusty weapons fill the box. 

Nothing interesting. But then again, what did he really expect from Hilichurls? 

He leaves the tent. The area is littered with broken planks, smashed pottery and various miscellaneous pieces of junk. Someone already stomped out the fire, leaving most of the site to be illuminated solely by the moon. A red glint in a nearby puddle catches his eye. 

Blood has long started pouring from the creature he killed, mixing with the rainwater on the ground. It lies on its side, facing away from him. Denki crouches down and gently turns it over, coming face to face with its white mask adorned with unintelligible symbols. Using his free hand, Denki tugs at the fur around its neck, but it doesn't budge.The hairs are wet and filthy, littered with mud and dried, yellowed remains of… something. Below the mask the mane is stained dark red with blood, prompting him to turn his attention to the bolt. Only the back end of it sticks out of the body, seemingly having either broken them or passed in-between, burying itself in the right lung of the creature. He trails down, noticing how, despite having a fragile appearance, muscles line its stomach. Its nails, placed on five fingered hands, are long and unkempt with dirt and blood underneath. There's a simple bracelet around its wrist, composed of sea shells and pieces of polished metals. 

“Admirable shot.” 

Denki jumps and nearly falls onto the body. He turns around and sees Adler, looking down on him with a smirk of approval. The man recovers and rises to his feet, wiping the mud off his thigh plates. 

“Have you found anything interesting?” 

Denki shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Happens. Not every expedition yields income. Now come, we're done here. Let's not waste time.” Adler walks away, but Denki doesn't follow. Instead, he turns back to the Hilichurl. As if reading his mind, Adler speaks over his shoulder. “I’d advise you to leave the mask on. It's there for a purpose.”

His hand, already reaching for the wooden veil, stops, and he raises up to rejoin his comrades. 

Under the cover of darkness, they move southwards, away from the city. The rain faded, shortly giving way to the chirping of crickets. As the soil absorbs water, the terrain becomes more traversable. 

In a low voice, Adler breaks the silence.

“Remember, boy, that everything you can get your hands on that is on or near the enemy is yours to keep - that is the conqueror's right.”

“To the victor go the spoils.” Denki speaks out, and quickly adds: “Sir.”

His mentor nods. “Aside from Mora. Mora has much more use than a mere currency. Alchemy, forging, necromancy, sciences - any practical art you can name makes use of its power. Regardless, you can exchange it for Ether, ten to one.”

“I understand, sir.” 

The unit reaches a small clearing. Someone draws a pair of binoculars, and examines some areas invisible to Denki. The Legionnaire turns around and signals to Adler with a small nod. The general hums, putting an arm around Denki's shoulders. 

“Now, Denki, we'll see if you have what it takes to become a man. We'll find out what you are made of.” Aldehan Adler takes the binoculars from the scout and passes them on to Denki. He takes the wooden instrument in his hands, bringing them closer to his eyes and turning them in the direction pointed to by Adler. 

His eyes instantly pick up the light coming from a small crevice in the terrain. During daytime, the camp within, adorned with triangular, green cloth to stop the rain would be nigh impossible to spot. Now, however, it's easy prey-

Prey…? 

He shakes off the thought. 

Unlike the camp of the Hilichurls, this one is far more organized. Denki spots a tent over the rocky elevation, partially obscuring his view. It's completely gray, clearly designed with care - the shape is perfectly triangular, and the ropes stretch from the pegs and under the fabric to ensure the construction is stable. Behind the shelter there's a small, makeshift fence on which various clothes rest, their every thread thoroughly soaked. 

“We separate into groups of three. Two and four go with you from the left, and the rest of us jump down from the right. We jump down after you kill the wachmann, and start the massacre. They will be panicked, disoriented, easy to kill.” Adler speaks quickly, likely impatient. 

Denki wants to say something against the plan. Anything, even for a nonsensical reason. Whoever is in there likely doesn't have good intentions - why else would they choose to camp out in the open? Even if they are Treasure Hoarders, criminals, low lives, the very scum of the earth… No.

He couldn't do it. 

He hands the binoculars back to the scout. Denki turns to his master, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak his words die right in his throat. 

What would Adler do if he said no? 

Weak. That would be what he would hear. Pathetic wimp. Waste of time and space. He would have to hold himself up for hours on end, run in ankle ties of sharp wire, crawl over sharp rocks and mud until he would beg at Adler’s feet for forgiveness. He would mumble and cry, again. 

And yet, he didn’t want to do it. 

He didn’t want to obey, but was there really an alternative? Adler took him under his wing, The Great One offered him a new life. He was given a home, a place of safety. He was never hungry. He was never cold. All he is asked in return is a choice. A choice between weakness and… strength. Grit. Stoicism. He can show them that he can move on, be strong again. Achieve, mature. Become someone worthy of what he has received, a man deserving of respect, both feared and adored by those around him. 

He has to do it. 

“I’m ready, sir.” 

Without delay, Adler waves for two of the Legionaries to come with him. “I like that attitude, Denki. Get going.”

His group turns around. Denki follows their lead, careful to maintain his balance on the uneven, partially sunken road. The leading soldier quickly locates a smoother descent and slides down to the level of the camp, the other two following suit. Keeping a borderline crouch position, they wade through the trees and approach the entry to the base as close as the greenery will allow them to stay out of view. Denki sees his teammates load their crossbows, and so does he. One of them turns to him. 

“Do you see the man in that lean-to? Shoot at him with me. Wait for my signal, and remember to aim at the chest. It will be easy to hit.”

Denki takes aim, his hand tucked securely away from the trigger mechanism. His gray eyes pick up a flash of purple light from the rocky platform above the campsite. Illuminated by the signal are the other members of the team, their shields and swords at the ready. 

His eyes wander back to the human at the other end of his weapon. 

They sleep clothed, covered with ragged blankets. There’s a flask and a knife by his side, the candle that once illuminated them long burnt to the end of the wick. 

“Fire.”

The tension in his body is released as the bolt flies loose. The bandit opens his eyes, but before he can even react the projectile pierces his stomach, with the other planting itself directly in the middle of his chest. He curls and falls to the ground with a choked grunt. Behind him, the rudimentary roof collapses under the weight of the three armored undead as they jump down into the camp. A woman raises up from the ground, but her life is taken before she can make a sound. An axe leaves her skull split in half, painting the wight’s armor red with fresh blood. To the right, Adler stabs a startled human through the stomach, pinning him to the ground. With violent glee he turns the blade in his flesh, making his victim wail.

“Charge!” The command falls from the skeleton on Denki’s right. 

He slings his crossbow over the shoulder and dashes out of their hiding spot. As he enters the camp, his melee weapons are already resting in his hands. A quick glance over his surroundings reveals most of the work has already been done. Bodies lie strewn around the ground, amongst packs and chests splattered with blood. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Denki rips the front flaps of the tent to his left, revealing a lifeless body with a crossbow bolt lodged in its back, wrapped in bloody bed sheets. With his next breath, Denki takes in the nauseating scent of copper, causing him to back out and into fresh air. 

He lowers his weapons. It’s done. He turns to view the others. 

The subtle sound of a body being turned over escapes his ears.

In a flash, someone latches onto his back. Denki curls on reflex, making the assailant’s blade miss his throat by inches, sliding harmlessly off his armor. He struggles, trying to shake them off. The blade strikes again and again, each time meeting hard steel instead of vulnerable flesh. Fighting back, Denki dismisses his shield and uses his left elbow to strike at the attacker, causing them to let go. He darts around, coming face to face with a smaller figure clad in a brown cloak. 

She wastes no time and delivers a decisive kick to his knee, causing him to stumble. He raises his sword just in time to block her dagger arm, but his victory is short lived as he receives another kick, this time into his groin. He growls through the pain, and clumsily uses his whole weight to ram the bandit. They both fall through the tent, tripping over the dead body and plummeting to the ground. The woman pushes the disoriented Denki to the side, but he manages to get a fistful of her hood along with the hair. She yelps and kicks him in the face, using the initiative to flip around and stab at his eyes. Denki covers it with his iron-clad arm, rolling over to his stomach and tackling her again, sending both of them over to the edge. He pushes himself up to hover over her and grabs a hold on her neck. She attempts to retaliate with the knife pointed at his throat. Denki attempts to seize her wrist, yet is stopped by a knee right to his stomach. A glint of steel is all he sees before the very tip of the knife buries into his face and slices upward right through his left eye. 

He lets out a howl of pain, clutching his wound but never letting off the girl. She kicks and punches to get herself free but his body is too heavy. Grabbing a hold of his shoulders and flipping him over. Denki strikes at her chaotically, knocking both of them through the stick fence and down into the sandy ditch below. The woman yelps as his armored body crushes her hand with its weight, her only weapon falling out of her grip. She lands on the ground with her opponent rolling just past her. 

She tries to scramble to her feet, but her damaged hand proves unable to provide any support. Sobbing, she grabs a handful of wet sand and throws it at Denki who is rising up, using his sword as a booster. He stumbles over, knuckles growing white from his grip on the weapon and teeth clenched tightly, adrenaline pulsing through his body. 

The woman whines, raising her good hand defensively, but instead of mercy she is met with a crude horizontal slice across her chest. She screams and is promptly silenced when Denki points the sword at her stomach and rests on the handle with his full weight, pushing it through her like through a pillow. 

He pants heavily as he stares into her green eyes, wide with shock and agony. His remaining iris glows deep purple while blood continuously drips from his destroyed eyeball and onto her clothing. 

Denki watches as life slowly leaves her eyes. At first she struggles, attempting to push the sword out of her wound but soon grows weak, her gasping for air replaced with slight twitching.

Before long, her body grows completely still. 

With a groan of extension, Denki withdraws his sword and falls back. He doesn’t even have the strength to look up when clapping sounds out through the night. “Well done!” Adler congratulates Denki with several slow claps, a wide smile on his absent lips. “Sloppily, barely, but well done!”

Followed by the team, Adler steps through the collapsed fence and down into the ditch. He looks over at the body, and then back to Denki, who by that time managed to sit up, his blade still stuck to his hand. He looks up at Adler. 

“Why didn’t you… help me?” His voice is hoarse from exhaustion and screaming. He feels as if someone had poured acid down his throat. 

Adler crouches down to meet the man on eye level. “Because I don’t want losers, dead weight, wimps. I want men. Men who can fight for their life and win. Those that can help themselves first. And it seems that you, Sakurai Denki, are one of them.”

Denki tries to stand up, but his knees feel weak. Adler grabs his arm and hoists him up against the nearest tree, allowing him a stable support to grab. 

“A-am I…?”

Nodding, Adler seems to smile even wider. “Yes! Your strength, the sharpness of your mind, the pure desperation for survival… And the lack of hesitation. My boy, you aren’t just a natural survivor, oh no. You’re a born killer.”

Adler’s words distort in Denki’s mind. His eye feels heavy. Adrenaline rapidly leaves his system, the pain in his eye growing to an agonizing level. He fails to support himself and slides down to the ground. 

He closes his eye. 

The rain picks up again. 

Thank you so much for reading!

[chrono-renard]

@mumscarianweek

day 5 — Polyamory

— I have problems with metamur, — whispered Mumbo, wearily leaning into Grian’s shoulder.

The redstoner's thin fingers grab onto his lover's stretched sweater, he exhales heavily and shakily, feeling Xelqua's hand resting between his shoulder blades, trying to cheer him up.

- Scar? To me, what, on the contrary, seemed like a common language? – Grian says carefully, involuntarily remembering the conversation with Goodtimes.

Just the other day, his partner admitted that he was not breathing smoothly according to his metamour. That Scar is in love with Jumbo and wants to be recognized, but is afraid of upsetting their friendship. And now in Grian’s heart, there hung an awkward hope that the three of them could meet. Oh, Watchers, that would be great. Perhaps even too much.

- Found. - Mumbo muttered, exhaling heavily again and trying to talk through all the fluids that had been holding in you for a couple of days. — I asked him as a joke as if he loved me. You know? – the redstoner laughs awkwardly, – He hugged. And seriously, I don't think I've ever felt something like this. His hugs, his smell, his laughter. I felt so securely embraced that I felt dizzy.

— Oh yes, — Grian laughed quietly in response, nodding in agreement. – I more than understand you perfectly. But, you know what?

Xelqua slightly pushes his partner away from him, grabbing his chin with his fingers and looking into his lily-red eyes with a mane. Oh, he swore in his head that Jumbo even had exactly the same black specks scattered in the rich red irises of his eyes. Mumbo was taller than him, but those were minor things. Grian managed to look high at everyone, even watching the third ends of representatives from all over the world.

- I can tell you that it would be better to tell him. – Grian pronounces his words with a nod. - Well, Sir Goodtimes certainly won’t influence you, even as a friend.

The vampire's pale face shows slight redness in the cheeks and tips of the ears. The fleeting thought that Grian knows something, but does not say that it completely settled and immediately disappeared, after Xelqua tenderly and fleetingly kisses his lover on the corner of his lips and pulls away with a slight laugh, winking and suddenly taking out rockets and apparently going somewhere.

- If anything happens, call me! I urgently need to see Hypno, his milk has run out! – with great speed, Grian takes out the rockets and manages to disappear from sight.

- What? – Mumbo blinks in confusion at the place where his lover had just been.

Inhale. Exhalation. After repeating this action several times, he nods to himself. Fine. Preferring not the position he expects, but taking into account that it is better to really admit it, Mumbo sighs and turns towards Scar's bases and takes out the missiles. Was not.

[darexirepublic]

Good evening, friends and fellow watchers! Here is another edition of Republic News Update:

-Medical breakthrough announced; today the Ministry of Health, alongside members of the Republic medical community, formally announced the discovery of a new type of micro-directed ray treatment; this treatment allows for total destruction of cancerous cells within a sentient body without the use of surgery or other treatment.

"It is a game changer, indeed!" says Minister of Health Faltoz, "with this ray technology - developed in conjunction with years of work from Darexi scientists as well as @elepharchy medical minds - we can now defeat cancerous cells upon detection rather than waiting for traditional methods such as surgery or whole cell destruction."

While cancers in the Republic remain on the decline for the 10th straight year, the treatment brings hope that early detection will allow for quick and targeted destruction of cells within moments.

-@thylakindustrial evacuations update; Almost all Republic citizens visiting or residing in Thylak space have finished their evacuations of the combat zone, bringing with them a total of nearly 150,000 Thylak on board transport ships, civilian cargo vessels, and even remote cargo droid haulers. The Ministry of Defense has issued official disapproval warning against "independent actions" into Thylak space - referring to the several hundred citizens making evacuation runs on their own accord - but does not and has no plans to interfere in the efforts.

So far, settlement efforts continue to run smoothly, with plenty of space left on Friendship or Benevolence Habitat or Marta II. The Chancellor's Office has indicated further evacuation housing is ready to go should the need become great.

-Defense station upgrades "completed ahead of schedule" says Ministry of Defense; The contracted work with the @akkanointerstellardevelopment - to help ensure effective upgrades of defense platforms and border monitoring posts - has concluded several days ahead of projected estimates. Minister of Defense Ka'plet confirmed in a press conference today, stating that the Republic is,

"eternally grateful to our continued friendship and support from the Akkano, who have delivered beyond expected improvements with these upgrades. Total numbers are - unfortunately, classified - but I can share that our defensive monitoring posts are now top of their class in threat detection, neutralization and protection."

Defense insiders say off the record that the upgrades have proven to increase potential power of each station by 15%, a whopping three fold increase of the modestly expected 5-7%.

-Weather: Sunny

In other news, the info-net will be broadcasting the exclusive "@phlaalu Symphonic Orchestra" concert tonight at 10:00 PM LST across all musical frequencies! We urge listeners to tune in for an excitingly stellar performance from our friends!

Thank you for joining us for this edition of Republic News Update! I hope you have a great rest of your day wherever you are.

[worldsneverfilled]

Time Travelers — "The Guild of Event Enforcement" or TGEE

I'll edit and add to this as time goes on but for now, here are some of the ranks I have so far and their jobs.

Races from multiple realities and planes will be present in this guild. Some are homebrewed races and I'll link them once I finish making corrections to their lore that very needed because I goofed up real good.

Background is they're trying to undo the damage done by cultists purposefully trying to dismantle time in the name of multiple chaos gods. There are rumors that there might be a mole or two in the organization. I've taken a bit of inspo from our campaign tbh...

Watchers — There are seven of them and their role is to identify anomalies in time and then submit the needed changes to the Delegators and Historians.

Delegators — They take the new anomalies and write up a few details to create a mission that guild members will then bid on. Their role involves calculating the predicted outcomes based on what information the Historians provide.

Historians — They assist the Delegators with the finer details of the events and their role lies in historical research rather than the numbers and uncertainties that the Delegates have to predict. Their information is more concrete in comparison.

Auctioneers — They read plans the Event Agents present them for bids on jobs and choose those whose plans run the least risk of errors and will not collapse reality if the event is not ensured.

Event Agents — Event Agents compete for jobs via written reports detailing their plans for making sure an event takes place as it is meant to. Once they win their bid, they're given whatever gear they need for that era, micro language translators included, information on the culture of that area and era, and then are sent to that time period to make sure everything falls into place smoothly so the necessary, major event happens. Sometimes this requires killing people; they have to understand that sometimes an innocent life must be lost to be the catalyst for the event to occur. It's not a job for those who hesitate to take a life. All life is precious, yes, but all life may cease to exist if one life is spared that was the tipping point.

Event Enforcer Guards — Each Agent travels with at least one Guard to help protect them from whatever dangers may be present in the time period they're traveling to. While Agents aren't squishy by any means and are thoroughly trained in combat, the added protection provided lessens the risk of failure. Most are presumed to be merely grunts and barely above a standard mercenary, but the vetting process before they're hired ensures that not a single one of them is just a mindless brute, all brawn and no brains. They have to be intelligent with a sharp eye and sharper mind for details. Their role in the pairing is just as vital as that of the Agent. Some will eventually choose to become Agents themselves, possessing the same love of history as their partners.

Quartermasters — They provide needed materials for education and era appropriate weapons and clothing, along with any other necessary supplies to help the Agents and Guards blend in. Each quartermaster is assigned to five teams.

Known Members:

Carla Normal —Event Agent

Dorian Wright —Quartermaster

Guthry Average —Event Enforcer Guard

Pearl Cattan —Delegator

Cyprus Noname —Event Agent

Theron Dekrel —Watcher

Chipper —Historian

Digi —Watcher and Quartermaster

Jer Shafwell — Event Enforcer Guard

[organicpalmjaggery]

Why Peri Peri Chana is the Ultimate Guilt-Free Snack for Weight Watchers

Finding snacks that are both satisfying and healthy can be a real challenge, especially if you're trying to watch your weight. The cravings for something crunchy, savory, and indulgent can be hard to resist. That's where Peri Peri Chana comes in – a deliciously spicy, guilt-free snack that satisfies your taste buds without compromising your diet. If you’re someone who’s mindful of what you eat but still wants to enjoy a tasty snack, Peri Peri Chana could just be your new go-to.

A Protein Powerhouse

One of the key reasons why Peri Peri Chana makes an excellent choice for weight watchers is its high protein content. Chickpeas, the main ingredient in this snack, are packed with protein, which is essential for building muscle and keeping your body functioning at its best. Protein also helps you feel fuller for longer, reducing those annoying hunger pangs that often lead to overeating. Whether you’re looking to maintain or lose weight, snacking on something that keeps you full without adding excess calories is a win.

Low in Calories

When you’re trying to keep an eye on your calorie intake, choosing snacks wisely is important. Traditional snacks like chips or cookies are often loaded with calories that don’t offer much nutritional value. Peri Peri Chana, on the other hand, is a far healthier alternative. A serving of roasted chickpeas, flavored with bold peri peri seasoning, is not only delicious but low in calories. You can snack on it without worrying about consuming unnecessary fats or sugars, making it perfect for those mindful of their calorie count.

High in Fiber

Fiber is one of those nutrients that many people overlook, but it’s crucial for weight management and digestive health. Peri Peri Chana is packed with fiber, thanks to the chickpeas, which help regulate your digestive system and keep things running smoothly. Fiber also plays a big role in appetite control, helping you feel full and satisfied after eating. By incorporating fiber-rich snacks like Peri Peri Chana into your diet, you can curb cravings and reduce the chances of mindless snacking throughout the day.

A Healthier Alternative to Junk Food

Let’s face it, we all get cravings for something crunchy and savory, and it’s easy to reach for a bag of chips or a sugary treat. But these snacks are often packed with unhealthy fats, excess sugar, and empty calories. Peri Peri Chana is a much better option. Made from simple, natural ingredients, it’s a healthier alternative that still delivers that satisfying crunch. Plus, the spicy peri peri seasoning adds a burst of flavor without any of the junk found in many traditional snack foods. It's the perfect way to indulge without feeling guilty.

Gluten-Free and Vegan-Friendly

Another reason to love Peri Peri Chana is that it's both gluten-free and vegan. Chickpeas are naturally gluten-free, making this snack suitable for people with gluten sensitivities. If you follow a plant-based diet, Peri Peri Chana is also a great choice since it’s made entirely from plant-based ingredients. So, whether you're avoiding gluten or following a vegan lifestyle, you can enjoy this snack without worry.

Quick and Easy to Prepare

Not only is Peri Peri Chana healthy, but it’s also super convenient. You can easily make it at home by roasting chickpeas and seasoning them with peri peri spices, or you can find pre-made versions in many health food stores. Either way, it’s a snack that doesn’t require much effort, making it a perfect option for busy days when you need a quick and nutritious snack.

For anyone who’s trying to eat healthier without giving up on tasty snacks, Peri Peri Chana is a great option. Packed with protein, fiber, and flavor, it’s the ultimate guilt-free snack that fits perfectly into a weight-conscious lifestyle. Whether you’re at home or on the go, you can enjoy a crunchy, satisfying treat that keeps you full and helps you stay on track with your health goals. Give it a try, and you’ll see why Peri Peri Chana is becoming a favorite for so many!

[vengeris]

Add to this, the first part shows us why the characters are there, that the dragon defeated them the first time -- that's already happening mostly off-screen.

The first 11 episodes show how the characters learn from their initial defeat, and then grow stronger, learn more about the lore. It shows why they are better than last time, even though they are a smaller group.

We need that explanation of how a smaller group is going to be able to succeed where a larger group did not. We also need to see what sets this group of people apart, not only from their past selves, but from other groups -- and that is because we see them learn the ways of the dungeon.

Senchi alone does not represent the Way of the Dungeon, as his skills to survive are only given purpose collectively with Laos's spirit of camaraderie and his ability to enjoy the dungeon for its own sake, as opposed to being a means to an end e.g. treasure. Add to this Marcelle's contribution for understanding the Dark Magic of the Mad Mage, and the lessons she learned from Falin about how magic is integral to the ecosystem, and we get the true power of the group.

This by no means discounts Chilchuck's contribution, as it is his caution and mediation that keeps these nerds running smoothly as a group -- he's the governor that keeps this mad engine from exploding itself.

The rest of the characters we meet reflect this back to the watcher, acting as our proxies to understand why this time is different.

You do not start a story at the denouement, otherwise you have no story.

something that irks me so bad are those people who argue that the red dragon fight is when the REAL dungeon meshi starts. like all that character establishment and worldbuilding and relationship development from the first 11 episodes are all skippable, and the only important thing about them is that they litter a bit of context for the viewer. but once you get to episode 12 is when you REALLY need to lock in.

and i just. vehemently disagree with that sentiment so much. the death of filler has tragically ruined the way we engage with media. because why the FUCK would i care about the red dragon fight if i didn’t already love the characters and appreciate their motivation for the fight in the first place? like yea, laios wanting to save his sister and marcille wanting to save her best friend are fine motivations on paper, but i honestly wouldn’t give a shit about falin surviving if i did not watch those first 11 episodes of these characters’ painstaking determination to get her back.

the execution of it all was perfect because those expository episodes were also perfect. and we should not devalue them simply because the red dragon fight was the turning point/tone shift for the overall narrative.

[playedbetter]

Vlad & His Watcher's Relationship

The first of his watchers was his close friend and apprentice. In the many years since then their relationship has changed as the watcher was reincarnated and Vlad was changed by the pressing years. However unlike the other kings, as of the modern age Vlad still regards his watcher as his friend, not his enemy nor his tool.

This is in large part thanks to Lindenhurst's efforts to keep things running smoothly after Vlad had a mental break, Lindenhurst took up the responsibilities and stress and became Vlad's regent. At a time when Vlad's two other longest term friends had irrevocably betrayed and tortured him, Lindenhurst didn't turn his back on him. And he didn't judge Vlad or try to control him, he just did what needed to be done for everybody's good, eventually at the cost of his own life.

That's stuck with Vlad, and he intends on someday repaying that kindness from his friend. Till then, he'll just be meddling in the background to keep them going.

[translationwala]

English to Kannada Translation: Your Bridge to Cultural Exchange

Language hurdles can make it hard to understand and connect with others in a world where different cultures are like a colorful fabric. In this case, translation acts like a skilled bridge builder, making ways for hearts and minds to meet across the gap. In order to bridge the gap between English and Kannada, English to Kannada translation is especially important.

With its unique Dravidian roots and rich literary history, Kannada tells stories of lost countries, magical folklore, and a land steeped in custom. English is the world’s business and conversation language. It represents current thought, science progress, and an open-minded view of the world. This seems like very different worlds, but English to Kannada translation is a great way to connect them, not just for words, but also for culture.

Unlocking the Treasures of Kannada Literature:

Imagine a treasure chest full of gems: epics like the Mahabharata told in the beautiful language of Kannada; folktales with magical creatures and wise old people; and songs that sing of love, loss, and the human spirit. The translation from English to Kannada opens up this treasure chest and makes these literary works available to people all over the world.

Translated works give researchers and students very useful information about Kannada history and society. People all over the world are discovering the beauty and depth of Kannada stories and loving its unique rhythms and details. In addition to making people’s lives better, this helps people learn more about India’s rich variety of languages.

Building Bridges for Business and Opportunity:

Language hurdles can be very expensive in today’s world, where businesses and ideas move freely across countries. Business relations run more smoothly when translations are done from English to Kannada. This can lead to new markets and partnerships.

When marketing materials are turned into Kannada, they reach the right people and get the word across about brands and products. Legal papers and contracts become clear and precise, which helps everyone understand and reduces the chance of confusion. This builds trust and makes it easier for businesses and relationships to work out.

Empowering the Kannadiga Voice on the Global Stage:

Kannada movies, music, and art should be seen all over the world. Translating from English to Kannada gives Kannadiga writers and artists a way to share their work with the world. Voiceovers and subtitles bring movies to life, letting watchers feel the emotions and understand the cultural differences for themselves.

Songs and poems that have been translated find new audiences, and their tunes and lyrics move people across language barriers. This not only gives Kannadigas a chance to show off their skills, but it also encourages respect for other cultures and breaks down assumptions.

Beyond Words: Fostering Empathy and Understanding:

English to Kannada translation goes beyond the literal. It translates emotions, humor, and the very essence of a culture. Jokes land, stories resonate, and feelings flow seamlessly across the linguistic bridge. This fosters empathy and understanding, allowing people to connect on a human level, irrespective of their native tongue.

Imagine a Kannadiga grandma telling her English-speaking grandkids stories from her culture. The joy in her voice and the sparkle in her eyes would be able to reach across language barriers. Or, imagine a group of foreign students talking about a Kannada song. Their different readings would weave a web of shared meaning. Real culture sharing takes place in these times of bonding, which are made easier by translation.

THE ROAD AHEAD: EMBRACING THE POWER OF TRANSLATION:

The need for skilled and caring English to Kannada translation will only grow as technology improves and the world becomes even more linked. It is very important to hire translators who know more than just the languages they work with.

Promoting the study of both English and Kannada in their own areas also helps people understand each other better. People are then able to take an active role in cultural exchange, representing their own history and appreciating the wealth of the other.

Conclusion

English to Kannada translation is more than just a job; it’s a way to connect with others, understand them better, and find new opportunities. Language barriers can be broken down by accepting its power. This will help create a world where people from different countries can talk to each other, hearts can meet, and the patchwork of humanity becomes even more colorful and beautiful.

Source: https://translationwala.wordpress.com/2023/12/04/english-to-kannada-translation-your-bridge-to-cultural-exchange/