#just take a moment to admire their bond that's broken by power hunger

[violettierre]

[rye-views]

A Promised Land by Barack Obama. 8/10

I would recommend this book to my friends. I would reread this book.

There are certain things that Barack articulates that I’m thankful for. His over-optimism and feelings of eccentricity. I completely related to its isolating feelings even though it wasn’t the same situation and experience as mine. It’s nice to see something similar from someone different. I also liked his description of feeling everything in its entirety and how it was like a movie splice. I have felt this many times and it’s a beautiful way to describe it. I like how so much of what Barack says, thinks, and feels are so genuine and relatable. It's nice to see someone articulate and empathize this well, esp. from a man and a man in power.

I love learning that Michelle was disappointed by the situation caused by his choices at times. Other things were more important at the time and nice to see it be relevant.

It’s interesting to see the difference between this book and “Becoming.” They have different aims, but it still shows me a difference between a man and woman. I also notice that when men are described, it’s always physical. When it’s women, it’s more character and personality.

Crazy how intelligent and emotionally aware Barack is. When he stated how he couldn't just pick and choose the good things of Reverend Wright's church, I was like true and wow.

The things that Toot taught Barack is what someone should've taught me as I grew up.

Barack comparing the rides to Noah's Ark is amusing.

When he mentions translations of what the Big 4 are saying, I think about how we can't be straightforward in politics. Why not?

It took me forever to read this because I really wanted to absorb the knowledge. There's a lot of events that are covered and things I had no idea about. I love how this catalogues so much of history that were relevant to my lifetime.

Memorable Quotes: “gives even my roughest drafts too smooth a gloss and lends half-baked thoughts the mask of tidiness” “I needed to focus on only those things to come.” “Much of what I read I only dimly understood” “a bond between those who had once seemed far apart.” “Whatever it was, I knew I wasn’t ready.” “An America that could explain me.” “I suffered rejections and insults often enough to stop fearing them.” “Enthusiasm makes up for a host of deficiencies.” “Failure and want were all around you.” “It should have been enough.” “but my mother was never one to see hard work as anything but good.” “On top of my sorrow, I felt a great shame.” “There’s a physical feeling, a current of emotion that passes back and forth between you and the crowd, as if your lives and theirs are suddenly spliced together, like a movie reel, projecting backward and forward in time, and your voice creeps right up to the edge of cracking, because for an instant, you feel them deeply; you can see them whole. You’ve tapped into some collective spirit, a thing we all know and wish for – a sense of connection that overrides our differences and replaces them with a giant swell of possibility – and like all things that matter most, you know the moment is fleeting and that soon the spell will be broken.” “To be a workhorse not a show horse – that was my goal.” “I had become a mere conduit through which people might recognize the value of their own stories, their own worth, and share them with one another.” "Yes we can." “the personal really was political” “I had to listen to, and not just theorize about, what mattered to people.” “it wasn’t so much what he did as how he made you feel. Like anything was possible. Like the world was yours to remake.” “It’s hard, in retrospect, to understand why you did something stupid.” “In fact, you shouldn’t even count on my vote.” “What do you consider your place in history?” “I could take a punch. And I didn’t give up.” “I knew I could afford to be patient.” “but the only way for Daddy to disguise himself is if he has an operation to pin back his ears.” “Forgotten people and forgotten voices remained everywhere.” “the more troops would become targets of an enemy they often could not see and did not understand.” “The power to inspire is rare. Moments like this are rare. You think you may not be ready, that you’ll do it at more convenient time. But you don’t choose the time. The time chooses you.” “people were moved by emotion, not facts.” “Beneath the low-key person and deep convictions, he just plain liked the combat.” "defined not by what they are but what they can never be." "To the relief of his keepers, the bear became accustomed to captivity." "he understood better than most the complications of race, religion, and family, and how good and bad, love and hate, might be hopelessly tangled in the same heart" "She was one of those quiet heroes that we have all across America." "But I worry that my memories of that night, like so much else that's happened these past twelve years, are shaded by the images that I've seen, the footage of our family walking across the stage, the photographs of the crowds and lights and magnificent backdrops." "a keeper of values we'd once thought ordinary but had learned were more rare than we had ever imagined." ""It's going to be hard to get the public excited about food stamps and repaving roads," Axe said. "Not real sexy."" "This time I said nothing, admiring his occasional, almost endearing ability to state the obvious." "You must be under the mistaken impression that I care." "all of them unified only in their common desire to be somewhere else." "ready to die for eternal joy--or maybe just a taste of something better." "But make no mistake, it was weird." "the unspoken regrets." "my supporters lacked all conviction, while my opponents were full of passionate intensity." "Michelle was someone who started from the heart and not the head, from experience rather than abstractions." "I wanted to believe that the ability to connect was still there. My wife wasn't so sure." “The

audacity of hope.” "Sometimes your most important work involved the stuff nobody noticed." "forgotten under the accumulation of the new joys and paints that make up a life." "you learn to improvise to meet your objectives--or at least to cut your losses." "They would take for granted that their aunt was on the U.S. Supreme Court, shaping the life of a nation--as would kids across the country. Which was fine. That's what progress was like." "Did they miss the rhythms of ordinary life? Were they lonely? Did they sometimes feel a jolt in their heart and wonder how it was that they had ended up where they were?" "I reminded myself that every president felt saddled with the previous administration's choices and mistakes, that 90 percent of the job was navigating inherited problems and unanticipated crises. Only if you did that well enough, with discipline and purpose, did you get a real shot at shaping the future." "Was it possible that abstract principles and high-minded ideals were and always would be nothing more than a pretense, a palliative, a way to beat back despair, but no match for the more primal urges that really moved us, so that no matter what we said or did, history was sure to run along its predetermined course, an endless cycle of fear, hunger and conflict, dominance and weakness?" "meant to be a reminder--in a place premised on hate and intolerance--of the common humanity we share." "A man making up for things." "For war was contradiction, as was the history of America." "To be known. To be heard. To have one's unique identity recognized and seen as worthy. It was a universal human desire" "pleasures that cost nothing, belonged to no one, and were accessible to all." "I suppose, when the world slows down, your strivings get pushed to the back of your mind." "whether in my seeming calm as crises piled up, my insistence that everything would work out in the end, I was really just protecting my self--and contributing to her loneliness." "It was a lonely thought at a lonely time." "You never looked as smart as the ex-president did on the sidelines." "Get exposed to other people's truths, I thought, and attitudes change." "It wasn't often, I thought, that a true act of conscience is recognized that way." "their struggles and resentments troubling but remote." "are mere conduits for the deep, relentless currents of the times or whether we're at least partly the authors of what's to come." "contemplating the knife's edge between perceived success and potential catastrophe" "daily, unheralded acts of people who weren't seeking attention but simply knew what they were doing and did it with pride." "She makes me better as a person and better on the page."

[mordoriscalling]

Everything I Am, All That You Are (4/4)

Geraskier Soulmate AU, Modern with Magic, Post-Break Up, Getting Back Together

The last word of the song – “alone” – rings out in the silence in the concert hall. Jaskier’s voice is so resonating, so haunting, that Geralt has to put a great effort into walking away from it.

Then, he feels it. An unmistakable, soul-deep kind of touch.

His mate reached out to him through their bond.

Geralt sways on his feet and leans against the wall of the concert hall in order not to trip and fall. He looks back at the stage, meaning to catch Jaskier’s eye, but Jaskier stares at the seat Geralt has vacated a moment ago.

The audience erupts into roaring applause, giving Jaskier and Essi a standing ovation, which is definitely well-deserved. A performance like that is worthy of glowing reviews.

Geralt snaps out of the initial shock and strides out of the hall, spurred on by hope, now even more determined to carry out the plan that sprung into his mind when he talked to Yennefer earlier. It’s an excuse to talk to Jaskier, just a conversation starter, but it’s also something that Geralt has owed him for a long time.

He walks through the door which Jaskier disappeared behind after their first conversation this evening. It takes him to an empty corridor. In the quiet he meets, he’s able to catch the characteristic hustle and bustle that happens backstage. He follows the sounds until he finds himself in an environment that he’s rather familiar with.

After they bonded, Geralt used to wait backstage when Jaskier performed. Jaskier would come to him the moment he finished a set and ask for a review. Geralt would always respond in a similar way; it was an inside joke between them after years of Geralt giving Jaskier  “three words or less”.  

“How was my singing?”Jaskier asks, sweaty but grinning, as he greets Geralt with a peck on the cheek.

Geralt smiles. Through their bond, he shows Jaskier all the admiration and appreciation he has for his singing. It was a fantastic concert at a huge venue and Geralt is so immensely proud of how far his Songbird has come. He doesn’t put it into words, however, only leans down and starts nosing at the point on Jaskier’s throat where he’s the most ticklish.

Jaskier lets out a long squeal, high-pitched and delighted. “You can’t avoid giving me a review every time!” he laughs.

Geralt hums, then lays a kiss on Jaskier’s neck, then another, and another, enjoying the shivers he elicits.

With a breathy chuckle, Jaskier says, “One day, I will get a detailed opinion out of you.”

That day has finally come.

Geralt looks for Jaskier frantically but can’t find him anywhere. The hope that powered him starts plummeting now, making his stomach drop. Every minute of searching drags on like torture. In his desperation, Geralt intimidates some man into telling him where Jaskier is.

Following the directions leading him to a musical storeroom, Geralt feels his heart beat unnaturally fast for a witcher. He can hear it hammering in his chest as he rushes to the room, but when he barrels through the door and finally sees his mate, everything goes silent.

Amidst all the various instruments, there’re Essi and Jaskier, sitting next to each other on two chairs. In the cool light of the lamps, Jaskier looks almost deathly pale, with his hands cradled in his lap. He’s a picture of devastated.

When their eyes meet, Jaskier jerks in clear surprise

Before Geralt can lose the ability to speak yet again, he blurts out, “Your performance was stunning.” Jaskier blinks. Geralt swallows hard and goes on, “You command the crowd as well as you always have. Your control over your voice shows your mastery. I could hear everything you wished to convey.” Pain and plea. “You sounded...” Heart-wrenching, vulnerable, enchanting – “Beautiful.”

Jaskier hasn’t moved an inch, hasn’t looked away from him for a second. Geralt, flustered by the lack of response, turns to Essi. “I enjoyed your song,” he tells her, “The lyrics and the delivery were remarkable, and your voice is memorable.”

The girl inclines her head in thanks but her expression is stormy.

Geralt directs his gaze back to his mate, who eyes him cautiously.

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs, “I appreciate your review.”

Geralt waits for him to say anything more but Jaskier doesn’t add a word. Taking a deep breath, he forces the words out, “Jaskier, I – I need to talk to you. Alone.”

Jaskier sighs. He and Essi have a wordless conversation that consists of making various faces and gestures. Finally, the girl relents and gets up to leave. When she passes Geralt, she glares daggers into him.

After the door shuts behind her, heavy silence hangs in the room. Geralt takes a few careful steps towards Jaskier and, as he approaches, he notices that Jaskier holds something in his hands – a bowl of strawberries. He freezes

Jaskier smiles wryly, noticing his shock. “Oh, I was just...” He trails off, takes one strawberry and eats a small bite.

Geralt watches intently. The way Jaskier’s lips close around the fruit brings his mind back to all those times when Jaskier ate strawberries from his hand. He would lick Geralt’s fingers until they were clean of juice and Jaskier would suck at them, swirling his tongue around the tip, whispering husky praises like “you take such good care of me, my beautiful Wolf” or “you’re such a good mate, my love”.

As Jaskier finishes eating the strawberry, Geralt longs to hear the enthusiastic praise. He wants to go down on his knees and be at Jaskier’s command until he earns the gasped “just like that” and the moaned, “fuck, you’re so good”.

His hunger carries him the rest of the way. Geralt crosses the remaining distance between them and kneels at his mate’s feet. He hears how Jaskier’s breath hitches and his heartbeat stutters. Jaskier’s pupils dilate and his scent is tinged with arousal.

For a moment, Geralt can only close his eyes and cherish the fact that he can experience Jaskier’s body like this. He’s so relieved to be able to hear his mate’s heart and sense his scent that he could weep. Jaskier’s voice snaps him out of the joy.

“What are you doing?” he demands sharply.

Geralt sighs. Slowly, he takes the bowl out of Jaskier’s hands and puts it on the empty chair next to them. When he finally looks into Jaskier’s eyes, he says, “I want to apologize. To tell you that... life has already given me one blessing.” He puts his palms on Jaskier’s knees. “It’s you.”

“What are you playing at?” Jaskier snaps, his biting tone making Geralt flinch. “First, you don’t talk to me for years, then you show up here out of the blue, being all distant. When I reach out to you, you don’t respond, but now you’re being all touchy and lovely? What the fuck do you even want from me? Don’t you have a partner and a child to come back to?”

Every question is like a painful strike. Geralt clenches his fists, now placed in Jaskier’s lap, and utters, “I’m not bonded to Yen anymore. She found another Djin and we wished for the bond to be broken.”

Jaskier’s whole body tenses, then relaxes. “Oh,” he says quietly, “That’s... good?”

Geralt can’t help but chuckle. “Yes,” he replies, smiling up at his mate, “That’s very good. We’re both free now.”

Jaskier’s expression is bright like the sun but turns cloudy after a moment. “You stayed together, though,” he mutters, his voice dripping with bitterness.  

“Not like that,” Geralt denies, with a vehement shake of his head. He shifts even closer to Jaskier so that his torso is pressed to Jaskier’s legs. “She’s Ciri’s mother and my friend, that’s it.” Drowning in the beloved shade of blue, he confesses, “Wolves mate for life.”

Jaskier purses his lips. For a minute, he’s silent. When he speaks, he asks, “If I’m your mate, why did you leave me for four years? When was the wish broken, by the way?”

“Five months ago.”

There’s the spark of anger in Jaskier’s gaze again. “And you still didn’t think to, I don’t know, give me a sign? A single thought through the bond, perhaps? Just... anything. Why did you make me wait?”

“I thought you wouldn’t want to see me,” Geralt admits, “after everything.”

Jaskier stands up so abruptly that he knocks the chair over. “Wouldn’t want to see you?!” he shouts, gesturing with fury, “Wouldn’t want to see you?! I was dying inside the whole time!” Geralt gets up himself and tries to get a word in but Jaskier rants on, “Everything I am is bound to all that you are and you... You have no idea how I felt. Four years of agony, thinking that you would never want me again – ”

“Of course I know!” Geralt bellows, “Of course I know, Jaskier, dammit!” He walks right into Jaskier’s personal space and growls, “Of course I know your pain. I’ve felt all of it and worse. It’s all my fucking fault!”

“No, it’s not!” Jaskier retorts, “We’ve talked about this. All three of us fucked up with the Djin!”

“What about the dragon hunt? Fuck, the things I said to you –”

“Did you mean them?” Jaskier cuts in, his stare hard and cold.

“No,” Geralt denies, “I was angry. It was all... too much. I couldn’t deal with it, I wanted to be left alone.”

“So I left,” Jaskier replies simply. “I hoped you’d find me, though, soon after.”

Geralt steps away from him and bows his head, hiding his face in his hair. Jaskier's words remind him why he didn't do exactly that. The shame of how he’s hurt his very soulmate returns to him with full force; it’s searing hot, just as strong as it was after he returned from the dragon hunt.

The flat is so quiet. In the silence, Roach’s whine resonates all the more.

Geralt sighs. He doesn’t have to move from the bed – their bed – to guess what the dog is doing. He knows that she’s sitting by the door to their flat, waiting.

“He’s not coming back!” he growls.

In response, the pitbull whimpers.

His eyes are starting to prickle so he closes them. The sheets still smell of Jaskier. He puts his head on Jaskier’s pillow and breathes in, trying to fill the gaping hole in his chest.

Most of Jaskier’s things are gone. The moment his scent fades away, Geralt will have nothing left of him. Nothing but a few books and the mark on his heart. With his fingers, Geralt traces the lines on the songbird’s wings, spread wide, and lets out a ragged breath.

His Songbird flew away, because Geralt made him. His words were so fucking stupid, he wants to cease to exist at the thought of having uttered them.

Roach gives a long, miserable howl. Internally, Geralt does the same.

Geralt swallows the feeling down. “I was too ashamed,” he admits quietly, “Thought that you’d be better off without me.” Jaskier scoffs and opens his mouth but Geralt talks over him, “Then I found Ciri and we stumbled into Yen and... Ciri wanted her with us but living together was difficult, with the wish. I couldn’t subject you to it.”

Jaskier’s expression is stony. He stands there, amidst all the instruments, motionless, glaring at the floor with his hands on his hips. “Did you sleep with her?” he murmurs.

The question sets Geralt off. “Who the fuck do you take me for?!” he barks, “I’m capable of restraining myself!”  

Jaskier laughs, of all things. It’s a mirthless, ugly sound. “More than capable, it seems,” he remarks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I can’t believe you still haven’t learned your lesson,” Jaskier replies, seizing Geralt with a fiery look. “Can’t you really see it, Geralt? Every time you try to spare someone your presence, every time you don’t want to subject someone to your person, it brings pain not only to you but to everyone involved?!” He aims a pointing finger at Geralt and hurls the accusations on, “You wanted to undo the Law of Surprise and the Djin wish went to absolute shit! You didn’t claim your Child Surprise and she didn’t have anyone when her family was killed! You avoided me after the dragon hunt and made us both suffer!”

Geralt is rendered speechless but his lack of response seems to go unnoticed.

“Of course you were on your self-sacrificing bullshit!” Jaskier spits. “Gods, I should’ve known! How the hell didn’t I put two to two? Fuck, all that time when I was wallowing in my own hurt, you were stuck hating yourself more than anyone else could ever hate you.”

The last statement rings too true. The accuracy of it is nearly oppressive, and the following silence is unbearably heavy. Geralt brushes a hand over his face; his body suddenly reminds him of how tired he is.

Jaskier appears just as weary when he asks, “Why didn’t you talk to me? You could’ve just talked to me.”

Geralt wants to laugh at Jaskier’s naivety. All the accusations he’s heard start sinking in and, however right they could be, hurt. The instinct to strike back combines with rage unfurling inside him and Geralt lashes out before he can stop himself.

“And what?” he snaps. “Hear that it’s fine? Have you tell me that I shouldn’t worry when there was so much pain in your eyes? That I don’t have to be sorry when you were so fucking desperate for normalcy? That there’s nothing to forgive when you got so quiet after my fights with Yen? You tried so hard to pretend that everything was all right but you looked like you just waited for us to fall apart.”

Pain flashes in Jaskier’s eyes and Geralt knows he’s taken it too far.

“What else was I supposed to do?!” Jaskier exclaims, his voice cracking, “I didn’t know how to reach you, whenever you got so distant. I tried every way I knew but nothing worked. Nothing. You were hidden so deeply within yourself that I couldn’t –”

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” Geralt cuts in. He knows he’s being cruel but he feels so ugly right now, he may as well show all his monstrosity. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do,” he tells Jaskier, “I know you’re used to getting your way, that exerting your influence and charm grants you whatever you want, but there are some battles you can’t win.”

“Really, Geralt?” Jaskier snarls, his teeth bared, “Really? Are actually a masochistic bastard? Are you trying to tell me that I shouldn’t have fought for you? That I should’ve just left you after Rinde? Should’ve just... given up? Or are you saying that this” – he gestures between them – “is a lost cause?”

The mere suggestion extinguishes all his anger in an instant. Instead, panic sets in; there’s decisive sadness in Jaskier’s eyes.

“That’s not true –” Geralt begins but to his horror, his mate doesn’t listen.

“But maybe it is,” Jaskier insist, “Maybe I’ll never win against your penchant for self-hatred. It’s been drilled so deeply into you, that you’re unworthy of love. I tried so hard to convince you but perhaps there’s indeed nothing I can do.”

The terrible resignation in Jaskier’s posture appears so final that a cold spear of fear pierces Geralt’s heart. He walks up to Jaskier so that he stands in Jaskier’s way to the door; he can’t bear to lose him.

“Jaskier, no, I – ” he stutters out. “I’m so sorry.” The sorrow in Jaskier’s gaze hasn’t changed, so Geralt begs, “Please don’t leave.” His voice sounds rough and wrecked, even to his own ears but at least Jaskier doesn’t leave. Encouraged by that fact, Geralt goes on, “I can’t ask you to forgive me, after everything, but – ” Tentatively, he reaches out and takes Jaskier’s hand in his. “Could you consider... coming back? We can figure this out however slow you want, just... Don’t leave. Please.”

Jaskier sighs, his eyelids fluttering shut, but he doesn’t shy away from Geralt’s touch. Geralt’s heart starts beating wildly in victory and then, as seconds pass and Jaskier still stands there, breathing, it turns to hope.

Yet, when Jaskier opens his eyes, he frees his hand from Geralt’s grasp. “I need some time to think,” he replies apologetically, “This... this is not it. This is not right.”

“What?” Geralt whispers.

“I’m not saying no,” Jaskier reassures. “I just... fuck, Geralt, I can barely resist you right now. I want my answer to count.”

Geralt opens his mouth to say something, anything, but he can’t muster a word. His throat is constricted in a silent, helpless scream. Jaskier smiles sadly.

“Thank you for the review, Geralt,” he says, “And don’t worry, I will see you around.”

Then, to Geralt’s anguish, Jaskier takes his hand and brings it to his lips, laying a kiss on Geralt’s knuckles. The feeling of his mate’s mouth on his skin sends a thrill down his spine and he gasps. Jaskier lets go and walks away. Geralt can’t will himself to move.

Jaskier leaves.

Geralt stays in the storeroom. Were he able to howl, he would do so, hoping that his Songbird would answer the call. Yet, Jaskier left once again. The memory of his touch is all Geralt can think about as he stands there, all alone, until he can take it no more.

When he finally springs into action, he knows he won't be stopped.

Read the rest on AO3

[the-phoenix-heart]

How do Deku and Bakugou interact with both being double Lion ?

Oooh boy here comes my rant about platonic Bakudeku and their double Lions! (I also just finished watching Heroes Rising so my BakuDeku feels are stronger than usual-cause I’m a multishipper)

First of all, I feel the need to double down on Deku’s primary. He is a Lion primary. Does he want to save people-yes, but there are things about his character you have to consider. Mainly, he’s more focused on the goal of becoming the number one hero and saving people, than the people he wants to save. He doesn’t bond with communities, he bonds with the individuals he meets. But, he does think it’s the right way to live, so Badger primary model. 

And boy howdy do they interact with their double Lions. 

Bakugou for the longest time was a Glory-Hound Lion. He wanted to be the strongest there ever was and he wanted to be on top of everyone else. But, deep down he always felt like he was missing something. What he was missing was that Paragon Lion that Deku had. He liked his Glory-Hound Lion and he didn’t understand that you could have both. And he saw not naturally having a Paragon Lion as a weakness in himself, which is why he bullied him (doesn’t justify it but y’know it’s called character development. 

Deku meanwhile admired Bakugou’s Glory-Hound Lion. He saw Bakugou’s hunger for power and love of strength, and how it made Bakugou powerful and strong and he loved Bakugou for it (platonically! possibly...). 

But they couldn’t understand each other. Bakugou at the time couldn’t let go of his Glory-Hound Lion out of stubbornness and Deku couldn’t understand that his Paragon Lion was causing Bakugou to lash out. Notice, Bakugou only started to grow as a person when Deku left him alone more. 

Now, Bakugou did become friends with Kirishima-another double Lion with a Paragon Lion primary-but it was not Deku’s Paragon Lion. Bakugou grew up with Deku and his Paragon Lion and so he couldn’t accept it at the time, but Kirishima (who is has a small dose of Glory-Hound in him) was able to get through. 

And their secondaries, ever since the first scene of the show they’ve been standing on opposite sides facing each other down. Bakugou did not like how similar he and Deku were despite their differences, which is why Bakugou burned Deku’s secondary. Once Deku’s secondary was burned Deku turned to a Bird secondary model, which ironically Bakugou probably saw and thought, ‘I can do that better.’ Bakugou then used his Bird secondary model to bolster his own Lion secondary. 

And of course we have to talk about how their relationship with All Might relates to their sorting. Bakugou looked at All Might and saw a Glory-Hound Lion primary. This vision was wrong. While seeing that All Might was not wrong, he was wrong in assuming that’s whole All Might was. Deku saw All Might and his Badger primary, and copied it. 

And now we get to the Sludge Villain incident, where Bakugou is in trouble and Deku’s secondary unburns all in one day. This is when Bakugou starts to vaguely respect Deku, and it’s because of his secondary and how he just rushed in. It’s also because he doesn’t want to be in debt, but he still has some respect for him. 

Except what little respect there was shatters when he thinks Deku has lied to him. Lying is very important to Bakugou, in that he refuses to lie and if you lie to him he’ll kick your ass. Bakugou is pissed and immediately rushes in to fight him about it like the Lion secondary he is, and gets stopped. 

Then the first fight in Ground Beta happens, and we see their Lion secondaries really colliding with each other for the first time, they yell at each other and throw punches. Their first fight was not a pretty fight emotionally at all, it was ugly and taxing for both of them. 

We see it clearly on Bakugou’s face that his primary took a hit. He’s literally having a panic attack over losing. His primary isn’t burnt, but it has not escaped the fight unscathed. Failure goes against everything he knows about himself (as a gifted kid I relate), if he has failed who the fuck is he?! He gets over this by using his Lion secondary to drag himself out. If he just proclaims that he’s going to be the number one and surpass All Might then it’s gotta be true. 

And you see it even more clearly in the Sport Festival. At the beginning of the arc he proclaims to the entire country that he’s going to win. I can never get over this because it’s basically him forcing himself to win. If he fails then he’s a hypocrite and no one wants to be a hypocrite. Once again he uses his blunt Lion secondary to drag himself along. The idea that you can rely on you secondary to keep your primary from burning...that’s kind of beautiful, but I think you can only do that with an improvisational primary. 

And in the Sports Festival you see their secondaries on clear display. Especially Deku who breaks his body and yells at a guy until the guy faces years of Mommy and Daddy issues and severe trauma. Bakugou meanwhile fights everyone until his match against Todoroki. 

Todoroki is a Snake primary, who’s unsure what his quirk means to him since he’s just now faced his trauma. Bakugou, a Double Lion, gets pissed off when Todoroki ignores him because he’s his opponent and he deserves his attention. Bakugou proves just how un-Snake he is by telling Todoroki that his family and feelings don’t matter and all that matters is the fight. It almost seems like Todoroki has listened. 

Until the match happens and Bakugou fights and yells at him to use his fire aspect of his quirk. Todoroki only uses his quirk when Deku, house matched with Bakugou, does the exact same thing. Todoroki does it because it was Deku, someone he had bonded with told him. But, then he still can’t do it for understandable reasons. Bakugou finds out he won the fight, but Todoroki didn’t use his fire and that pisses him off more than anything. The idea that he didn’t win the fight fair and square is painful and pisses him off more than anything. He wasn’t more powerful than Todoroki, Todoroki just held back. That’s not a real win.

and then the school chains him to the podium and forces him to take the medal on national tv BUT THAT’S A TOPIC FOR ANOTHER DAY

(also All Might has no idea how to handle a Lion primary that isn’t modeling Badger. “Take this medal as a wound,” no All Might you’re just gonna mess him up further! He’s not SUPPOSED to be wounded!)

Then there comes the fight against All Might where they have to work together. This is after the internship arc, where Bakugou had a Snake secondary pushed on him (which he did not accept) and Deku finally got control of his power and leveled up. Bakugou sees this and it terrifies him. Why is Deku’s Double Lion loved by all but his is hated? For a while Bakugou doesn’t even try to get along with Deku and just beat All Might himself. Then he accepts defeat because he doesn’t want to fight alongside Deku-to him that would be admitting that he is weak. And Deku does the only thing he can think of to get Bakugou to listen-he punches him and says “LET’S WIN THIS KACCHAN!” Because fuck my emotions. 

And then they yell at each other, Deku trying to hype up Bakugou and Bakugou because LISTEN UP WE ARE GONNA WORK TOGETHER MY WAY! And even as they are fight/running from All Might they’re yelling at each other, but it works. They think on the fly and Bakugou fights All Might with all he has until he’s broken. And then Deku, about to win, turns away for a moment and sees Bakugou nearly passed out under All Might and does the most badass thing ever and PUNCHES ALL MIGHT RIGHT IN THE FACE!! HIS OWN MENTOR!! Just so he can save Bakugou. It’s beautiful. 

(Now is a good time to mention I’m writing this to the soundtrack for Heroes Rising and IT FUCKING SLAPS-or that’s just me loving instrumentals)

Then Bakugou gets kidnapped, and a little detour, Deku fully understands that he cannot be the one to reach out to Bakugou. Kirishima has to be the one because Bakugou trusts him. Kirishima and him are friends and Bakugou will let him save him, and Deku recognizes that. 

And then Kacchan vs. Deku part 2 happens, and it is the most Double Lion fight ever. Bakugou is literally venting his feelings at Deku by screaming and exploding him. Deku in turn is explaining how he has always admired Bakugou by yelling back and punching him. And this is another reason why he think he’s a Lion primary: Deku admired Bakugou not because he was kind or cared about people, but because Bakugou was strong and determined-those are Lion traits he admired.

He also says he starts to talk like Bakugou when he gets really into a fight-which makes sense since his Lion secondary was burned for so long and Bakugou was his main example for years. Rip me. 

By the way, Bakugou’s primary had officially burned before this fight. He literally asks if he was wrong to try and emulate All Might the way he did, why he had to be the one to destroy All Might. But, the fight with Deku and winning helps him unburn, or at least recover.

And then pretty much nothing happens in the show for season four but EVERYTHING happens in Heroes Rising and the manga and I can’t TALK ABOUT IT BECAUSE SPOILERS BUT TRUST ME THESE DOUBLE LIONS KEEP DOUBLE LIONING IT UP (and also possibly falling in love idk i’m an equal opportunitist with Kiribaku and Bakudeku)!!

[konako]

shameless harem uh.... tell me more lol

harem as in, I would have almost every girl in the story have something with Ruby, one way or another, at some point, some way.

Snow -- Queer awakening for Red. Sweet young love, experimented with her first kiss, something more steamy, but never further. Snow discovered she was sadly straight, and fell for Charming. We know the story from there. Poor Red, a broken heart to heal, while she pretends to be fine.

Regina (this one is going to be long...) --

FLT, before Dark Curse -- Some exchanged looks. A dangerous and impossible attraction from Regina’s part. Red found her strangely hot, but in all the wrongs ways: she was their enemy and all, so... Unf, but still.

Storybrooke, during Dark Curse -- Regina took advantage of Ruby’s new memories and now that there wasn’t a War or a loyalty to defend, she made her move. Ruby was her second booty call, after the Huntsman. A very efficient, animalistic booty call. It was a particular kind of hunger, that she’d call Ruby to satisfy. Like, Regina had to save herself for this and plan around it, or she’d be useless the following day. Ruby was a Code Red.

Storybrooke, after Dark Curse -- An awkwardness without precedents. Ruby realized she had been terribly, constantly intimate with The Evil Queen, of all people. It took a lot for her to come to terms with it. It was not disgust it was... more of a sense of betrayal. It felt wrong that it had felt so right, that they had matched so well. Ruby thought she had imagined the tension back in FTL, but now she knows what it was... And fuck, she knows it very well. 

From then on -- It’s a mess. It’s hate fucking after hate fucking after argument and passionate kissing and unwilling confessions of admiration and devotion and sacrifices and more animal sex, and broken furtinure and ripped dresses and teeth and claw marks (oddly enough, not from the wolf) it’s... it’s a mess.

Belle -- The soft, gentle love story we all wanted. Beauty and The Beast, to mend the beast’s broken heart. Ruby is anxious in the beginning, she’s still recovering from Snow and Peter, (and whatever the hell she had with Regina, which feels dirty and unworthy of Belle), but Belle is so sweet and she loves her so much and she accepts all of Ruby’s past mistakes and dark nature. Hmm.

Ashley -- They fucked in Ruby’s car once, never talked it about it again. They were too drunk and Ashley was too straight.

Ariel -- Ariel has a massive crush on Ruby, but Ruby doesn’t feel the same. Something about Ariel’s youthful, blindly optimistic view of the world Ruby doesn’t want to ruin. She tries to let her down easy.

Merida -- Butch bros. There’s an admiration there, but it’s purely platonic. Both skilled with a bow and arrow, but know what’s like to turn into a huge beast, both made out with Mulan.

Mulan -- Ruby is in awe of Mulan. So strong, so brace, so honorable. Mulan is what Ruby wishes she could have been, if all that she is hadn’t gotten in the way. And it’s mutual. Mulan admires Ruby’s strength in recovering from her trauma and her massive power. There’s a lingering feeling between the two. Their hugs feel different from any other. Their looks feel deeper than the rest. And one time, when they were tipsy from celebrating a victory in battle, Mulan tripped into Ruby, Ruby held onto her, and their lips touched. It was a kiss, but... it was different. They still can’t name it. No one knows they have this layer -- people assume they are just great friends.

Elsa -- They shared a moment and bonded over feeling like a monsters, like they don’t belong and all that. They soon realized they were dangerous to each other. They needed someone to pull them up and balance their funk -- together, they were a fusion of low self-esteem and intimacy issues. But they enjoyed a night, when they had fun with the stupid difference in their bodies temperatures, a red hot Wolf and an ice cold Queen. It was an interesting mix.

Lacey -- ............ it’s complicated. It was the same mess with Regina, but with the added guilty of that being Belle’s body, and Ruby feeling like she was taking advantage of her friend, who just didn’t remember her. Of course, the truth was, Lacey took full advantage of Ruby, all the time -- she took advantage of Ruby’s crippling crush on Belle, of Ruby’s nervous politeness, of Ruby’s full moon temperament, of Ruby’s wolf strength. She was Lacey. There’s nothing more to that. It was purely physical, almost numbly so. Lacey was a drug Ruby had to quit. 

Cruella -- So. problematic. At least Regina respected Ruby’s right to choose, but Cruella can control beasts and Ruby is her mission of revenge for Anita. All of Ruby’s friends and allies have to keep Cruella away from her, simply put. There is no sexual attraction, there is no romance. There is a devil in the skin of a woman, trying to turn Ruby into her personal toy. Cruella is Ruby’s villain. That’s the extent of that.

Jasmine -- They have never met. But Jasmine has heard great things about Ruby from Ariel.

Anna -- Mm. It feels wrong. Ruby is too much like her sister. (Don’t @ me, this is OUAT, this are different rules)

Blue -- Blue is secretly the great villain of the show and that’s the truth. Blue is a judgmental, hypocritical maniac, and Ruby is uneasy around her. It doesn’t help that Blue’s holier-than-thou attitude insults Ruby’s wolfness.

Tinker Bell -- Yep. Fuck buddies. No strings attached. They do freaky things when they’re in the mood, it’s all in good fun. They mostly do it to piss of Blue, so it’s even better then.

Cora -- No.

Zelena -- Regina swore that if Ruby messed around with her sister, she’d personally cut the tail of her wolf and hang it in her living room. Ruby doesn’t argue. One vengeful sister is enough to occupy her mind.

Dorothy -- Are they True Love here? Maybe?? They surely are attracted to each other, but the timing isn’t right. Ruby is hung up on Belle and their recent break, Dorothy isn’t ready for a relationship. The kiss is magical, but there’s a bitter-sweetness to it, like they know they have to part for now, and meet later. 

Jacqueline -- Okay, okay. She tried. Like with Tinker Bell, Jack is into some weird stuff, and Ruby would be lying if she said she wasn’t curious and willing to try some of it, but........... the woman has problems. Serious, deep seeded problems, and she’s trying to work them out through sex and it just isn’t healthy. Plus, she wants to try some weird animal play and Ruby IS NOPING THE FUCK OUT OF THERE. 

Kathryin -- Painfully straight. May be a little homophobic.

I can’t remember more. My brain is melting.

[nillial]

please forgive me for whatever i do (when i don’t remember you)

a taz fic in which edward and lydia, being undead, are immune to the voidfish and thus can see thb’s blocked memories and offer them up for sacrifice. taako spins mind. they want him to sacrifice the memory of his sister. except taako doesn’t have a sister. or-- taako makes a mistake. and once you sacrifice something in wonderland, you don’t get it back.

ao3 link in the notes because tumblr is dumb and won’t let links show up in tags

--

“Mind, huh?” Lydia grins, wide and unsettling. “We could have some real fun with this.”

Taako scoffs and watches some black smoke drift up to the ceiling. He’s sick of fun. So far, the only thing that Wonderland’s fun has given him is a bloody nose, a limp, and what he thinks is a broken rib. All he wants to do is finish this job, go home, and sleep for so long that his nap borders on a coma.

“What do you want?” he asks, leaning on his umbrella and feigning indifference. “My brain’s clogged with tons of shit I don’t need. You want spells? Recipes? I’ve prob’ly got some fond memories stuffed somewhere up in the ol’ clunker. ”

“No, no, none of that,” she says. “We want to up the ante a little bit. How about… a person?”

She and her brother smile at one another with wide, unblinking eyes. He suppresses a shiver and steels himself, because, no, they don’t scare him. They’re just weirding him out. Twins are creepy like that.

“A person?” he repeats. He almost ridicules them for making it so easy on him, but decides better of it.

A person. Taako doesn’t have anyone from his past that he’d mind forgetting. Everyone he’s ever known either abandoned him or betrayed him. Who could they make him forget, really? Sazed? His aunt? Every other asshole who left him?

Forgetting wouldn’t be so bad. He’s better off alone, anyways.

“Bring it on,” he says.

--

Lydia flashes him one of her fake toothy grins and tilts her head. “How selfless! You know, I think you’re becoming our favorite, Taako.”

He holds back a facetious remark and barely restrains himself from grimacing. He’s not sure that being Lydia and Edward’s favorite is much of an honor. “And why’s that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Edward asks. “The enthusiasm for the job, the impeccable style, the willingness to relieve yourself of your burdens— you’re just like us!”

At that, Taako fails to choke down a “Like hell I am.” He ignores the black smoke drifting up to the ceiling. Magnus shoots him a glare. He shoots him one back. Sure, he was pretty impressed at first, and it’s nice to finally have his oversized hat and ten layers of mismatched clothing recognized as impeccable style, but there’s no way he’s letting them compare themselves to him. Having heavy machinery dropped on top of him and watching his traveling companions suffer cancels out any and all compliments they might give him.

Lydia laughs, cold, empty, and humorless. “Really, Taako, you can’t deny how similar we are. We apologize for the bias towards you, if you feel it’s unfair, but you have to understand that it’s not often we come across another pair of powerful elven twins with such a strong bond.”

Taako’s train of thought halts. Twins?

“It’s a shame only one of you is a lich,” Edward adds. “We really could have been matching then.”

“Even more of a shame that you couldn’t bring her with you. Physically, anyways.” She gives him a once-over, but Taako swears her gaze lingers on his umbrella, which she stares at quizzically before she returns to her usual cocky countenance. “But she’s always there in your heart, isn’t she, Taako?”

He has no clue what apparent twin sister she’s going on about, but something deep in his chest aches.

“Taako, you had a caretaker who you trusted, a friend who betrayed you, and a sister who meant the world to you. You loved each of them, and they all left you.” Edward leans closer to him and Taako takes a few steps back. “I wonder who we should take?”

“Now, Edward,” Lydia says, “it wouldn’t be a sacrifice if it didn’t sting a little, would it? Let’s go with someone he’s still fond of. Someone he wants to hold on to.”

Edward shifts his gaze from her to Taako. His stare drills into him. “Of course. Besides, we’ve already gotten rid of one quest for vengeance today, haven’t we? Right, Magnus?”

Magnus narrows his eyes at them, but it’s more of a confused squint than the threatening glare that it’s intended to be. Taako can’t help but feel sorry for him. He supposes he has to add Governor Kalen to his personal hit list now.

The two of them turn their heads to face him in unison. He stifles another shiver.

“If you accept this sacrifice,” says Lydia, “you will forget Lup. You’ll forget your childhood together, your journey, your grief and denial and relentless searching after she left— you’ll forget your other half.”

Edward slides off the top of the wheel and approaches him. “You spent so long looking for her, Taako. You clung to the hope that she really was out there somewhere, told yourself that she wasn’t gone, you could feel it, and that you just had to look harder. Even after all of those failed expeditions, after your search party had dwindled from six members to two, even after all of those sleepless nights and countless hours of praying to whatever god would listen to you, you remained hopeful.”

“It’s admirable, really,” continues Lydia. “You truly believed she’d return to you. Even after everyone else accepted that she was gone, you kept looking. You always had faith in her, Taako. But things didn’t work out the way you hoped, did they? In your experience, they rarely do.”

“You moved on like she was never even there in the first place— you had to at some point, I suppose— but part of me wonders if she’s not the reason why you’re always traveling. To keep looking. It makes me speculate whether or not the Animus Bell is truly your heart’s desire, instead of, say, a device to help you find your sister?” Edward waves his hand dismissively. “But we might save that for another round, if it’s still a viable option. Can’t spoil all the fun yet.”

It’s Lydia who approaches him now, gliding off of the wheel and onto the floor below, walking towards him with slow, deliberate footsteps. “You loved her, Taako. You couldn’t live without her. She was your twin sister. She was your other half. She was your heart. You searched, and searched, and searched, but you could never find her. I’d say the sacrifice we’re offering now is more of an opportunity than a forfeiture. A chance to shed all of the pain and agony her disappearance has caused you. Why would you deny that? To hold on to a false hope? Because, quite frankly, Taako…” She reaches out to touch his shoulder. She’s cold. “That’s just… greedy.”

They both stare at him, smiles wide and unwavering. He stares back. Their eyes are empty, save for the hunger within them.

Taako leans in close. And, then, mimicking their unnatural grins and wide eyes, says, “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Their faces drop. Lydia and Edward share a look.

He has to admit: their confusion is kind of gratifying.

“This isn’t… We’ve been doing this for a long time, you know,” Edward tells him. “We can tell when people are lying to get out of a sacrifice. The ‘you’ve got the wrong guy’ trick isn’t going to work on us.”

“I’m not lying,” he says, his mock creepy grin now a genuine satisfied smile. “I don’t have a sister. I’m an only child.”

From behind him, Magnus speaks up. “You don’t have to take the sacrifice, Taako. I get it. It’s a lot. I’ll spin instead.”

“You don’t need to spin for me. These fools made a mistake.” He watches Edward and Lydia turn and scowl in his direction. Yeah, this is incredible.

“Wait, hold on,” says Merle. “Lich?”

“Oh, no, I’m not a lich,” Taako replies. “I’m not even into necromancy. Remember Grim Reaper? He would kill me. Like, he’d be legally obligated to kill me.”

“He was legally obligated to kill all of us before our charges were cleared,” Magnus points out.

“Yeah, but—” He hesitates and recalls their high death count and the undead presence on the Bureau of Balance quad. “Holy shit. Am I a lich?”

“You did all die those times,” Merle says.

“We died all those times,” Magnus counters. “Especially you, old man.”

“Hey, we’re talking about Taako right now!”

Taako runs his hands down his face and sighs. He’d contemplate their lichdom some other time. “Look, guys, it doesn’t matter. This whole situation isn’t even about me! I don’t have a twin! What matters—” Taako spins on his heel to face Lydia and Edward, who cease their murmured squabbling in order to look at him. “— is that these two fucked up.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “We didn’t 'fuck up',” she says. “We saw her. We know she’s there. You can’t just pretend like you don’t remember her in hopes of getting out of a sacrifice.”

“You’ve got yourself mixed up there, thug.” He takes a step towards them and presses his hand to his chest for dramatic flair. “I’m Taako. Bomb wizard, culinary genius, single child, and only maybe a lich. I don’t know what poor soul you’re going on about, but it’s not me.”

They’re both silent for a moment. Edward takes a deep breath, and says, “I’m just— I’m not even going to— take the sacrifice or don’t, okay? If we really did make a mistake, which I doubt, then nothing will happen to you and you can move on.”

Taako grins. A free opt-out of a sacrifice? He’s more than happy to take that up.

Before he can accept, however, he feels the weight of Magnus’s hand on his shoulder. “Wait, Taako, I— I don’t trust this.”

He sighs. Magnus isn’t usually the discretionary one. “C’mon, my man, free spin.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” Magnus purses his lips. “The Bureau’s been… weird lately. Weirder than usual. I don’t know if this is really a mistake or not.”

“What do you mean? You think I actually have a sister?”

“I’m just saying there’s a chance that the Bureau... isn’t as good as we think it is.” Magnus’s gaze travels to an empty corner of the room and lingers there. Through the neon pink and green light, Taako thinks he sees a flash of red, but it’s gone before he can register what it is.

“Listen, I believe you when you say that the Bureau’s all secretive and might not be trustworthy. I knew that going in. I mean, it’s a organization hidden in a fake moon harboring a weird jellyfish that’s single-handedly saving the world from destruction or whatever,” he tells him. “But a twin? That’d take a whole lot of covering up for something they have no reason to make me forget.”

“They made us forget an entire war, Taako,” he says. “Is it really so ridiculous to consider that they might be hiding more from us, too?”

Taako hesitates, just for a moment.

Everyone he’s ever known has abandoned him at some point.

He spent his childhood being unwanted. Too much to care for, too much of a troublemaker, too much of a handful— nobody wanted a kid that actively tried to wreak havoc.

(He wasn’t always like that, though. He learned fairly young that every arrangement was temporary because everyone got sick of him eventually. Why stick around? Why get hopeful? Why prolong the inevitable? If he was going to get kicked out at some point, then he might as well have fun until then.)

His aunt was the first caretaker he’d had that he trusted wholeheartedly. It was a temporary arrangement. He knew that. He also knew, from experience, that he probably wouldn't last past a month, so he started being an asshole. Messed up the house, talked back, ran too quickly to be caught, destroyed furniture and clothes and valued possessions by shooting off dangerous low-level spells every which way— the usual routine.

But his aunt tolerated him. That was a lot more than he could say for any of his previous caretakers.

She saw some sort of potential in him, maybe, or she saw someone who could help her with supper, but, either way, she taught him everything she knew about cooking. How to make the gross stuff taste better, how to season bland food, how to prepare a meal when you don’t have anything. He was fascinated by all of it. Every recipe, every tip, everything to do and to avoid stuck in his head and never left.

He loved it. He loved the fulfillment of making something good, and he loved improving on a meal that was already delicious, and he loved the praise that accompanied cooking something right. He loved it because it was fun. He loved it because he was good at it. He loved it because it was useful. He loved it because it was his.

He and his aunt grew closer and closer until Taako was constantly trailing at her heels. Wherever she went, he followed. It was probably annoying, looking back, but she would just ruffle his hair and tell him to help her with the laundry. She seemed to appreciate having him around— pretended to genuinely enjoy his awful early experimental dishes, laughed when he cracked lame jokes, hugged him close to her when hugs were needed.

And then the time came for him to leave again.

She packed his bags herself. She told him she couldn't keep him anymore. She told him that time was up, that he had to go, that it was his cousin’s turn to watch over him.

He asked why.

She sighed. Stared at the wall instead of his eyes. It was easier that way.

“This was temporary, Taako. It was always temporary,” she said. “I thought you knew that.”

Which he did. He knew the whole time, but he ignored it. Shoved the incessant reminders that this will end, this will end, this will end, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment because this will end far back in the recesses of his mind. It’s just that he thought—

He hoped—

God, he was an idiot.

He never went to his cousin's house.

Instead, he took to the streets. He worked on caravans for money, slept next to campfires in empty woods, focused on his magic and his cooking because it was what he was good at and he didn't need anyone to tell him so. No estranged family members to pass him around, to sneer at him, to whisper about how awful he was while Taako listened behind closed doors and thin walls— and no aunt to pretend that she cared.

He used his cooking and his magic to get by. Impressed people on the sidewalk for tips, prepared food for the crews he traveled with, worked at local restaurants for a couple weeks or until they realized that some of their stuff had been stolen. Rinse and repeat.

He spent his life as a traveler.  He'd been one for so long that being grounded to a single spot felt unnatural. Maybe he was never meant to settle. Or, at least, that's what the restlessness in his bones told him— the survival instinct that he never really shook, as deep as the well of magic in his veins, as innate and unfulfillable as the desire for more, more, more to fill the something that's been missing his whole life.

Maybe that’s why he opted for a career in a traveling caravan.

He doesn't remember the specifics of how he got his caravan in the first place, really. They're all a little fuzzy around the edges. All that he knew and all he presently knows is that he woke up with the world's worst hangover, lying on the floor of a probably stolen stage wagon, and all he could think was I am Taako, I'm a great chef, and I'm going to start a traveling cooking show. He couldn't recall much else besides that.

But, as his fame grew and his time narrowed, he realized that he'd need to hire someone to drive. Someone to take him places while he caught up on much-deserved rest and prepared for the next show. Someone like Sazed.

Someone like the worst mistake he'd ever made.

Sazed needed a decent-paying job and Taako needed a driver (and, as he would begrudgingly admit to himself and to no one other than himself, another soul in his caravan, because it was just... too empty). For a while, driving was all he did. But when there’s no one else to talk to besides yourself and your employee, you eventually crack.

They grew closer. Taako did shows and helped Sazed with cleanup. It started as mostly friendly coworker chat, but they got comfortable around each other, as people are wont to do when they only speak to one other person. It still took Sazed some time to make Taako talk about anything even remotely personal, but he did, eventually, and told him snippets of stories from his past, to which he'd listen intently. And things were good like that.

But Sazed wanted in the show and Taako wasn't willing to share the spotlight.

And then came Glamour Springs, and the mass murder he thought he committed, and—

There was just— everyone was sick, and they were dropping to the ground, and there was blood, there was so much blood, and— they were going to toss him in prison, and— his show and his fame and everything would be gone again and— he just—

Taako did what he does best and ran. He fled and dyed his hair and covered himself in layers upon layers of clothing. He camped out in the middle of nowhere and didn't dare to go in public except for when it was absolutely necessary. And he choked down the shame, and the fear, and the knowledge that the name he made for himself was ruined.

Sazed left him after a couple days. Motherfucker couldn't stand being around him so much that he killed 40 people to get away.  

And this sister, if she exists…

Everyone abandons him at some point. If his apparent sister got a head start, then that's fine. He doesn't need anyone in the first place— not an aunt, not a friend, not a sister, and not even Magnus and Merle, when they inevitably leave. He's Taako. He can take care of himself, and he's damn good at it, too.

If he really does have a sister and The Shining Twins aren't fucking with him, then she's out there, somewhere in Faerun, and she hasn't bothered to find him. That's assuming that she even knows he exists. Why should he hold onto the memory of someone who he never knew and who doesn't care about him?

Even now, he reminds himself that everything is temporary. Even now, he reminds himself that he's a wanderer. Even now, in Wonderland, on the brink of giving up, he knows that he won't be here forever. Even if he dies. Taako is slippery. He can find a way out if the need arises.

If taking advantage of a sacrifice that means nothing to him is what it takes to ensure that, then so be it.

Fuck his aunt.

Fuck Sazed.

Fuck his sister.

“I get where you’re coming from, Magnus,” Taako grumbles, “but I don’t care.”

“Taako, wait—”

Magnus reaches for his shoulder, but it’s too late. Taako shrugs him off, steps forward, and says, “I accept the sacrifice.”

Edward and Lydia turn and grin at one another, then turn back to face him. Lydia snaps her fingers.

And then Taako recoils.

He sinks to the ground and onto his knees, and his insides are turning, turning, turning, and they just won't stop. His ears ring with a loud, overwhelming static that builds and keeps on building. And then he sees— he sees—

He sees snippets of memories that aren't his, yet he intrinsically knows that they are. They have to be. That's Magnus, and that's Merle, and that's Davenport, and… Barry, and— and Lucretia? And—

And he sees a woman that's almost entirely identical to him. He sees her, but a deep static keeps him from connecting the dots. He knows her. He's known her for his whole life. That's— That's his sister. That's—

That's Lup.

That's Lup. He sees her, hundreds of years younger, squeezing his hand as they leave their aunt's house for the last time. That's Lup, shoveling food into a bag while Taako distracts the shopkeep. That's Lup, drunk, belting Fergalicious with him after they found out that they'd both been accepted into the IPRE. That's Lup, staring at the inky mass below what used to be their world, clinging to him as tightly as he's clinging to her. That's Lup, shooting off fire spells left and right. That's Lup, performing a duet with Barry. That’s Lup, giving a passionate speech in front of a glowing pink crystal. That's Lup, clutching his hand as they face off against the world again, and again, and again.

That's Lup, holding his umbrella.

That's Lup, with the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet.

That's Lup, telling him thank you for the last time.

Through the debilitating, unexplainable pain in his head, Taako manages to open his eyes. He glances at his umbrella, but then his gaze is caught there, held there, unable to break away.

That’s Lup.

But as soon as that thought is there, it’s gone.

Memories of her filter through his mind, escaping him just as soon as they surface. He claws at them, screams, begs them not to go. Those memories, however distant they may be, are all he has left of her. She’s all he ever had. She’s his heart.

He can get her back. He will get her back. He’ll find a way to reverse Wonderland’s sacrifices and he’ll get his sister back. Everything is temporary, and Taako is— he’s slippery— he can find a way out if the need arises, even now, even here— he just— he needs to hold on, for her—

Lup’s face, her voice, her laugh, everything she ever did and ever was flits through his mind. A memory surfaces of the two of them on the deck of some kind of— rocket ship, maybe? Flying boat? She points out something on the ground below and makes a joke, but her voice is too distant to discern what she says. Taako replies with something that makes her crack up, but that, too, fades away. He tries to conjure the memory back up, but then realizes that he can’t— can’t remember— what—

Taako sees her eyes light up at an abandoned DMV in the middle of nowhere. She looks at him, grinning maniacally, and casts a flurry of magic missiles at it, setting it ablaze. He watches as it burns, sending embers flying through the air, thick smoke building and rising. And he watches her shoot off spell after spell, each one more destructive than the last. She asks for his wand. He gives it to her. He smiles as she sends lights crashing to the ground, sheets of glass shattering on the floor, beams crackling with flames, but then it goes foggy, and he— he tries so hard to hold on to at least that one memory, but— but it’s— it’s escaping his mind, and—

Taako sees maps piled up on a desk, held down by thumbtacks and paperweights. The one at the top of the stack has several circles drawn on it, some of which have been crossed out. He can remember, at least for now, that the maps are for Lup. She’s been missing for a long time. He and Barry are still searching for her. They always will be, so long as she’s not with them. Barry’s eyes are bloodshot and his chin is resting in his hands. He points at a circle somewhere on the map and begins talking about the possibility of uncovering her whereabouts, and—

And it occurs to Taako that he’s spent so much time not searching. He’s wasted the years where he could have been looking, could have found his sister, could have had her back by now, and—

He needs to get out of Wonderland, he needs to tell Magnus and Merle to keep searching, he needs to—

He needs to find a way to reverse the sacrifice, he needs his sister back, he needs—

He needs to find her— he has to keep looking for her, for Lup, and—

He needs to find his sister, he—

He needs—

Who?

He feels everything crumbling down all at once and he doesn’t know why. His headache subsides, the static clears, but he feels nothing. Instead, he’s left with a deep sense of emptiness. A blankness in his brain. A pit in his stomach. A hole in his heart.

Like he’s one half of a whole that will never be filled.

He tries to stand upright, but staggers. In an attempt to steady himself, he grabs onto the handle of his umbrella and realizes, stifling a yelp, that it’s searing hot. He’s hit with an immediate and immense wave of sorrow, overwhelming him, washing over him. Taako, in the back of his mind, hears sobs and screams and pleas to every god there is.

She’s crying.

Who’s crying?

He’s crying, too.

His palm comes away burned.

From behind him, he hears Magnus ask, “Taako?”

Taako quickly stashes his umbrella away. He stumbles to his feet, wipes the tears out of his eyes— yikes, embarrassing— and swivels around to face him. Magnus and Merle are both staring at him in horror. He rolls his eyes.

“What’d I tell you?” he says. “I don’t have a twin.”

Merle and Magnus share a look. Taako ignores them.

From the other side of the room, a third bright green light flickers on. The stone door below it slides open, revealing another room shrouded in complete darkness.

“Huh,” Edward says.

“What’s ‘huh’?” Taako asks.

“I don’t know. I figured that the sacrifice would void and you’d have to spin again, but it’s gone through. Then again, we’ve never really made a mistake before, so what do I know? Right, Taako?”

He swallows thickly and runs his thumb across his newly-burned palm. Stupid twins. Why do they have to be so weird?

He shakes off the residual feeling of immense regret as best he can, then turns around with a flourish to face the rest of the group. Settling back into his usual Taako self, he says, “Come on, fellas. I’m low on health and I don’t want my soul to be slurped up, or whatever it is that happens when you die in here.”

Merle and Magnus eye him warily. Merle asks, “Uh, are you sure you’re—” 

“You can thank me later,” he tells him. “It’s no big. Let’s go.”

He starts heading for the door and is satisfied when he hears the shuffling of feet behind him. Taako doesn’t want their pity. Can’t understand their pity, even if he did want it. Something is blocking his memory. Not like the disconnect and fog and staticky something of deja vu he feels every once in a while, either. Whatever he lost is just— gone. Entirely irretrievable.

And he doesn’t get it. He never had a twin in the first place. He didn’t have to sacrifice anything at all, and yet something is gone. Something important that he can’t place.

He decides not to think about it.

Out of his peripheral vision, Taako sees red lightning crackle and curl around the back half of the room. He suppresses a gasp, so as not to alarm Lydia and Edward, who are whispering next to the door. Hesitantly, he turns around.

He expects a savior or an enemy to kill either Lydia and Edward or the three of them. He expects a reaper ready to collect a five-person bounty. He expects the red robe, maybe, to say something cryptic and then vanish.

But there’s nothing there.

Magnus gives him a look that he doesn’t know what to make of.

-

Edward and Lydia are there, the Animus Bell in their grasp, and then they're not.

There’s a flash of lightning and then the Red Robe is there, floating above them. This time, though, he doesn't speak to them. Doesn’t say anything vaguely menacing. Doesn’t predict their doom or try to convince them of some different destiny. He only raises his fists, crackling with electricity, and he aims.

The worst storm he’s ever experienced lasts only a few seconds. There’s lightning everywhere— bolts of it curling off the red robe’s spectral form, striking with reckless abandon, crawling up the walls and disappearing into the void above. And there’s so much of it, too. Too much. They should have gotten struck by now, but for some reason, the red robe is protecting them from a hit that would undoubtedly kill them.

All three of them are trapped in a cyclone of crimson and power. Taako isn’t sure whether it’s a prison or a means of freedom.

Until he hears screams, nearly identical, nearly perfectly in time with each other, so loud and so passionate and so painful that they shake the sky above and the ground beneath their feet.

When the storm clears and the lightning dwindles into sparks, the Red Robe is there and the twins are gone.

The Animus Bell sits cleanly in the middle of the ashes.

Magnus looks between the three of them, and then at the red robe, whose vacant stare offers nothing to their silent conversation. He approaches, careful and slow— Taako has never known Magnus to be either of those things— and, for a moment, he just looks at it. Too long of a moment, he thinks, until Magnus says, “I’d hate it. Shut the fuck up.” With the hand covered by his Phantom Fist, he picks it up.

An intense gust of wind blows through the room, making Taako clutch his hat and causing the mannequins to fall over like dominos. Thick black smog peels off the walls, off the stage, the floor, the furniture, the lights, all of it getting pulled into the wind until every one of his senses are obscured by dark fog. He squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, Wonderland is gone.

When his vision finally clears, the Red Robe’s vacant stare is on him. Or maybe “vacant” isn’t the right word anymore, despite his eyes being nothing but shadow and skull. Somehow, he looks angry. Heartbroken, even. He doesn’t know how he knows that.

He points at the three of them. Taako instinctively grabs his umbrella and prepares to cast teleport.

YOU, he says, in his low, whispery voice. YOU WILL ALL COME WITH ME.

His finger shifts to Taako.

AND YOU WILL FIND A WAY TO FIX YOUR MISTAKES. FOR YOUR HEART. FOR MY HEART. FOR HER.

He jerks his skeletal thumb behind him.

LET’S GO.

——

All the memories flood back, but they’re not quite there.

He sees his friends, the rest of the IPRE, answering questions at a press conference, and it’s… okay. Strangely lonely. They say their piece and sit back down and everything is weird and professional. There’s an empty spot in the seat next to him. Taako wonders why they even set it out.

He sees a black mass overtake the planet he called home and his hand reaches out and grips the air beside him. He doesn’t know why he does that, but he doesn’t let go, either.

He sits on the beach next to Barry and he’s goading him into telling who he has a crush on. Barry sputters, and blushes, and stumbles over his words, but then he stands up and deadpans, “Just forget it.” Which is… weird. It strikes him as very un-Barry like. He doesn’t think about it too hard. Either Taako will find out eventually or his feelings will pass.

To earn the Voidfish’s approval, Barry does a piano solo. It’s beautiful and heart wrenching, but Taako can’t help but feel like there’s something missing. The Voidfish accepts it anyways.

He takes a day for himself during one cycle. He makes himself breakfast, he has a water gun fight with Davenport, and he goes to an abandoned DMV. He stands there for a moment, looking at the glass panes and the motivational posters and wondering absentmindedly what happened to the people who used to be there.

Until the wall on his right catches flame.

Taako doesn’t know why and he doesn’t know how, but everything begins to catch and spread rapidly. Bolts of fire seem to come out of nowhere. The glass panes shatter. Sections of ceiling fall and crash at his feet. Thick smoke builds and rises and threatens to choke him. The entire infrastructure begins to crumble as everything goes up in flames. Taako should be running. He should be terrified.

But he doesn’t, and he’s not.

He’s elated.

He finally runs when the building threatens to topple on him, but he’s giggling on his way. And he can’t stop. Laughter bubbles in his throat, overwhelms him, makes him double over and clutch his knees. Tears spring from his eyes and he can’t be bothered to wipe them away. He’s just so happy and he doesn’t know why.

Memories flash by, one after the next. A stone of transmutation and a fiery gauntlet that he can’t quite pin the origin of. A sharp star and a mysterious umbrella. A blue sky with only one sun. A celebration that was more of a wake. A day where he feels incredible panic and loss stemming from a source that he can’t identify, and weeks that follow in which those feelings don’t change. Then he sees Barry, on the deck of the Starblaster, under the light of the night sky, poring over maps and stray papers with his head in his hands.

Taako approaches him, but before he can reach him, there’s static.

Static, and then he’s awake.

Everyone is silent. Unbearably silent. And he has one hundred years worth of old-new memories back in his head, however choppy they may be. He’s reeling. He tried to save the world. He has to save the world.

Taako says, “Hey, what the fuck?”

The rest of them find their voices. A cacophony of accusations and epiphanies and questions that have gone unanswered for years mix with each other until they're just noise. Taako is quiet because he doesn't know what else to say besides "what the fuck?" This whole situation is really... what the fuck?

“I’m so sorry,” Lucretia chokes out, hoarse and teary-eyed. “I’m so sorry, everyone, I— but this plan? My plan? It’ll work, I promise—”

“We’ve been gone for so long,” Magnus says, more to himself than to her. “We just... stopped knowing each other for so long."

“I know,” she says. “I know what I did and I know I have a lot to atone for, believe me. I didn’t think things would play out like they did, and I’m so, so sorry. But, please, please — let me finish what I started. I can keep the Hunger at bay. I can save this plane.”

“But isn’t The Hunger… already here?” Merle asks.

“It’s not too late. I— I can fight them off, I—”

Barry interrupts her. “You’re going to sever all of the bonds in this plane! Please, I understand why you did what you did, but, Lucretia, the barrier— it won’t work. Lup and I told you—”

“Lup made us promise that we would never put a planet in danger to stop the Hunger and that is exactly what we did. Barry, please. Let me do this.”

“Hold on,” Taako interrupts. “Who’s Lup?”

Everyone turns to look at him. Confused, concerned stares that betray a hint of horror behind the eyes, all on him.

“What?” he asks.

Davenport is the first to break the silence. “Taako, you… you know who Lup is. Of course you know who Lup is. Right?”

“No. Why would I?”

All of them, now, look at each other like he just murdered somebody in cold blood. Which is totally unfair because, when he does do that, it’s a group effort. He gives Merle and Magnus a pointed glare to even out the scales of justice.

The silence in the room lingers for a moment before anyone builds up the courage to break it again.

Barry says, in a small voice, “She’s your twin sister.”

His insides turn.

“I don’t…” He gives a small, nervous laugh. “I don’t have a twin sister.”

He watches, one by one, as their eyes widen, some of their expressions replaced with worry and others with panic.

Lucretia’s grip on her staff tightens so much that her knuckles turn white. “He should— he should remember by now,” she says, her voice slightly quivering. “Why can’t— why doesn’t he— did I— did I—”

“Hey, hey,” says Merle in his patented “calm down” tone. “I’m sure it’s fine, Lucy. That was a lot of remembering we all had to do. He’s just having some trouble, I bet. His memory’ll catch up with him.”

“No, it won’t.”

Everyone turns to Magnus, looking for elaboration, but Magnus just looks— panicked. Regretful, even.

All he says is, “The sacrifice.”

Something inside of Taako crumbles.

He remembers the sacrifice itself. He remembers Edward and Lydia spinning a story to him about a sister that doesn’t exist. He remembers accepting and absolutely nothing happening except a green light blinking to life. He remembers the confusion from everyone else, the stares he couldn’t understand, and although nothing is adding up right now— although, logically, he should have a twin sister, or should at least remember having one by now— he doesn’t. He doesn’t have a twin sister.

Part of him can’t bring himself to care about his twin sister because his brain is telling him she doesn’t exist, but that part is also panicking because everyone else seems to think he has a twin sister. Part of him is devastated because he must have sacrificed her, and Magnus is right, and the only way any of this makes sense is if he lost his memory of her. However, that part is also confused because he absolutely does not remember that happening, nor can he quite convince himself that it did. He thinks he knows, in the back of his mind, that he gave her up, but the rest of him is just— doubtful. The rest of him, for whatever reason, keeps telling him that he never had a twin sister and everyone around him is mistaken. Admittedly, that’s the part of himself that he’s inclined to believe.

His head hurts so bad. His stomach turns and turns and turns and his throat is tight, almost as if he’s choking on the thick smog of Wonderland.

Through his internal panic and confusion, he hears the distant sound of the voices so close to him.

He hears Davenport say, “What do you mean ‘sacrifice?’”

He hears Lucretia say, “Did— did Wonderland— did he—”

Then, Barry, “No, no, no, he has to remember by now, Magnus. He— It’s Lup, Magnus, he can’t just forget her again. Not after everything.”

Then, Merle, “Shouldn’t the Voidfish have… I don’t know, reversed it or something? I feel like the Voidfish is more powerful than a couple of dead liches. Like, uh, Magnus, you remember Governor Kalen now, right?”

“Who’s Governor Kalen?”

“Oh. Okay, then.”

“No, Merle is right,” Taako speaks up, quiet, withdrawn, confused. “If I had a twin sister, I’d remember her.”

Barry speaks, and he looks and sounds like he’s on the verge of a breakdown. “But you do. You had a sister, she— her name was Lup, she specialized in evocation, she was a lich, she liked fire spells, she was funny, she was passionate, she was good-hearted, and she loved you, Taako. She’s just… she’s not here. She’s gone and we can’t find her, but that doesn’t mean that she was never there. I mean, you have her umbrella, Taako. I don’t know where she is now, or if she’s safe, but your entire life was spent by her side. You just have to remember her.” Utter heartbreak like Taako has never heard before creeps into his voice. “Please.”

Taako tries. He really does. He tries to conjure up an image of a woman he’s never seen before, tries to imagine what she’d be like, tries to insert her into scenarios in which she could’ve been in (his aunt’s departure, his caravan work, the IPRE interviews, the fire at the DMV), but nothing quite works. All of it is met with internal disbelief that he just can’t shake. For some reason or another, he just cannot fathom having a twin sister by his side at all times, watching his back like he’d watch hers, being friends, looking out for one another. He’s never been able to rely on anyone but himself. Having someone like that— a sister to do everything with, to depend on and be depended on by, to care for unconditionally and for her to do the same— it’s unimaginable.

“I’m sorry,” is all he has to say for the hope to drain out of Barry’s face.

—

“I… I didn’t cast that, sir!”

“This isn’t the time to be modest, Agnes.”

“No, sir, you don’t understand. I didn’t cast that.”

“Uh, like hell you didn’t. I watched you do it. Good job. Do it again.”

“I--" Angus starts, but is pushed back by the force of a flurry of fireballs, all hitting the beasts of the Hunger that are advancing towards them.

“Woo!” Taako shouts. “Doing great!”

Across the room, Barry’s eyes widen. He diverts his attention from the threats he’s facing and instead focuses on Angus. “Kid,” he yells, “give me that umbrella!”

Angus looks apprehensive. He turns to Taako.

Taako shrugs. “Your call, I guess?” And then, cupping his hands over his mouth, he yells to Barry, “Don’t mess up my umbrella!”

Angus slides the Umbrastaff across the floor and to Barry, who picks it up gingerly. For a moment, he just looks at it. Turns it over in his hands. He watches as Barry purses his lips, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

And then he snaps the Umbrastaff in two.

Before Taako can ask “What the fuck, man?” a spark of red light ignites from the break in the staff. And then another. And another. A sparkler that grows exponentially until Barry is thrown backwards by a firework with the force of a bomb. Even Taako himself, on the other side of the room, is flung against a wall by the power of the explosion, which is so great and so awe-inspiring that it takes a few moments for him to register what's happening.

Then there’s smoke, red and thick, wrapping itself around the tendril of the Hunger in the center of the room, which begins to explode in a mass of oranges and yellows and pinks. The dark, inky mass of the tendril turns white hot and subsequently erupts in flame, taking out all of the adversaries it brought with it. In its place is a lich, who hovers above the rubble caused by their breathtaking entrance, fire licking at their shadowy fingers. They’re wearing an IPRE robe, but Taako doesn’t know… how. He doesn’t know who this is. He doesn’t know who it possibly could be.

The lich wastes no time in rushing over to him, as if they know that Taako would run if they were not quick enough.

A woman’s voice so similar to his and yet so unfamiliar addresses him. “Do you remember me, Taako?” she asks, and she sounds so desperate.

His heart aches.

He wishes he could tell her that he knows her, but she holds no spot in his memory. Even in her ghostly form, her shadowy face hidden by the hood of her robe, her grief overwhelms him. Something deep in his heart tells him that he does know her vaguely. An acquaintance, maybe. He doesn’t know. His mind feels empty and busy at the same time and he just… can’t think. And it’s not static, not deja vu, not easily glanced over like the Voidfish memories were. It’s just not there. It is hollowness and disconnect and confusion and just not there. Like a part of him that he can no longer identify has been taken and is now entirely out of his grasp.

“Taako?” she asks. She reaches out a translucent hand and grazes his face. She feels cold. “Say my name, Taako. Please.”

He opens his mouth and finds that he has no response.

This woman— this woman, hovering in front of him in her IPRE robe, this woman who sounds just like him, this woman who is insisting that Taako knows her— she should be familiar. He should know something about her. It would explain the robe, the seventh relic, the sister everyone seems to think he has, but it doesn’t… fit. He remembers only five other members of the IPRE. He remembers a childhood in which he fended for himself and only himself. He remembers Taako. Just Taako and no one else. That’s the way he likes it because that’s the way it’s always been.

But everyone else is claiming that isn’t the case.

His memories have returned. If all of them aren’t there by now, they’re not coming back.

And Taako, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he racks his brain, no matter how deeply he wants to tell this woman that he remembers her and he loves her and he’s so happy to see her, he cannot comprehend having a twin sister. To lie and to tell her that he knows her, or to even say that he truly believes they’re twins, is cruelty he can’t bring himself to commit.

He gazes into the blackness beneath the woman’s hood. She smells of smoke and emanates heat, despite her bitter touch.

“I’m your sister, Taako,” she tells him, her voice breaking. “You know me better than anyone else. Say my name.”

He can’t tell her that he doesn’t have a sister. He can’t tell her that he knows her, either. He remains silent and wide-eyed.

He takes in this woman before him— all shadow, all smoke, all fire and darkness and red electricity and, most of all, warmth— and he lowers her hood.

Her features are difficult to make out. They’re obscured by the black smoke she seems to be comprised of, and which all liches are comprised of. Semi-physical, semi-transparent smoke that has trouble sticking to one shape surrounding a skull in the center. He does see, however, a face that looks just like his. A nose like his. A mouth like his. Ears like his. The face she’s wearing is exactly like his but it’s not his and he can’t understand why that is. He tries to tell himself that this is his sister. He tries to convince himself that this is the one who he felt was missing his whole life, but now, when he thinks about it, did he ever truly feel like there was something missing or was he just lonely? He wants this to be his sister and he knows that she needs him to be her brother, but he also knows that they can’t be twins because they aren’t.

Surveying her features, looking into her eyes— they’re searching, desperate, they hold a spark of hope that’s quickly dwindling— he knows from somewhere within him that he made a terrible mistake.

“Taako,” she says again, a miserable whisper that would be inaudible if everyone around them were not so quiet. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Do you remember me?”

He can’t lie to her.

Taako stares at this woman who is fire, who is love, who is warmth and passion, who is strength, who is brilliance, who he innately knows holds all of these qualities and who just cannot be his sister.

In a trembling voice, tears threatening to spill out of his eyes, he tells her, “I wish I could remember you.”

She crumbles to the ground in a shaking heap of sobs and lets out a cry full of anguish and despair. In it, he hears her heart break.

Taako’s heart breaks with hers.

[snowydaydrabbles-blog]

AO3 Req. 1) Could you write some headcanons for The Doc (Dead by Daylight) and his shy s/o please?

how bout I do some Philip & Evan, too? maybe a lil drabble to show how they’d found you, too :^) I like the idea of The Entity doling out punishment when a killer strays from the rules of the trials tbh. might do something on that later. 

sorry if it’s choppy, or not super great quality! had a fussy baby in my lap all day, so i might rewrite at some point.

The Doctor / Dr. Herman Carter

Your connection to Doctor Herman Carter was unconventional- controversial. It was a dangerous, dangerous secret. The man-turned-monster was a shell, and took sick joy in toying with his patients. He was imposing, overbearing, and relished in the idea of breaking his obsession. It was almost endearing, in his mind, to watch this survivor squirm under the pressure of his presence. Something intimate, and shared only between you and him.

That sheepish demeanour was something he’d claimed for himself. The game became separating you from the others. Taunting you with swings that only missed by a breath, with agonizing jolts of pure electricity, and laughing over your broken body when you would finally fall to his pursuit. He could see in you what he once may have observed to be anti-social tendencies. A fear or discomfort surrounding other people, and their presence.

The Doctor had no desire to name his reason for choosing you- singling you out in each trial just to see you again, and again, and again. With enough of a push you showed your true colours- and it was delightful. Something the other, filthy meat hadn't yet seen in you. Your ability to lash out, to fight tooth and nail for yourself, and speak for the anger and desperacy that festered inside your mind.

You were different- at least somewhat, compared the slew of lost souls that swept through the ruins of his old hospital. When you would land in his trial, time and time again, he would ensure it dragged until The Entity itself intervened. To see you, to monitor you, and have the chance to interact with you while your unending life rested in his hands. It was a bond, of sorts, that blossomed in what remained of his heart.

Every time he caught your lonesome figure creeping in the mist, his favourite game began.

The relationship you had with The Doctor was less of a ‘relationship’, and more of a one-sided fascination. Herman saw something in you that he hadn’t in the others. The way you’d tense, when other survivors got too close, or tried to connect with you through the trials. It was vulnerability, at least in this world, and it was... precious. It drew him to you, much to your misfortune. 

He took that vulnerability and used it, to force a bigger divide between you and the other survivors. Herman couldn’t have you, technically, but that didn’t stop him from making himself the best shot you had at surviving. You would try to reach out, but something stopped you. An apprehension, surrounding the others. All you had to do was let him in, and you could be the lone survivor. 

It took time, but you got to a point where you’d let him close. He’d steal you away, if only for a while, to conduct his own tests. He’d pull you in and hold you close, ignoring the discomfort the live wire that infested him might cause you. The killer was like ice- his skin freezing, the muscle and flesh too firm to resemble any human being. It was clear that some part of him enjoyed you in your entirety. 

One might call it a territorial imperative that developed in him. Your demure disposition was alluring; the tremble to your voice when you’d speak, the heat that would flood your face and colour your ears when others overwhelmed you-- it was a unique flirtation. It was his, and he refused to share it. The survivors that managed to elicit these reactions were met with long, gruesome ends. Unworthy of his treatment, he let The Entity devour them whole.

Herman is always sure to reward you for indulging him, but only within reason. He wouldn’t help you cheat, not necessarily, but there were things he could do to help you get by. The thought of other hunters in the trial taking you from him spilled a fury into him like no other, so helping you to learn their shortcomings became his duty. No one was allowed to steal you from his afterlife.

The Trapper / Evan MacMillan

Evan was a man who hated wasting time with small-talk. He hated people, overall. The idea of trying to impress investors, or play it safe and kind with workers in the mine- it felt pointless. Tired. It was a fake face for the sake of cash.

The Entity absolved him of his duties. The mask liberated him, let him become the man he was meant to be. He was strong, silent, unabashed with his old identity. He became The Trapper; known in his own little realm for his expertise in the hunt. He'd never intended to find you, or somehow come to see you as 'different' or 'unique'. You were meant to be a rabbit in the trap- unfortunately, that was a role you happened to play too well.

You were timid, and so fast to evade his famished eyes. Avoiding other survivors, save for a select one or two. You were withdrawn and nervous- and something about that called him to you.

It didn't take much for the killer to do you in, catching an ankle in one of his gruesome traps. You didn't beg, or scream for help- all you did was wail at the pain. He admired the independence- the introversion. The steel you had that prevented you from grovelling at his feet, or crying out for some god-who had no power here- to save you. Instead you persevered; you fought in silence and used your skills to survive. You earned your time, and that made you special. 

Evan never played by the rules- it wasn't surprising to see that fault persisted into the Entity. He craved to know more. To kick in the door and force his way into your stubborn mind. The trap that brought you to your knees allowed him to make a crack in your foundations, to give himself an in, into your head. It was never felt like a waste of time to loom over your struggling form and experiment with what time the trial granted him. 

Against the rules of the game, he claimed you for himself. This was only the beginning, to what would surely be his greatest achievement yet.

The Trapper never liked wasting time. It was a commodity that he cherished, even before his final departure into The Entity. When he had finally caught you, he spent the short moments he was granted with chilling efficiency. He was a man of few words, but he made certain you knew his intentions from day one. He had a hunger for more- to know you from the inside out. See your instinct, your strengths and shortcomings. The questions he asked you were precise, and to the point. What made you so interesting to The Entity that it had summoned you here, too? Where you, the introvert, needed to depend on the people that entered these trials with you, lest you face a torture worse than death?

It didn’t take much to manipulate you to his will; out the other survivors, lead them into the iron jaws of his traps and survive in their stead. He embraced your intelligence, your cunning, and your silence. Everything that made you into the person you are, including your desire for solitude- a separation from the other sacrifices. You had quirks, and they brought a strange fondness he hadn’t felt for anyone- in life, or in death. This was something he could teach you, at least that’s what he believed; leave behind the guilt of surviving. Do whatever it takes to survive. It’s your life, or theirs. 

Between trials he would seek you out; the only person who dared to stray from the bonfire and relish in the distance you’d made for yourself. At first he only watched you, but his impulsive nature quickly ate away at any logic that kept him away. Evan wanted to be near you. There was much he could show you, a lot you could learn from him- from his shortcomings and failures in his life. He was soft once, tangled in the idea of doing what he should, instead of what he must. There was never much talking, but in a way unique to the two of you, you communicated through the silence. 

The Wraith / Philip Ojomo

Philip was a shy man, too, in another life. He understood the struggle, and the fear that came with meeting new people. Words often failed him. He once wished he could disappear, rather than face the stress of impressing new people every day. In some ways, his wish came true.

That was something the Wraith had seen in you, too. Distant memories of his old life sometimes slipped through the cracks, filled his mind with an all-encompassing grief for what he'd lost. In those rare, human moments, what was left of Philip Ojomo mourned for you. He could see that you were scared, and so alone in the freezing time-capsule of his old world. Hiding among the remains of old cars, sometimes too terrified to move from your fortress of twisted, rusting metal.

In those fleeting moments, when he would have a grip on what humanity still lived in his heart, he would show you mercy. Avoid you, as if to repent for the terror the Wraith had rained down upon you.

All it took was one moment, when a flicker of his old self got a glimpse of the agony in your eyes and the tears that wetted your cheeks. He'd caught you.

Having to piece together what had happened wasn't difficult. All that separated you from the towering figure of the killer was a heavy old car door. You'd tried to hide inside, it clearly didn't matter in the end. His gaze tracked downward, to your unmoving legs that were crushed and jutting from the bottom of the door.

Too shocked to scream, all you could do was watch as the Wraith had taken your ability to run right out from under you.

That trial changed him, at least in those moments. Fighting against the demand of The Entity, Philip tried to be gentle as he pried your sobbing body from the car.

There were no survivors left to witness him deposit you into the smoking mouth of the hatch.

Before disappearing into realm of The Entity, Philip was a fairly meek and timid man himself. He loved the idea of people- really, he did. He wanted friends, he missed his family when he’d left for his new beginning. However, he just didn’t have the talent of charisma or confidence to make meeting new people easy, or comfortable. Philip saw you, knew that you struggled as he once had. Whether you were scared, or uncomfortable, or just lacked the energy to handle new faces- he understood. What was left of him felt sympathy, and maybe a little pity that someone with your struggles was pulled into the same hell as himself. 

Over time he tried, when he was able, to reach out to you. A voice was something he no longer had, though. No mouth to speak. Instead he called to you, through a cacophony of a thousand voices, with desperate pleas to forgive his sins. He begged, in those scarce moments of clarity, that you run. Hide well, and please, be brave. Escape, and live to see another bitter victory. 

As time went on it became a skill, something he worked hard to refine, to reach inside himself and possess his lost humanity. He wanted to see you, to speak to you, to properly meet someone he could finally call a kindred spirit. And god, it was work, to finally wiggle himself into a place where you didn’t immediately run. It was dangerous, too, to put you in such a position, but he wanted to be selfish- just this once. So he spoke, everything that plagued his mind, until he couldn’t speak anymore.

You could never tell which voice was his- there were so many, fighting desperately to be heard. From those voices you got glimpses into his old life. The visage of a smile- warm and welcoming, comforting like a sunny day. He was so tall- but never intimidating, on the contrary he only felt scared. It bore a trust in you, for the towering monster that almost fed you to The Entity. 

You could never force yourself to speak to the other survivors much- which led to issues when it came to trials. You were shy, which is why Philip disobeyed the master of the realm. He helped you, where the others would see no mercy. Showed you the doors, the clever hides, and the lucky hatches that could save you from the other monsters you’d undoubtedly encounter. He held you, once, close to his heart as you wept over the life you were forced to leave behind. It wasn’t an ideal love- not quite, but something that led him to protect you. Someone who was just like him. 

[dwestfieldblog]

REVELATION: 2021

...’Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth...see, the home of God is among the mortals.’ Hope you are staying sane. Meanwhile, from my war room (arf) inside a deep (astral) state within a non binary body...hallucinating realities...

Imagine, if you will, millions in a democratic country, who gladly make (and addictively want to) their private thoughts known via social media and are quite happy to tell random pollsters on the street their feelings on any subject of which they are asked. And plenty on which they are not. So pleased to be asked their righteous opinion, so ego led deluded that anybody might ‘like’ their words that they will spout the hatred their hearts feel on issues of the day and in their lives without a care where such information goes. They want to be heard and so, they are. Now imagine a computer driven listening and watching station with instructions from media masters, political leaders, and advertising companies paying close attention to the data gathered. Not actual facts as such but almost all emotion led opinions, collated to show the group mindset of a subsection of a country.

An algorithm can be created for what products would most likely appeal to that mass. Guns, (for random example), waterproof bibles, clothing for survivalists. You have direct knowledge of this already when You tube, your email, Alexa etc ‘suggest’ something you might/should like, based on what you have ordered, written, or spoken online. This year I have been getting dozens of spam emails for bad eyesight, Viagra type stuff and hair loss. HA. My age must be written somewhere. Not much stress on imagination to see how simple it is for organisations like the ex Cambridge Anal lytica etc to capture and utilise such info via Facebook. Or how enemies of a country could understand in no short order what makes a country really tick below the surface and how to manipulate those emotionally crippled, poorly educated AND those who seek power over others. Psychographic profiling...stop giggling at the back there...

Cui bono (who benefits) from seeding disorder? Follow the money, ‘it’s only business’. An algorithm which reveals just what people believe and who can then be exploited en masse as useful idiots to disrupt the usual inbred spastic normality of daily life in a human country. And it is dirt cheap because people WANT to reveal themselves and a rival country need only a minimum outlay of actual infiltrating agent provocateurs (many of whom will be actual natives.) A set up involving ‘sock puppets’ which serves the same purpose as APs...the legendary bots and fake identities rattling off tweets and false flag Facebook pages, rallying the disaffected faithful. ‘More evidence that the targeting works and predicts our behaviour’.

Now, once the group targets have been identified, seek out those among them who long for their moment of fame, their years of special importance and time of power. They will have already made clear their characters in online posts. Weakling Alpha types cowering their insecurities behind a loud voice. They hunger for followers, to be ‘liked’, (a basic larval human need for most) and admired for their rightness. Show them support, aid their voices to spread, mysterious donors for the message; Anybody not similar to you MUST be the opposite...and therefore, the enemy. Step by step, the daily hormone rush reprogrammes and the opinions become a self fulfilling prophecy, imprinting over all sense of reason. So now you have your moronic masses (and those dumb enough to want to lead them) most of whom are too stupid (or busy surviving) to realise they are being manipulated from afar by those who understand what is within and do not have their countries’ interests at heart. Bombarded with attack ads and propaganda... ‘Until they saw the world the way we want them to’...

Some of the leaders, big or small, will actually know they are puppets but will think it acceptable as long as they are given a little pat on the head via position and power. And a lot of money. Most, (whether mass or leader of such infiltrated countries) will be certain they are doing what they do in the name of Freedom and Democracy, while all the time, being used to further limit the same. Hilariously, bleakly, deathly ironic. From hubris to nemesis.

Yes, I am writing about Brexit and Trumpists and Q Onan. Et al, etc. Ad infinitum. Almost. Those in democratic countries who are ceaselessly working unbeknown to themselves against most of what they demand the most. ‘To take back control’. No children, you are creating a system where you will have less and less of this. ‘Follow the white rabbit’? No, you are following an algorithm in highly predictive patterns to those who own it and by extension, you.

‘I love my country!’ Do you? Why are you working free of charge for another who only wants to see your Union and partnerships broken? You vote for ridiculous men like Trump and Farrage because they are not the government and think you are rebel anarchists who will herald a new dawn of purifying flame...by substituting yet more slime who care only for their own power.

Someone points the finger, uses a trigger word and you do the Pavlov dog. Someone claps their hands and you pay unquestioning attention to their misinformation. Look over there, the world is being run by Satanic, child abusing faggot socialist liberals and foreign scum. Arf. So why are you obeying one of the above mentioned groups in the name of taking back control of your freedom? Because they already know how you will react. Because you created the infamous All Seeing eye yourselves by feeding information into the data base. Because you are so easy to trick into believing you are thinking for yourselves. ‘They’ don’t need to insert chips or vaccines with nano bots, they can just implant you with audio visual media and Nuremberg style rallies.

Take two blonde, fat stupid white men. Liars to the highest degree. One an entitled megalomaniac spoiled child and the other with half the megalomania. A glance at their track record and into their eyes should have told you all. Seems it didn’t. It took over four years and up to the week Trump left, for the rats to finally start jumping ship and for the band of the Titanic to start changing their tune. Twitter took four years to decide to cut off his fix. Nero played golf while America burned with Covid. 414,000 dead. Incitement to riot? Incitement to riot.  Investigate his wannabe aristocratic family and do not allow his children anywhere near politics. Or Smug petulant Kusher anywhere near business.

Over 74 million still think Trump is a go to guy rather than a take a running jump at kicking him up his arse. He pardoned various criminals, including Bannon, (lest the fascist scuzzball fink on him)...and no pardon for Maxwell... who still could, unless she also should manage to ‘kill herself’ by accident fnord in prison. Seems likely Donald could run for office again, form his own party....What? Pence announced ‘Space Force’ personnel will be called Guardians; yes really...this year will see their first battle against the children of Thanos. Thanos, thy name is Trump. But lacking the compassion or humour.

Good morning to billionaire Mr Robert Mercer...a ‘Christian’ Conservative, gun lover, climate change denier, donor of over 100 million dollars to right wing candidates, 15 million of which went into Cambridge Analytica/Brexit and more to Breitbart and Trumps 2016 campaign. On the face of it, both he and his second daughter Rebekah would seem to have their fingers hard on many triggers of chaos, all of which serve only the rich and Russia. Breaking up partnerships, friendships, splitting unions and sowing discord. Check. Encouraging  the working  and middle class to merely shift their belief across to another band of disreputable rich guys by telling them how corrupt the other rich guys are. Look out! They might be Socialists! A lot of them are Europeans! They eat children and want immigrants to swarm over your town! Works like a charm. It would be so nice if billionaires would actually behave in a decent moral way (yes, sarcasm) and actually help out more, regardless of whether there is a return on their ‘charity’, instead of being the James Bond villain scum they act like.

And speaking of Q...HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Arf. That narcissist prick in horns Jacob Chansley of Arizona...Shaman? Shame man. Bullhorn? Bullsh...t. No hanging lawmakers for you boy. He only eats organic food? So what? A lover of nature? Which is why he wears fur and horns and wishes death upon fellow Americans who are ‘traitors’. The Kremlin and Mercer have done a job as sweet as they did with Brexit divisions. Just let the rabid cretins do all their work for them splitting unions. Well, it’s what the CIA did so well against communism. Now it is our turn. Watching yanks and brits demand more control of their democracy while pulling it apart. Hilarious. Q Onan wanked their conspiracy to death and are now confused the Golden One has not led them to the revolution...not exactly levitating the Pentagon are you?

They believed the world is run by a paedo satan worshipping elite who plot against Trump and operate a global child sex trafficking ring. Yes really. So you can see how they appeal to the deranged righteous Christian gun toting hordes and internet savvy youth against the Deep State. Arf arf arf. The Kemlin will have studied key points as to what gets the average American and British goat and exploited it. People are so keen to share their beliefs, ideas and fears on social media that it is simple to collect and combine such info...(as happened with Cambridge Analytica) and use it for manipulating gain. Putin/Mercer probably told Trump the nature of the beast. ’If you want followers, do this...’Follow the algorithm. Dying covid patients continue to deny they even have it in South Dakota etc...that is how well the misinformation works.

Boris. A pathetic deal with Europe after an endless mantric blather of an ‘oven ready Brexit’. The chumocracy in full force as Ayanda Capital receive a 150 million pound PPE contract and provide no masks at all. And tax exile Tory donor (Lord) Ashcroft’s firm lands a 350 million pound vaccine contract (without a tendering process). Well, rather help a pal than put money into the National Health Service eh Boris? In 2019, the music industry brought in around 5.8 BILLION pounds, whereas the fishing industry netted (arf) 446 million. Sunak and Johnson have not seen fit to grant work permits for musicians to play in Europe and bands from outside will find it harder to get visas to tour in Plagueland. ‘Health’ secretary Matt Hancock said it was ‘Peculiarly unusual’ why British people went to work when they were ill. ‘Why in Britain do we think it’s acceptable to soldier on and go into work if you have flu symptoms...’Hmm. Germany pays 100 percent of sick pay. Czech Republic pays approx 60. The UK? 26. Good enough answer you prick? This guy also voted against food parcels for children, and then reversed only after an outcry.

The ever lovely Good Catholic William Rees Mogg called UNICEF’s feeding of poor English children during a pandemic at Christmas a ‘publicity stunt’. Hmm...well in 2019 the charity received 6.4 billion in contributions of which the Tory government of the UK donated 494 million. Perhaps UNICEF wanted to make a point that the UK has the largest number of food banks in the democratic world (over 2000, Germany has 900) and that it was a little beyond shameful that this was necessary. Still making money from selling birth control/termination pills in Indonesia after having said all contraception even in cases of rape was wrong Billy? The English gentleman also said he found the rise in food bank usage as being ‘rather uplifting’. Verrry Christian man. And that rotting British fish are ‘happier’ now out of Europe. A joke? The 2019 EU clampdown on tax avoidance will be avoided by him thanks to Brexit. Heavenly off shore interests, Glory! ‘How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God’. It easier for a camel to piss through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of god. Mark 10 21:25. Good luck Billy.

Met a Christian guy again who tried to tell me a parable of sorts. A little bird was flying and suddenly fell into a field dead, a cow walked over and took a dump on the little bird and the heat of the manure brought the bird back to life. Overjoyed he started to sing and was heard by a cat that killed it. The moral being, don’t interfere with God’s plan. I wondered if that had been where Christ went wrong...perhaps he should have left lepers to die...but obviously no...he was a special case. Aha, so nobody should try and help anybody ever if they have a problem or are suffering. No one should help their own children, no doctors or surgeons...but priests are allowed because the intermediaries through whom the pious live vicariously are essential workers. Great parable. If you believe in God, don’t help anyone else. That’s the story of Christ eh?

The man who told me the story also said Donald was a great guy...I need to remind him Trump has broken every single one of the Ten Commandments (apart from direct murder) The burning cross is a T for Trump... ‘The function of law and theology are the same: to keep the poor from taking back by violence what the rich have stolen by cunning’. ‘The function of theology? The recitation of the incomprehensible by the unspeakable to pick the pockets of the unthinking’. RAW. Natures God. Hilaritas Press.

The most wisdom from China since Confucius was tweeted several weeks ago to the smug frog like Nigel Farage who had written ‘Christmas cancelled. Thank you China.’ Upon which, the Middle Kingdom between Heaven and Earth replied ‘Wear a mask and stop talking s..t’. Wonderful...shame the state media Global Times then spoiled it by writing a pot/kettle article which suggested that such politicians...’care only about their political ambitions and see ordinary people as roadside grass.’ From a regime which mowed its own teenage children down in tank fire, ran over their bodies and sent the price of the bullets used in the execution of young rebels to their parents.

Meanwhile, back in the temple of ketamine far away from all that nonsense... Universe will respond non locally to my thought...All pure chance as exists cross divided in all encircling mode, arf...non-local effects...’the ‘maybe’ in between ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in Quantum Logic, of ‘solid’ ‘objects’ that are superimpositions of waves, according to one quantum model, and of ‘minds’ that are superimpositions of waves if the ‘minds’ are transactions involving brains and the brains are made of cells which are made of atoms which are made of electrons which are superimpositions of waves’. RAW THE NEW INQUISITION. Yes. And...

The hidden variable theory of consciousness asserts (1) there is a subquantal level beneath the observational/theoretical structure of ordinary quantum mechanics; (2) events occurring on this subquantal level are the elements of sentient being. Drs Walker and Herbert.

‘Consciousnesses in this model is not ‘in’ our heads. Our brains are merely local receivers ‘consciousnesses ‘is’ ‘an aspect of the non-local field’ The ‘ego’ then is the locally tuned in aspect of this usually not-tuned-in non local field.

‘...we find that our consciousness controls physical events though the laws of quantum mechanics.’ Magick. Rise in Love, ‘arouse the coiled splendour within you’ :-)

[avauntus]

no. 23 - “Exhaustion | Narcolepsy | Sleep Deprivation”

(Personal rules - Roll for a random # 1-31, write for 30 45 minutes. No significant edits except for spelling or typos.)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

“They... They killed my brother,” Gerk said, fighting back tears. “Slaughtered him like he was some sort of animal. Now they got him laid out ready for their grisly experiments. Dargath's dead too.” Gerk was silent for a moment, then added shakily, “I'm all that's left and I'll be dead soon. I... I'm turning.

Th... They say these Vargul are the... the ones that weren't found worthy by the Lich King. Can... Can you im... imagine it? Just th... think how powerful the... the... worthy must be...

I'll say a prayer for you in the hereafter, hero... May you never have to face them in number.”

Reed had volunteered for the Zul’Drak front because he was a damn fine engineer, and he wasn’t a particularly devote soul. He thought that made him better suited to brave the eerie wasteland of the lower terraces, in that he was used to ascribing meaning only to that he could see, touch, and smell. But he was rapidly reassessing his own calculated resilience in the face of the continual invisible winds that whipped the corrupted air of the Dead Fields into his face, the thrice-cursed Vargul that clawed at them all hours of the day and night, and the unstoppable 10-storey-high undead corpse construction that silently prowled the main thoroughfare like a nightmare made of putrid rotting flesh and rusting iron bolts. 

Something that large had no right to be as silent as it was; it defied all laws of nature and physics, which Reed actually found to be the worst part. Well, after he and MacKellar had narrowly escaped being crushed underfoot or swept up into its massive reaching hands and born unstoppably to one of the bloodsucking lords of the Scourge camps, the worst part. 

It had seemed inevitable that they would be captured, dragged away to be interrogated and drained, perhaps not in that order. But then MacKellar had beaten off the giant with nothing more than his standard-issue blessed steel longsword, and they had pelted off the road and into a small lee made by the shattered remains of their broken tank.

Now it was just the two of them, fending off staggered, but continual assaults by the Vargul, the animated bones of the undead, and the occasional rabid vampiric hound, hoping against all odds that Dargath or the twins would make it back to them, and Reed could lay down his pipe wrench and get some blessed sleep. He would have gladly fallen to one knee and sworn a new-found belief in MacKellar’s faith, had that happened.

It seemed an odd fit, sometimes, to be an agnostic on a holy battlefield, but it wasn’t that Reed was completely faithless. He believed in the Light, of course-- man would have to be a damn fool not to, with the Argent Crusade able to pull scorching brilliance from the air through the unshakable bond of their piety-- but Reed himself preferred to place his efforts into practical matters, such as the cycles of the Crusaders’ crystalized air engines, or the sparking fury of a few saronite bombs. 

He had figured the men of faith needed someone with a grounded head on his shoulders, and he hadn’t been wrong. He’d needed a quick exit from his hometown, after he’d found himself, in engineering and other ways, and his ten-generations noble family didn’t approve. Just after, the floating necropolises had appeared above the skies of Elwynn Forest, and Reed had barely had to sign his given name to a recruitment roster before he was on a ship for Northrend. The royal army had proven to be a good match; they cared less about where a man had come from and more what he could provide on the ground.

It turned out Reed could provide a great deal. In addition to his engineering skills-- which were excellent-- he was nearly as trained in chemistry and biology as any expert in their deployment. All of this was proving helpful in Zul’Drak, a hellish landscape of blood magic mixed with Scourge corruption and giving birth to something fiendish -- monsters that moved with the unflagging momentum of machinery. They were surrounded by things that had housed souls turned to utilitarian ends, as if the beings that once were mattered no more than flywheels and steam engines. The glistening twilit corruption rose from the very ground and seeped into the dead and the unwary both, luring them to unconsciousness. Then the rotting, meaty remnants of their bodies were all that were left, falling to pieces even as they shuffled forward, ever forward, inexorable. And while the crusaders kept mistaking them for men, for sentient, thinking, feeling creatures that might be appealed to or reasoned with, Reed knew better. 

He knew his trade when he saw it-- you didn’t reason with a machine. Not even one created from blasphemous rites that twisted the fabric of creation. You co-opted it, or you destroyed it.

He thought he knew how to unmake the Vargul and the undead now, if he could just rest. Stop and breathe, take stock, have a moment to play with the twisted hunks of Scourge metal surrounding them, turn it to something useful. But he and MacKellar were all that were left of the advance front, and their enemies did not sleep, their numbers were as limitless as the bones on the ground and the corpses all around their tiny refuge of shattered wood and steel.

The Drakkari had been a powerful nation not long ago, to stand stalwart against the undead for so long. When their walls had finally crumbled and they had retreated to the higher levels, to the east, they had left a great many bodies behind. The Scourge were efficient. Reed couldn’t say he admired it, but in a grim way he found himself respecting it.

When he took in too much of the corrupted air of the former poppy fields, he found himself dreaming of it, the efficient uses the princes of the undead would turn Reed’s own body towards once the Scourge owned his flesh. He’d awake from these shuddering, his face stinging where MacKellar had slapped him. After the third time, he arranged a crude failsafe, a candle lit with an eternally burning flame mote perched precariously upon his helmet-- should he and MacKellar both fall prey to the seductive drowsiness of the pollen-filled air, the candle’s melted wax would drip across his face and the pain would wake him.

He hoped the pain would wake him. 

The dreams didn’t feel like nightmares; they felt like promises dropped inside his head from a restless, malevolent force. Watching and waiting. Hungering. Impossibly whispering seductive enticements in his ear: “You came here to prove yourself worthy, and you are, you are -- come and be worthy with us. We will pursue such glorious inspiration together. Come and be one with our inexhaustible creation.”  

[helioheliks]

Rock, Breeze, and Bird

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[honorsphilosophyitalytrip-blog]

January 28 - Milan

Hey, it’s Nicole!

Well, here we are nearly a month later, settling into our final destination, Milan. This city, known as one of the fashion capitals of the world, also has an expansive history which dates back to centuries before the Middle Ages.  We spent the first half of today delving into this history by first visiting the Sforza Castle, named after Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, who rebuilt the castle in 1450 from the remnants of the Castello de Porta Giova which was destroyed several years prior. Over the next few decades, the Sforza family maintained power in Milan and hired various artists to decorate the castle, including Leonardo da Vinci and Bramante. Over time, the castle was taken over, repurposed, and reconstructed by different groups, and in the 19th century after the unification of Italy, the castle was handed over to the city who turned the castle into a cultural center and created one of the largest parks in the city on the former parade grounds. Before this time, the Milanese strongly disliked the castle, for it represented tyranny and foreign domination to them. Unfortunately, the castle, like many other structures we have seen this past month, was severely damaged during World War II, and it required serious restoration to reach the condition in which we saw it.

For information on the history of the castle, visit this website: https://www.milanocastello.it/en/la-storia

Our experience roaming the castle was actually rather interesting. We had given ourselves about an hour to explore, but we eventually learned that this was hardly enough time due to the gargantuan size of the museum and the various collections. I think at least a few of us had a moment of panic around 12:05 (we were supposed to meet at the front gate at 12:10) when we were just hitting the musical instruments section, and it seemed as though no matter how hard we searched for an exit, we just went deeper into the castle. This is definitely a museum that is worth spending hours in, especially with a better understanding of how much lies beyond the first few rooms. Also, there were information sheets printed at the entranceway of each room, but we did not receive a formal tour, so some of the significance of the individual art pieces might have been lost. Nevertheless, I did have a particular interest in some of the furniture that was on display, in particular, the ornate cabinets with their very own marble statues and pillars, and elaborate designs. We also viewed tapestries, paintings, sculptures, medieval armor and weapons, among other things.

After finding our way out of the castle, we redirected ourselves towards one of the most impressive pieces of art on display -- Michelangelo's last sculpture, the Rondanini Pieta. There are three versions of this marble sculpture, with this being his last, and Michelangelo apparently worked on this version as late as six days before his death. Some art historians argue that this statue was intentionally left unfinished, perhaps to represent a "thought that cannot be expressed beyond half sentences and truncated allusions," as suggested by Giulio Carlo Argan. This sculpture could be considered one of the first examples of modern art. Personally, I thought it was a unique and precious glimpse into the mind and process of a truly remarkable human being. You can literally see his chisel marks which act as a reminder that these masterpieces are made by hand, hands that were possessed with almost unfathomable talent and experience.

The admiration for man-made art continued at our next destination, the Duomo, which is the fifth  largest Christian church in the world, covering 109,641 square feet, and displaying 3,400 statues, 135 gargoyles, and 700 figures. It took over six centuries to build, and it required new canals to be built to transport the pink-hued Candoglia marble from quarries to the construction site. Those canals are actually still present today, and fun fact, we are living right next to one! Inside the Duomo, we observe impressive stained-glass windows, the gold Madonnina statue, and the crypt of Saint Charles Borromeo. Overall, the first half of our day was educational and interesting, but come lunch time, all we could think about was food and our plans for the second half of the day.

When in Milan, do as the Milanese do, right? So, of course, we had been planning for several weeks to attend an A.C. Milan soccer football game. Unfortunately, I was taking a nap when the group bought tickets, so I was the only person left without one, thus perpetuating the phrase, "you snooze, you lose." You can imagine my distress as I watched the hours tick by as game time approached and I found that box offices in town are closed on Sundays. So instead of immediately running to a pizza shop close to the Duomo to quench my hunger pangs, I took the train back to the hotel with a few other girls and went straight to the front desk to see if the hotel concierge had made any progress in scoring a last-minute ticket for me. It was a success, kind of. The ticket? Wildly expensive. The location? Probably worth the price, all things considered. I bought the ticket and promised myself not to buy anything else for the remainder of our trip (good luck, right?).

At 16:30, we gathered in the hotel lobby, donning A.C. Milan scarves and jerseys and then headed off to the train station. The train grew steadily more crowded as we passed through the sixteen total stops to get to the stadium, and by the time we reached our destination, we were all very familiar with each other, if you like, uh, there. We arrived at San Siro Stadium and were immediately met with the most eerie, dense fog covering that we had experienced in Italy so far. As we passed armed guards and blindly followed the crowd into the mist, our surroundings looked straight out of a zombie film, or maybe that scene in Harry Potter where everyone is walking through the fog to the quidditch match. (This is an Honors trip, so I think I can make an obscure HP reference and not confuse too many people.) After stocking up on drinks, snacks, and more team merch, we headed to our gates, tickets in hand, and let the real fun begin.

Before we even entered the stadium, we could hear the chanting and cheering of the Milan fans. There was this vibe in the air - a rush of excitement - that made it difficult not to smile and quicken your pace to get inside sooner. Once inside, it was a sea of red and black, only broken up by the massive flags waving back and forth on the far end of the stadium, the home bleachers. There were people of all ages there, but I swear, I was surrounded by only middle-aged Italian men and their nine-year-old sons. It made for a very spirited 90 minutes, full of rally cries and heated remarks in a language I still don't understand. Regardless, it was truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience to get to witness a game in real life, especially because A.C. Milan was the only European football team I knew when I first developed an interest in soccer around five years ago. Actually, I'm sure everyone shares the sentiment that this was a supremely cool opportunity to immerse ourselves in the local culture. After those 90 minutes (plus the 6 minutes of added time) A.C. Milan walked away with a 2-1 win over Lazio, and we walked away with an even stronger bond to this amazing country.