#kind of a curse ??? or the result of a bad fight against a dragon (skin & armor melted and fused together)

[zellkabellk]

I haven't figured out the details of the build yet but I've been OBSSESSED with the idea of playing a longsword + armor warlock whose patron is her lich/archich wife mkfdsjmhgfdsmkdsjh "Yes honey." but she asked you to go commit terrible crimes.

[jaegertango]

An Invitation

Sometimes me write. Not very often, but sometimes. This is actually a precursor to what’s (probably) going on this Sunday in the Skyhunters but y’know. I’m impatient so I am posting it now.

He needed another moment to himself.

It was funny, wasn't it? After so many years of spending time in isolation, far from other mortals and kin alike, now Vykaenai found himself surrounded by so many young, proud and capable faces – and he still wasn't sure if he liked it. They were endearing, yes; so many of them from different parts of Azeroth and even beyond, all united under a singular standard and cause. Yet, their incessant bickering, their inability to trust his wisdom, their concerns on morality akin to a child crying over spilled milk: that tended to frustrate the dragon to no end. Ten thousand years had tempered his patience into a hardened slab of steel, unyielding and staunch against even the grandest of hammers, but somehow the complaints of mortals always sundered it like a rock through water. It made incredulous laughter escape the Grandmaster as he stroked his beard.

Bah. Mortals. Couldn't live with 'em, couldn't live without 'em.

The play was still winding down in Ardenweald, but even as much as Vykaenai was enjoying himself, he couldn't bring himself to stand one more second between Lady Firehawk and Araane. He had great respect for both women – but no patience whatsoever. The utter and complete awkwardness between the two every time their actresses came onto the stage together was as thick as sludge – and it only got worse as time went on. The only thing keeping them from trying to kill each other on the spot was the sheer secondhand embarrassment strong enough to even make a fully grown black dragon run away in disgust. Granted, he didn't doubt they would try to take each other's head off just to avoid sitting through the play any longer. Vykaenai respected the two of them, but having them both in the same room was such a headache.

He grumbled darkly, looking up towards the sky. There were no stars, but it seemed to last in perpetual night, here in Ardenweald. It reminded him of home – or rather, a home he once had. A time ago, when he was just a fledgling drake and his dearest friend first taking up her glaive as a Warden, Vykaenai called his home in Ashenvale. When he was able, he would look up towards the night sky, seeing the many colors reminiscent back in Highmountain, and feel at ease. This sky made him feel the same way, but bitterly so. He missed Ashenvale – before it was ripped apart by the Destroyer, then stamped underfoot by the Horde. He shared Araane's rage at the forest's desecration – but he shared Lady Firehawk's disdain of the world's politics at present too.

Back then, he used to just eat the bad people.

A tumultuous sigh. Vykaenai kept his gaze upward as his powerful arms crossed over his chest. Times seemed easier back then – even only a thousand years ago, with the War of the Shifting Sands. The greatest of all dangers, the Old Gods trying to make their presence known above the earth. Their threat was so great that neither the Kaldorei, the Shu'halo, and even the many tribes of Furbolg could deny it. They stood to fight against an endless swarm, readily and willingly, and heeded the warnings that only a dragon could give. There was no argument, no fallacies between soldiers, no backstabbing traitors that Vykaenai could not dispose of-

*snik*

His brooding was interrupted as a shiv was suddenly stuffed into his jugular – or at least attempted to be. The knife instead was pricked against that vein as if it was made of iron, and no blood even spilled from his exposed throat. The towering Night Elf did not even have the courtesy to flinch or gasp, his fiery eyes instead peering down to that long-nailed hand gripping the assassin's blade uselessly at his neck. There was a very concerned second of silence as it became awkwardly clear Vykaenai was not injured, before the dragon turned his neck slightly to try and face his would-be killer.

“Can I help you?” He grunted simply, sounding quite annoyed.

The Grandmaster did not manage much of a glimpse before the shade leaped backward several feet, hissing lowly with that dagger in hand. As he landed though, Vykaenai could far more easily see the detail in that assailant. To his surprise, the figure was absolutely as big as the Night Elf was, if not a bit taller, but definitely not as built. The creature had pallid gray skin and bloody red eyes, along with teeth like the razor needles of a murloc. For all intents and purposes, he seemed just as deadly without a knife, but his clothing denoted a far greater intellect. In fact, it was some of the finest garb that Vykaenai had seen – and he was familiar with the Highborne garb of eld, even before the Sundering. Whatever he was, he definitely was not an Ardenweald native.

“Cursed walker,” the creature spat, reaching to his belt to also draw a rapier. This surprised Vykaenai, for the blade looked even more intricate and beautiful than his clothing. For such a vile abomination, clearly he had taste!

“If you hope to kill me with that,” Vykaenai snorted, keeping his arms crossed. “It better be much nicer than your dagger.”

The assassin did not reply. Instead, he dashed forward with shocking speed, surging forward with such swiftness that he was barely visible in that flash. Yet, for all of his agility, with that mighty thrust aimed to Vykaenai's heart, the dragon reacted without fear. One of his arms untucked from his chest to instead snatch at the killer's wrist, pulling his sword away uselessly from the dragon. His other punched to his throat, a powerful hand choking the creature out easily. In that same swift motion, Vykaenai had disarmed his assailant, and also pinned him as he held the ghoulish man aloft effortlessly, glaring at him.

“Would you like to play nice now?” Vykaenai asked, cocking his head at his killer.

The creature gurgled a growl, those sharp teeth gritted together as his free hand tried to stab his dagger at the side of the dragon's temple – to no avail.

“Incorrect,” the Grandmaster replied coldly, and his hand on the creature’s wrist pulled outward. The result was a terrible ripping of cloth and flesh, the dragon easily wrenching the assailant’s entire arm from his shoulder as if made of tissue paper, leaving only a few strands of bloody sinew and muscle fiber hanging uselessly from his right side. The assassin shrieked out wretchedly, his call reverberating around the trees even as he was being strangled. Vykaenai mostly looked irritated, and he had to chide himself as he realized he had overdone it - again. He wanted to hurt his would-be slayer, but he wasn't planning on killing this thing – at least not yet. Lady Firehawk's advice to not instantly slay everything he came across was proving itself useful, and he did not want to-

The assassin then suddenly vanished in a cloud of ruby smoke, dissipating from existence.

Vykaenai groaned in even greater derision as his only source of information ran away. He pinched at his brow, letting his guard down once again at how aggravating this night was turning out to be. Yet, nothing came to slice at him once again. It seemed his would-be killer was gone. That probably wasn't good; leaving an assassin alive never tended to be. Now Lady Firehawk was going to chew him out for endangering the Skyhunters. Hopefully whatever it was, it wouldn't dare go to Oribos...

When he was done pouting, Vykaenai returned his gaze back to the space in front of him – only to find that beautiful rapier still laying in the grass. Reaching down, the Grandmaster picked it up, examining it. There was a sense of comforting weight to it, but still just a tad too light. The metal felt warm to the touch, and... it was pulsing. That was kind of gross. The blade seemed to be manifesting a heartbeat of sorts. Well, it was at least a clue; if Vykaenai could find out where this sword came from, it was a start.

“Vyk! Vyk, I heard a scream!”

The dragon turned to see Visscera running up, a mixture of concern and excitement on her face. Vykaenai kept the sword clutched in his hand, and as soon as he recognized the other Night Elf, he felt the blade seethe in his hand eagerly. Despite that, the Grandmaster smiled to Visscera, shaking his head as he shifted the blade's grip around so it wasn't so threatening in his grasp.

“Indeed. I will have to talk to Lady Firehawk about it,” Vykaenai grunted, but he still winked at Visscera as he held up the rapier. “It seems I have attracted company.”

“Do swords count as company?”

“Nay, but those that wield them do.”

“...So you stole that from them,” Visscera answered, and she looked disappointed. “I didn't think you were one to steal.”

“I would not say I stole this as much as I...” Vykaenai started, but then shrugged. “Rightfully earned it from them.”

“Oh!” Visscera stated, her eyes brightening as she thumped a fist into her hand. “...So if I fight you for that-”

“You are not fighting me for this,” Vykaenai snorted, but his grin widened as he walked back to the play stage. “Come, little shadow. I just needed a moment of space.”

He was probably going to need another one once he explained what happened to Lady Firehawk.

[aros001]

Read through light novel vol. 12. Random thoughts.

A while back there was a cartoon called Superman The Animated Series and there were a lot of fans who thought their version of Lex Luthor was black because his skin was darker than what most other incarnations had been. Later on in the series, there was an episode with a one-off character whom had the exact same character model as Lex except he actually was black. The common fan theory for that episode was that the showrunners did that so people could see through a direct comparison what Lex would look like if he was black and they'd stop getting asked about it.

I bring this up because Alta reminds me a little bit of that, like she was created by the author in response to misconceptions too many people have about Raphtalia. That she worships Naofumi, that she loves him to the point of obsession after he saved her life and cured her illness, that she agrees with everything he says and would let him do anything to her if he wanted, etc. None of this is a criticism of Alta, since she's still a fun character (if a bit of a creepy stalker sometimes), but there are times when I'm reading where she feels like she's the author's way of showing what Raphtalia would be like if she actually was any of those things.

Overlord was my gateway series into both Isekai anime and light novel books, so naturally I tend to compare things a lot to Overlord. Alta reminds me a LOT of Ainz's minions in regards to her relationship with Naofumi. "You're great! You're amazing! You're perfect! Anyone who even minorly inconveniences you must DIE." That girl is thirsty in every sense of the word. Obviously I'm hoping her infatuation isn't due to the elixir. It's still creepy to have a child fawning that much over a grown adult (though not as much as it'd be the other way around) but it'd be far worse if that's the result of brain altering chemicals or the like over her own natural feelings. Like I said with Motoyasu's Temptation ability, stuff like that always makes me feel really uncomfortable.

Wyndia?! Dragons?! F**k yeah, I love Breath of fire!

The Demon Dragon Emperor was a great boss monster. It kind of took the best parts of the previous big boss battles and rolled them into one. He was an overwhelmingly powerful force like the Spirit Tortoise but still had an actual personality like Glass, not being just another monster like the Soul Eater. Using the Shield of Wrath to power up and wanting to absorb Naofumi because of his anger even gave an interesting dynamic, like with L'Arc and Therese being Naofumi's allies for a time and fighting to save their world. There was even the outright ego and lust for power that Kyo had but the Demon Dragon never threw a tantrum when things didn't go his way. He either got angry and fought harder or tried to run when he was in over his head. It never seemed like he was so weak mentality that he had to actively protect his ego. He was as good and powerful as he claimed and let his actions speak for themselves. When that didn't work he didn't start whining, just promised that he would return. I love forward to him being Naofumi's Nine Tailed Fox.

“It seems like you’re just going out in search of unjustified resentment based on misunderstandings, and then using that to condemn me as evil. Instead of wasting your time doing that, why don’t you just fix all of those problems yourself? You’re a hero too, right?”

“No, Princess Malty told me that these were special powers that only your shield possesses!”

What the f**k is with this bitch?!

Also, got to love how the three guys who prided themselves on "clearly" knowing everything about this world because they've played games similar to it believe every single thing they're told about Naofumi's shield, even if they've never heard about shielders having such abilities. Especially hearing such info from a person who has no reason to know anything about what the Legendary Shield can do. Malty is the ex-princess of a country that worships every hero EXCEPT for the shield. First the ability to brainwash, then that he was controlling the Spirit Tortoise, and now the ability to bring the dead back to life.

[Five seconds later]

A BRAINWASHING BOW?! ARE YOU F**KING KIDDING ME?!

Between that and Motoyasu's Temptation ability, now I'm going to be paranoid that Naofumi does actually has some kind of mind altering power he can unlock (closest right now is just Hate Reaction, which just makes monsters focus on him during battle). Malty is going to have a field day with that if it ever happens.

I'm kind of split on how I feel about the situation with Itsuki. Obviously I'm glad he apologized to Rishia and is on Naofumi's side, as well as his actions being the result of his background and issues as opposed to him just being a jerk. But it's kind of like with Trash, where the sympathetic backstory doesn't feel like it excuses or makes up for what he's been doing. All the heroes, including Naofumi, have serious flaws and reasons for those flaws, but Itsuki throughout has kind of felt like the most hypocritical and sometimes nefarious of the four. Treating Rishia so badly and then getting rid of her, not just because she upstaged him during a wave, but because she reminded him of when he was bullied back in his old life make him feel like an even worse person. Maybe I have a bias because I am a huge fan of superheroes, which was a comparison drawn a few times in this book, and there are certainly fans, including myself probably, who would probably act just like Itsuki has been for the same reasons, but it still doesn't endear me much to his character. Instead of using his backstory as a reason to be better, he chose to be just as bad as what he's dealt with, justifying it only with his own desire to want to be the hero; to want to be the main character. He's a little like Light from Death Note in a way. "I am justice and those who disagree with me are against justice.", while any fan of modern superheroes could tell you it's not that simple (like Rishia did). Obviously, I'm probably being way too harsh. I feel like I'd maybe be less split and more forgiving if we'd gotten to see Itsuki interact with his former party after they abandoned him to the Spirit Tortoise, not just Rishia, like we did with Motoyasu. See more how he treated the people who didn't remind him of himself and how it felt when they stopped feeding his ego and hero complex.

I'm really enjoying the different drawbacks each of the different curse series have. It'd be really easy to have just a loss in stats or a risk of death like Naofumi's Shield of Wrath but I like that each has its own unique consequence that relates to the power that was being used. Ren used the sin of greed to gain temporary power and now the quality of whatever he touches lowers, as well as his own exp. It's like a reverse Midas touch. Then we have Itsuki, whom after spending so long demanding everyone conform to his ideal, now becoming completely passive and obedient. Of course, now I'm concerned about what the drawback to Motoyasu's curse is, since it seems to be based in lust.

Am I the only one who thinks the ninjas attacked not because of the Miko outfit but because they were bored? They've been watching Raphtalia's family since before she was born and have done nothing other than that. Now they're attacking over the smallest excuse, because they should know the context of why she was wearing that outfit since they've been constantly watching; not as a sign she wants the throne but because, well, that sh*t gets Naofumi going. I think they were just bored and jumped at the chance to finally fight something.

But back to seriousness, Naofumi's reaction at the end was my absolute favorite of his yet. Just that realization that these people watched Raphtalia's village get attacked several times, watched her family die, watched her get sold into slavery, and did NOTHING to stop any of it, only to finally reveal themselves now trying to kill her over a misunderstanding. I'm completely on his side. F**k these people! I'm glad they're going to go take over their country and crush it! (I'm vindictive today, jeez...). I took a peek at the art for vol. 13 and it has Naofumi sitting on a throne like freaking Lelouch from Code Geass and I'm just sitting here going "Ohboyohboyohboyohboyohboy!" I love a bad guy I can root for.

I'm just imagining that Lilo and Stitch meme, where Raphtalia is at her bedside praying to Heaven to send her a friend; the nicest angel they have.

Cut to Naofumi, laughing maniacally and surrounded by fire.

If Naofumi and Raphtalia ever have a daughter, he is going to forbid that child from leveling up until she's 18 if there is ANY chance she'll grow like a typical Demi-Human. Naofumi will want her to stay as cute, little, and innocent for as long as possible after all the other things like Filo he's helped raise. 50/50 he'll do the same if they have a son.

Original Reddit post: https://www.reddit.com/r/shieldbro/comments/fi2imi/read_through_light_novel_vol_12_random_thoughts/

[woytaq]

Homebrew drow lore is related to a homebrew setting lore in the campaign I run. You know, the usual take what you like, disregard the rest, make shit up as you go kind :D

So basically, there's this continent (haven't got a name for it yet and it's been like that since 2019, so meh) and a 4-digit-long time ago there were only elves and other fea-ish creatures living there (and dwarves, because dwarves are everywhere). And then everything changed when the rest of the world came to do some good old-fashioned colonization and conquering. The thing is, the main bad guys were a race of dragons who enslaved a lot of other races from across the world and transplanted them to these peaceful elf-dominated lands as cannon fodder and disposable labor. The war was brutal and lasted for centuries. Many elves, including their nobles, craftsmen and pretty much everyone who didn't have to fight or grow food went to live underground in dwarven cities. Over time those cities were expanded and new ones were established in a vast network of subterranean structures while the surface was a huge battlefield with enslaved humans, orcs, gnomes, beast-folk and others fighting against the elven armies. Eventually much more quickly reproducing newcomers started to gain advantage and desperate elves were forced to use powerful magic that they didn't quite understand. Basically a powerful magical EMP which scrambled magic across the continent (and possibly more, dunno, nobody was able to travel to the other parts of the world since). That wiped out the dragons (in this setting purely magical creatures by themselves) and close to 80% of all other magical beings, with the other 20% going mad or otherwise inconvenienced by what happened. It also pretty much wiped all of the magical elven knowledge storage systems, fried their magical artifacts and cut off their trans-dimensional pockets while poop-on-a-rock wielding humans were largely unaffected. Bad news for the elves, you'd say, but humans and other freshly un-enslaved races did what we mortals tend to do in those situations and turned on themselves trying to fill in the huge power gap at the top. This gave the elves the upper hand and allowed them to assert dominance, at least partially, over their long-lost domain and after another century or two of much more disorganized conflict a status quo was reached and slowly everyone learned to somehow coexist.

Okay, but where are the Drow you'd ask... Well, those subterranean cities were not completely abandoned once the dragons were gone and groups of elves stayed behind, either because of their hatred towards the invading races now partially running the surface world, or because they just liked it down there. Over time each of the ancient cities developed its own culture and flavor, but there were still similarities across the board. Drow societies are in most cases matriarchal, sometimes more sometimes less so. That was a result of generations of war economy, where women were usually running the cities while men were mostly doing the fighting. Not exclusively, of course, but the difference over centuries was noticeable enough to promote those matriarchy-oriented tendencies. Elves by nature are curious and like the whole nature thing and light and the moon and stars and stuff like that so the drow have to be authoritarian. Their subterranean societies must make sure their citizens are either too afraid or too restricted to go outside and see how "the cursed, backwater surface barbarians" are actually doing. In the absence of sunlight they grew to be far more carnivorous with heightened senses, cold, darkened skin, transparent hair and sharp teeth (and also long nimble tongues). Their cultures usually revolve around duty, sacrifice and destiny with strict caste systems and social structures.Each drow has a duty to the city, they must fulfill this duty without any hesitation and second guessing to preserve their way as the superior way of living, because for centuries their ancestors did so and nobody dares to question why. Climbing the social ladder is pretty hard and is usually only for girls, while everyone else is relegated to be workers, disposable troops, servants and food source for spiders and other monsters once they are too old or unable to work for other reasons. If a drow male is really good at something he can advance to the cast of DNA donors. However and misstep on his part and he'd be dangling by his only valuable bit above a pit of hungry spiders as an evening entertainment. Because of that little difference in gender roles and the "all elves are gay" meme, Drow societies don't really have any family units as such and are more like bloodlines with daughters usually following mother's career paths. They also rarely know their fathers, because in many cases, especially on higher tiers of society, successful inseminations followed by a healthy girl being born might be pretty deadly for the father, to avoid too much DNA bottlenecking. There are however many instances of more or less permanent female couples who live and work together, but due to the strict stratification of their society, they rarely go outside their social circles and often could include what would be considered relatives by surface dwellers. The higher you are on the Drow social ladder (and also, you're a female) the more you need to be careful with navigating relationship options. It is not uncommon to see lower nobility hovering around young priestesses or officers of the court just to be seen near them and thus increase their own social status. That usually leads to bitter disappointments and possible poisonings and back stabbings down the line and while actual love and affection among ordinary Drow isn't all that rare, the higher you go, the less likely it is.

Drow language and elven languages in general are slightly inspired by what happened to Latin over time. Basically their language is to common Elvish as Italian is to French - the same root language and some similarities, but still vastly different to the point that they can't really communicate with surface elves without some help. And of course each Drow house has their own dialect and each elvish-majority region on the continent has their own dialect as well, so it;s even more complicated (thank gods my players are stuck in one city for the last year or so).

Over the centuries Drow cities crumbled into barely inhabitable ruins as they were built by the dwarves and maintained by them during the war. Once that was over and most of the elven inhabitants left, their original architects left as well leaving the equivalent of a bunch of angsty hipsters to run the show. Needless to say, very few spider priestesses knew how to do civil engineering correctly. Because of that many cities were lost to cataclysms, more still fell in wars either between rival drow houses, or the surface kingdoms and an occasional demon invasion from the nine hells. Some drow survivors from those cities were accepted by tribes of elves who lived on the surface, creating a lot of elven subraces I've shamelessly stolen from various fantasy settings, like the snow elves, the moon elves or the night elves (and also pale elves which I believe I did not steal, but if they exist anywhere, well, consider it a tribute). There's still a number of drow cities surviving and even thriving, some completely isolated, some in active conflict with the surface, but their numbers are dwindling and it is clear to their leaders that, if nothing changes, they will die out eventually.

There's also a group of elves and other elf-friends called Shan'revani. They are a network of agents and safe places for Drow who manage to free themselves, run away, or simply get lost somehow and end up on the surface. They dedicate themselves to both preserving the ancient elven costumes, those that predate even the war, and also saving as many Drow from their underground prisons as they can. For obvious reasons they are also Elistrae worshippers, because she's a badass drow goddess and I had to have her in my setting (butt-naked sword dancing included).

Other races are usually afraid of them and they are rarely seen above the surface in situations other than stabbing, poisoning, or otherwise antagonizing surface folk, so Shan'revani and other unaffiliated Drow who live on the surface are often shunned and called "dark elves" by the rest of the society. Of course that varies a lot and depends on the kingdom and the size of the community. While a Drow could cause a raised eyebrow and a discreet glance in a large Joranian city, the same Drow will be chased away with torches and pitchforks by a mob of angry Aegeran peasants or be arrested and escorted to the border by the Avonian high guard.

If you don't like Canon drow lore, homemade is fine 💖 (also yes please gimme any fun drow lore you have. Better takes on drow. Whatever you have!)

[syndianites]

Soulmates (Just figure it out already)

66. “Wait, you’re my soulmate?”

Ship: Syndianite/Diacate (Tom x S1 Dianite)

Summary: Everyone was born with some wacky mark that they shared with their soulmate. When he was little, Tom dreamed of being some knight in shining armor for his soulmate. After tiring of looking for his soulmate, he wasn’t prepared to be the damsel in distress (at least he made a fabulous damsel)

AN: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) This is gonna be great. No smut in this (I considered it….), but we’ll get a great first meeting and oblivious Tom. @syndcates

Tom plainly stared at the man’s bland mark pasted on his neck. Some blob of colors, roughly in the shape of a… piece of bread? A deformed gold nugget? A beaten-up sun? Who fucking knows. The bearded man sneered at the shorter man, “Looking at my mark little bitch? I bet you wish you had such an extravagant beauty as mine.” The younger rolled his eyes. “Wow, such a big word for someone with a small brain. What the fuck is that supposed to be? A golden piece of shit?”

His eyes bulged, mouth twisted back in a snarl. “You’re going to end up a pile of shit if you don’t keep your mouth shut.” Tom eyed the man’s mark once more. “You’re right, maybe I should keep my mouth shut.” He gave a light shrug. “You probably already know how pathetic your mark is. Honestly, they should have made another requirement for recruitment, an actual mark that doesn’t look like someone had diarrhea.”

“Now you’re getting it you little bitch,” the brute roared, charging at the smaller man with his fist pulled back. Tom ducked under the fist, some sloppy attempt at a right hook, and took the initiative to trip the man. With a curse, he went sprawling to the ground in a sad heap, flailing uselessly. Had they been allowed weapons before the bullshit tests they were to go through, he would have left more than a couple scratches. Probably start by removing that god-awful beard.

“Enough squabbling,” a voice called from above. Along with the rest of the group, about twenty other people, he turned to see Furia standing above them. The fire demon boredly scanned the assembled humans, unimpressed with the turn out. Though there were a few interesting persons, that one man strangely dressed like a stripper, the one sporting bright blue hair, and one girl wearing as many spikes on her clothes as possible, the overall group seemed lacking. Many of the potential recruits appeared weak or entirely too timid. Not to mention the power-hungry freaks, thinking that they were entitled to anything once recruited.

“For those of you who are less aware,” he made a not so subtle glance towards a couple, the two men pointing at spike girl, not even trying to listen to the higher being, “You will be undergoing a series of tests to deem whether you are worthy of becoming part of Lord Dianite’s army. Try not to waste my time. There are plenty more qualified people waiting for attention, and I don’t really need more children to attend to.” Some of the group was offended, very confident in their skill, while the other shrugged it off, already prepared for Furia’s scathing comments and sass.

At that point, they were separated into two groups and taken to the testing area. The first activity was simple really, take a small boulder and throw it as far as possible. There were a few grumbles as the first group stepped up, doubting the point of the exercise. The first few to throw made it pitifully far, trying their best to launch it in a shot-put style. Shit mark brute puffed up proudly as his made it the second farthest, just behind the stripper’s (who made is surprisingly far, a good 10 feet away). Tom took a little more time, along with the more skeptical attendants. He lifted the rather large rock, and turned a few times before setting it loose with a motion more typical of a disk. The result was considerably better than that of the other people, outdoing the burly man he fought, but still behind the stripper.

After his demonstration, the remaining people were quick to mimic him, finding more success than the earlier attempts. Unfortunately for the stripper, two people found theirs farther than his, and quite a number found theirs beyond or close to Tom’s. Their observer hummed for a moment, before bringing them to the next test. This was a tad more complicated, their goal was to get on the other side of a 12-foot wall, with no obvious hand holds.

Once more, a few people took initiative, making a running start and scrambling at the mostly smooth rock. Some found themselves stuck, not sure where to go. A small number of people standing behind took a moment to watch what Tom would do. Said person glanced at the wall, then at Furia. Shrugging, he ran towards the wall, only to go around it. Going to stand next to the fiery being, he received a nod of approval, as it was never specified they had to scale the wall. A tad embarrassed, the rest of them followed Tom’s footsteps.

They went through the remaining tests in this fashion, Tom occasionally finding easier ways to go about tasks, sometimes others took the time to figure better ways out first. Overall, stripper man, Tom, and spike girl were doing the best, with some girl with a pig pulling her weight rather well. (When they were moving between sets, Tom asked the girl about the massive number of spikes she wore, she said they gave her confidence and made her look badass. And no one questioned the pig, it simultaneously assisted the girl with her tasks and did them itself.).

The last test was a traditional one: dueling. They were giving opponents from the opposite group, the one brute unhappy to lose the opportunity to show Tom up. The blue haired man found himself up against the pig lady, both wielding dulled blades, while the pig looked rather menacingly at him. “Don’t fuck up too bad, cuts from a dull blade hurt worse than a sharp one,” Furia idly called out, mostly unconcerned with any injuries that less prepared would receive.

Once it was Tom’s turn, the swine took no time to charge him, careening at his legs. He sidestepped at the last minute, hitting that side of its face with the flat part of his sword. It stumbled, dazed, and he turned to find himself face to face with his actual opponent. Her swings were lightning fast, but speed was all she had. Beyond a few scratches left on his skin, (Furia was right, it hurt like a bitch), they held no real force, at least if she wanted to make a real wound. He took to outmaneuvering her, repeatedly ducking under swipes and dodging overhead swings, landing hits on her sides and back.

Just as he was going to land the defeating blow (no deaths, Furia had instated, loser had to clean any blood stains), he tumbled over as the pig returned, finally finding his mark. He used the momentum of his fall to roll from the duo, quickly righting into a crouch. The pig lady hurried to find the defeating blow, but as she swung towards him, he rolled off to her side, rising in one fluid motion and sending his blade up to her neck. A thin trickle of blood trailed down her pale skin as he was established as the winner.

Furia wasn’t really surprised when the blue haired one won. Upon viewing the group from afar, Dianite himself had told him to keep an eye on him. There was something strange with the way he looked at him, an excited and elated glint to his eye, an unusually soft smile gracing his lips. When the demon asked about his strange behavior, the god waved it off, saying he’d tell him later. And as the man both thanked the lady and her pig for a great fight (what a gentleman), and smugly flipped off his pseudo opponent from earlier, who lost to a petite girl, who destroyed him, he was certain he was a good fit for the army. (Hopefully he wouldn’t be so kind to their enemies, however).

Once all were done, he dismissed them, and they found their way back to their assigned rooms. Tomorrow, he would wake them long before the sun returned, and announce who got to stay and who needed to get the fuck out. Somehow, the stripper found his way onto the staying list, outperforming many of the others. (He would have kept pig lady, as she was mostly to standard, but he was not going to deal with having a fucking pig to look after. Watching the rest of the immature recruits was annoying enough). Shaking his head, he went to relay the results to the god.

~

Dianite knew exactly when his soulmate was born. The dragon made of flames curled on the skin above his heart, a vibrant orange hue against his ruby skin, practically burst to life when he came into the world. But he chose to wait to meet him. Making a connection with his soulmate so young might poorly influence his other, his vast years of life giving him much more experience than the younger. He had seen in many people, that the wider the age gap, which was laughable with himself, the better is was to meet later in life. It irritated him, but he promised himself that if they hadn’t met by the time he turned 25, he was going to have to make a grand entrance into his life.

Of course, this didn’t stop him from stalking the child from time to time, sometimes from regular eye sight, other times from more magical means. His name was Thomas Cassel. He had an older sister, who was strangle chaotic for someone who chose to follow his sister, and separated parents. Though his family wasn’t particularly poor, they certainly weren’t boasting wealth. This lead to Tom taking all sorts of odd jobs, and finding create means of making money.

Dianite was silently proud of his ingenious soulmate, though he wished he’d be smarter as a whole. Years of watching the child grow into a young man created a growing affection for him. But as he hit 20, those feelings started to change. And damn, he might just be in love with the mortal. The only thing he had to do now was meet him, and it got harder to wait every day.

So, when he finally showed up to one of his recruitment sessions (it was clear he was one of his followers very early on, regardless of the soul mark situated upon his right shoulder), he could hardly keep himself away. Though he was fairly certain he would pass the tests, he wanted to make sure he was prepared for what his army entailed. Soul mate or not, he needed to find a place among his people. (Though, if all else failed, he wasn’t against keeping him around just to spoil him).

He watched the group progress from afar, not very subtly if the way Furia sent him a sidelong glance told him anything. The humans didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in their tests. And Tom was doing remarkably well (no, he was not biased), finding ease in most things that proved challenging to his groupmates. When Furia started to approach him, the blue haired man exiting the area, he already knew he was getting to stay.

The first thing he received from the fiery being was an eye roll. “You couldn’t have been a little subtler with how you stared at him?” The god simply lifted the garment covering his mark (he wouldn’t want people actively seeking out his soul mate), and gestured towards it. Furia’s eyebrows shot up, before he gave a groan. “Why am I not surprised. Lucky you he will fit into the army well. Though I doubt you’d let him leave anyway.” Before the god could interject he prattled off the list of people he would keep, a little less than half the group. “The only one we must keep an eye on,” he continued, putting emphasis on we, “is the younger girl. We need to see if she is educated, and make sure she doesn’t get preyed on by any older recruits. They may lose their lives if they do.”

The god hummed in agreement, “Determine what age groups she’s in and see if we can’t pair her up with someone closer to her age. I thought we had a minimum age? I will not have children, no matter how skilled, in my army. They could be doing something better, like having a childhood.” His companion playfully rolled his eyes, rather amused by the mother hen moment. “We do, it is 15. Only for those who really need the job.”

Dianite gave a dismissive nod, already starting to walk back to the fortress. The two discuss other matters along the way, though Dianite found his thoughts often wandering to a certain blue haired man. If Furia noticed the small smile playing on the edge of his lips, he didn’t point it out.

~

Tom was certain the rumors circulating were absolute bullshit. Apparently, Lord Dianite himself had taken interest in his group, C27, a purely newbie group, and was seen watching them many times. He hadn’t seen the god, no one in their group had seen the god, when someone asked Furia, he just shrugged, telling them, “You know what they say, all rumors stem from some fraction of truth. Now get the fuck back to training, your defense is slacking. Again.”

Still, many people claimed to have spotted the god watching the group at one point or another. Tom had no clue why. They were hardly two weeks into their training regimine, and only half their group was managing it. That didn’t stop the bigger egos of the group from swelling in the head. “He must be enraptured by my skill. I bet he’s looking to promote me to a permanent group,” one of the hardier men crow, smirking towards his current sparring partner. “Yes,” the male stripper, now donning actual clothes per regulation, scoffed, “And he’s here to check me out for a private dance.” A few more carried on in this fashion, one girl very adamant that he was mostly impressed with her and ready to give her a special ops position. (Really, some of these people didn’t know the meaning of humility).

Even after Furia claimed that Dianite was not watching them to check out the group, you guys are doing fucking terrible, the chatter continued. He didn’t deny that he was watching. Tom didn’t give a shit. He was determined to get into a better group, some asshole tried to grope him while he slept. Needless to say, he has a new scar. (Strangely enough, he didn’t come back after going to patch his wound. Must have been rather scared of the angry blue haired man).

After a few more weeks, they started to weed through the true fighters, and those who would be put onto supporting jobs (every team needed a medic, and the medic needed to know how to fight). Of course, there were those who were kicked out or tried for breaking certain rules that should never be trifled with. (One man was sentenced to death when he tried to take out a General to free a position for himself. Loyalty was one of the celebrated qualities of the Dianite following, and that included loyalty to the Dianite family). Though the blue haired man was certain he would be kept, he wasn’t too sure he’d receive any important position.

He wasn’t prepared to be called down by Furia, along with one of his newbie sisters (her name was Dylan, apparently her parents were expecting a boy, but decided the name would stick with a girl anyway). The pair were debatably better than most of the group, better with discipline and rather proficient with most of the weapons and craft thrown their way. Despite this, they worried. The last group to be called down by Furia was told to leave. Tom would be damned if he wasted all this time to not be good enough.

But as the fire demon lead them down a long series of hallways, bringing them further into the fortress, they weren’t too sure what was in store for them. They were stopped in front of an extravagant door, in which Furia turned to them and plainly stated, “Make sure you look presentable.” And then proceeded to open the doors and enter. That was the only preparation they had to stop their jaws from dropping. Before them, in his splendid glory and divinity was none other than Lord Dianite.

He was seated behind an ornate desk, lined with golden patterns and making up a large portion of the room. Before it was three cushioned chairs, meant for visitors such as themselves. The god was looking amusedly at their stunned expressions, though he appeared to have been working through paperwork of some sort. He waved it away, the papers disappearing in a cloud of smoke. Gesturing towards the chairs, he had the two mortals sit. Furia closed the doors behind them, and they Tom exchanged a baffled glance with his companion.

As Tom locked eyes with the god, a shiver raced up his spine. He spoke with a deep tone, a passive intensity hidden within, “There’s no need to worry, I brought you here due to your prowess and skill.” He shared a look with Furia, before shifting his gaze to Tom once more. “You have been selected as my newest personal guards. This will be a temporary job, for security reasons, but you have been drafted for this as you, being newbies, are most likely to be free of any manipulation that could affect your overall performance.”

With a nod to Furia, he stood, leading the group from the room once more. Through another series of confusing twists and turns, they reached the throne room, currently empty. He strode up the steps and turned back to them. “You’ll be positioned at the foot of the steps, one on each side, and be armed with swords, bows, and spears. Spears in hand, swords at the hip, bows at the back. Anyone who poses a threat to me is to be taken out, preferably alive for questioning. At times, I may ask you to escort someone from the room. Only Furia is allowed to be on or up the steps, or really anywhere past you. If you follow these instructions, you’ll do fine. Questions?” He was met with silent head shakes, the orders rather clear.

Thus, began their trials of handling the bullshit people came up with.

~

The first act of utter bullshit Tom had to deal with was almost two days later. Day one consisted of getting used to the steady flow of people asking for favors, or offering sacrifices, or even complaining about things that didn’t have anything to do with the god.  

This particular man stood before the god was one of the latter. He was here on some bogus complaint that one of his fields was destroyed by some ruffians, and how the god needed to fix them. No mention of them being Dianitees (not that the god would assist such an ungrateful peasant), no offerings in return for the favor, and the man even had the audacity to approach the steps, only stopped by the spears barring his path. Spittle flying from his lips, he turned on Dylan, assuming weakness from the woman. “How sad that you need to hide behind a girl,” he sneered, attempting to shove her to the side. She didn’t budge, instead pushing him back a few steps, away from Dianite.

The god boredly settled his chin and his fist, leaning on the left side of the throne. “Guards,” he called down, “Escort him out. He has overstayed his welcome.” Enraged, he tried once more to make his way past the guards, this time Tom shoved him back, approaching him with even steps. “You can’t treat me like this! How dare you put yourself upon a throne, acting as a tyrant!” Dylan took her chance to land a blow on the annoying man, giving him a solid hit to the stomach.

With a grunt, he tried to wrestle the spear from her, giving Tom the chance to take his legs out from under him. “Either you walk away with your last shred of dignity, or I drag you out like the rat you are.” The man snarled at the guard (AN: I apologize for breaking the story, but Guard Tom XD) lunging at him. Before he could make contact, he was thrown back with the force of chains flinging themselves around him. His head hit the ground with a dizzying crack, the man letting out a groan.

From where Dianite sat he had one hand flicked out to the side. “I don’t appreciate you assaulting my guards heathen. You come in here, assuming I’d assist you, when you don’t even follow me or plan to give any offerings in return. Take him to the dungeon, we’ll find a punishment for him later,” he nodded to the two, “There will be guards outside as well, take him to them and tell them to take him down.”

There were no more spectacular incidents that day.

~

Today was yet another day of listening to the requests, prayers, and offerings of the people he oversaw. Regardless of their beliefs (he honestly didn’t give a shit as long as the Mianitees stayed away from his fortress), he held direct rule over the surrounding area. Unfortunately, this meant he had to deal with many matters concerning the inhabitants.

While many were smaller problems, a few cause more annoying problems. Like the ones who decided to push his guards around. (Not that they succeeded very much, the two were rather difficult to push around). However, it was more annoying when they showed an obvious interest in them. Specifically, Tom. He was aware that their uniform was rather fancy, reddened steel armor, with golden stitching laced into the leather binding it together. Underneath the armor were simple black tunics, covering every inch of skin, thick enough to deter any lucky strike to get through the cracks in the armor. But they didn’t cover the face, and their hair could still stick out some.

Tom’s blue hair drew attention, and though many tried to be subtle, he could see them checking out his soulmate. The urge to mark him in front of them, to show that Tom is his was strong, but he was determined to wait for Tom to figure it out. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to wait, honestly it was killing him having Tom so close, but part of him knew it would be easier for Tom to find out on his own.

But as the latest person didn’t even try to be subtle about checking Tom out (normally, they checked out Dylan, who was ready to stab them when given the chance) he felt the urge to murder. At least only he could have a good view of his ass, as he was only ever turned away from him. He knew the man’s type, greedy, thinks he’s sly, and looking for a new toy.

Honestly, Dylan even looked ready to beat his ass. But he was being civil, and prepared a rather swell offering in exchange for safe voyage to the next continent and back, and promised to give him some of his profits. He wasn’t about to let his own emotions conflict with something that benefitted him. So, despite his displeasure with the merchant, (who he was sure had some darker dealings going on), he made sure to bless him with calm seas.

~

Dianite was not, in fact, following Tom to make sure he returned home safely. The blue haired man had separated with his companion, who went to meet her soulmate for dinner. He was simply making last minute rounds before heading to his chambers to rest. However, when he saw a group lurking around the corner from Tom, who was making his way through the courtyard to the barracks, he was watching much closer than before.

The younger man seemed to have a clue that something was up, hand trailing to the hilt of his sword (he left his spear in the throne room, it was a custom weapon meant for that job). He wasn’t prepared for the three men to rush him, two distracting him, while one came up behind him with a cloth. When it was pushed to his face, he struggled not to breath and fight off his attacker, but the other two held him in place. A punch was landed into his gut, causing him to gasp, taking in whatever drug the cloth was laced with, and in seconds, he was out.

Dianite was not about to let them run off with his human. Eyes aglow, he stepped behind forward, smoothly teleporting behind them. Growling, he pierced the stomach of the first attacker, the other two turning from where they struggled to hold Tom up. In a fluid motion, he flicked a sword to his hand, and sliced through the neck of one. The last one dropped Tom and tried to run, but, after catching him, he set the man aflame.

Cradling Tom in his arms, he picked him up bridal style, debating as to where to go with him. Indulging a little, he teleported to his own room, settling the mortal upon his bed. He gazed at his serene face, biting his face. Everything in his screamed at him to mark his human, his soulmate. But, he didn’t know. “For fucks sake, sometimes I hate my dumbass decisions,” the god grumbled, brushing some of his hair off his forehead.

He chose to skip out on sleep that night, instead cuddling the sleeping man, who curled into him so naturally it made him want to keep him here. Though the drug was likely only meant to keep him out for two hours max, it was added to by the already tired state he had been in. The night passed this way, and when daylight broke, he reluctantly returned the mortal to his room, not caring if anyone noticed.

~

Tom started to notice something… strange. Almost a week ago, he had been jumped, and he barely registered blacking out, before he was waking in his bed once more, warmer than he had ever been with these cruddy blankets. (And rather relaxed, that may have been the best sleep of his life). Ever since that day, he would find his way to bed, but always have a vague recollection of cuddling with someone delightfully warm. But each time he tried to find out who, he’d open his eyes to the dim room he was placed in, in the barracks. He just wanted to know why he felt so peaceful in these moments.

If the tingle in his shoulder was anything to go by, he had a feeling as to why. If only they would stay, so they could meet properly. (In the back of his head, a voice screamed he already knew him, just look up dumbass, but Tom couldn’t understand it). And he was once more on guard duty, his mark still warm and soothing from last night, and some serious shit was happening.

Some Mianitee decided to deface part of the fortress, and was captured for trespassing and being an ass (the last one wasn’t the actual sentence, but accurate). But while Dianite calmly had the two escort him to the dungeon (along with the door guards), he acted out once more. From a hidden pocket he unfurled an explosive, made to detonate upon impact. The front guards both crumpled against the wall with twin thuds, and the Mianitee used one of their spears to cut himself loose in their stunned daze.

Acting fast, Tom used his own spear to jab at the man, who pivoted and broke the wooden shaft. Dylan dropped her spear and drew her sword with a flick of her wrist, taking his momentary distraction to get behind him. She swiped at him, but he dodged by barreling into Tom, grabbing the sharp end of the broken spear and jamming it into his gut.

Despite the wound inflicted upon him, Tom wrapped his legs around his aggressor, giving Dylan the vantage point to knock him out with the butt of her sword. “Tom?” She crouched down before him, rolling the body off his carelessly. “Hurts like a fucking petty bitch, but I’ll live. It’s probably lodged in my intestines, so there won’t be too much bleeding… I think,” he uttered through gritted teeth, one hand wrapped around splintered wood, about to remove the offending item.

“Leave it,” came the deep voice of their god. Tom craned his neck to see him glide down the hallway, concerned frown gracing his features. He surveyed the scene, two guards unconscious, likely with a concussion, and his soulmate with part of a spear lodged in him. Glaring at the blacked-out figure on the floor next to the awake duo, he snapped his fingers, sending him to the torture chamber for some fun.

“Dylan,” her head snapped up as he addressed her, “Go inform the waiting line that I will not be receiving any one else today. If they question you or complain, tell them I’m dealing with one of my brother’s bitches.” She gave a nod to her god, and jogged down the hall to do as told. He swept he hand towards the other two, presumably sending them to the medical wing.

Looking down at the injured blue haired man, he sighed. Holding nothing back, complained to him, “Why is my soulmate so attracted to trouble?” Shaking his head at the mildly dazed look he received, he lifted Tom in his arms, moving them both into his quarters. Placing him on the bed, reminiscent of a night a week earlier, he did not hesitate to yank the spear head out of Tom. “Son of a bitch,” Tom practically screamed, looking at the god incredulously. “A little warning next time?”

Rolling his eyes, the god set about removing the mortal’s shirt, taking the time to do it manually, just to shamelessly run his fingers over his skin. Once the wound was uncovered, he placed his hand about it, mending the wound and numbing the pain. “It’ll be better if you sleep it off,” Dianite murmured to his injured soulmate.

Swinging his half cape from shoulders and wrapping it around Tom’s, he picked him back up, moving to his office. Just as he was going to push Tom into sleep, a hand raised against his temple, the mortal whispered, astonished, “Wait, you’re my soulmate?” With a huff, the god sent him to sleep, settling into his chair with Tom resting in his lap.

“About fucking time.”

(AN: I don’t know why that took so long to write, but somehow it turned out to be my longest ficlet so far. Damn. Also, Tom is oblivious, and I couldn’t make a good reason for Dia not to tell Tom they were soulmates… oh well. I hope y’all enjoyed, especially @syndcates )

[kiribbeanplays-blog]

Character Critiques - Machop Family

From brains and back to brawn, the Machop family is next to review!

Machop is one of the more difficult cases for me to review. As I’ve mentioned in past articles, my childhood had an incredibly strict definition of what makes a character worth even looking at. Originally, I didn’t care about Machop nearly as much as the fire-spitting not-really-a-dragon, Charizard.

Fortunately, my tastes have expanded as I’ve grown older. It took several years, but I’ve finally grown an appreciation for Machop and its evolutions.

Unfortunately, Machop still doesn’t rank very high in my book. It’s an okay design, but it’s cursed with artistic choices that make it feel downright clunky - at least to me, personally.

On paper, Machop’s core concept is highly amusing. It’s a child-sized, muscular lizard-man that can hurl a hundred adult humans without so much as breaking a sweat. A few Pokédex entries mention that Machop will casually use Gravelers as dumbbells (which are approximately five and a half times heavier than Machop). I love the mental image of a Machop plucking a confused rock monster from where it stands - not for hunting purposes, but just for exercising its muscles.

I have no problems with the ideas behind Machop. It’s the visual design that bugs me - but not even the entire thing. There are only incredibly specific details that I deem “clunky.”

Luckily, there are plenty of images I can use to illustrate my point. With that, I’ll go down a short list of what I think “doesn’t” work on Machop’s design, followed by what I feel is more fitting.

Firstly, I’ve never cared for Machop’s “vanilla” feet. What appear as short and stumpy limbs in Ken Sugimori’s art is actually the result of foreshortening. In profile, they’re actually boring, featureless loaves of bread that look like how I used to draw feet as a child.

The foreshortening accidentally creates a greater, visually striking shape. I think Machop looks more interesting with abstract, almost hoof-like feet. It’s a little bizarre, sure, but in a good way.

Secondly, while I don’t hate Machop’s general body shape, I also think it looks better in older artwork. There was a time Machop practically had a beer gut, with various degrees of exaggeration depending on the artist who drew it.

Especially with the Pokémon Pinball: Ruby & Sapphire sprite, I argue that Machop can look downright unsettling with such weird proportions. It injects an extra indescribable alien feel to the rest of its design.

Oh, and this Japan-exclusive Battrio puck? Everything about it looks bad.

This is by far the worst Machop art I’ve ever seen. I’m at a loss for words. Just… don’t make it look like this.

I may only have a couple (arguably minor) problems with Machop’s design. However, when this character is so minimalistic, every detail counts. A simple change of its feet or belly shape stand out sharper than a character with many smaller details.

Machop isn’t an awful design, but a couple personal gripes prevent it from being something I’d consider great.

Also, can we take a moment to admire Machop performing armpit farts in Diamond and Pearl?

If you’re going to make a lizardman monster, why not go all out and make it as humanlike as possible?

Machoke may simply look like a cartoony human wearing a lizard mask, but that could be taken as a complement. I grew up watching a lot of cheesy-awesome science fiction media, where monster designs like these are commonplace. Because of that, Machoke feels like a loving parody!

I mean, Machoke looks like something Captain Kirk or the Robinson family fought against. It’s brilliant!

Unlike with Machop, I have little to no complaints about Machoke’s design. It’s another simplistic design, but all the little details fit nicely.

I love how Machoke’s crest doubles as a mohawk. The triangular “Anime eyes” add to the cheesiness of its design in an endearing way. Most of all, I like how the red stripes on its arms help highlight its muscular build.

Although, those stripes gain a creepy factor the more I analyze them. Are they just red tattoos, or visible blood vessels? Or is it torn skin because Machoke is literally ripped?

Eugh, what an eerie thought. Since the Pokédex doesn’t go into detail about this topic, it’s safe to assume they’re just markings.

I only scratch my head over one part of Machoke’s design: the obvious belt and pants it’s wearing. I get that the belt symbolizes Machoke’s love for martial arts. From a lore standpoint, however, it’s confusing. Do all Machoke sew their own garments? Where do they get the belt from? More importantly, how does Machop spontaneously evolve pants onto its body?

Well, no matter the mystery, I’m kind of glad that Machoke isn’t buck naked instead. Based on personal observation, we humans instinctively get nervous when staring at nude, crotchless aliens that share the same anatomy as ours. I guess it’s because we’re such self-conscious animals.

Even if it breaks continuity, we have to clothe these fictional creatures to break the awkwardness. The blue cats in James Cameron’s Avatar are a perfect example of what I mean (they reproduce through their hair, which is always exposed. What exactly do they have to hide at the bikini line?).There’s no proof that Machoke’s belt was added for this reason, but I think it’s fair speculation.

Moving on from that overanalysis, there’s still discussion to be had in Machoke’s personality. At first glance, it’s nothing unexpected; as a bodybuilder, Machoke loves to constantly flex and showcase its muscles. It’s easy to assume that Machoke would be a hotheaded narcissist, right?

As it turns out, Machoke is quite a humble Pokémon. It loves to work out, but isn’t explicitly competitive. Its waistbelt is designed to restrain its full strength, or else it’d be an overwhelming powerhouse. This may suggest that Machoke always ensures a challenging but fair fight against its opponents. Despite its obsession with training, Machoke actually shows impressive sportsmanship.

In addition, Machoke takes immense pride and joy using its strength to help others. Most commonly, it lends a hand at construction sites. But other instances, such as the Anime, illustrate Machoke helping little old ladies carry heavy baskets around. I absolutely adore the “gentle giant” concept going on with Machoke!

I’m just about ready to wrap up this (surprisingly lengthy) review on Machoke. There’s just one more minor topic I want to discuss.

In the past, I’ve brought up how several idle animations for Pokémon were very different back in Stadium and Colosseum/XD. Machoke in particular has always stuck in my memory as having the most contradictory idle movement ever.

All that talk about Machoke looking tough, but actually having a sweet personality, is not illustrated here. The way it’s hunched over and swaying its arms makes Machoke look more like a gorilla. It feels more like a primitive killing machine, rather than a collected brawler.

Compare this animation to Machoke’s generation VI+ sprite:

This is one of the times I actually approve a stiffer, subtly-moving idle animation. Machoke is standing its ground, but also keeping that calm and modest demeanor talked about in the Pokédex. This feels much more in-character than the older animation. I’m glad that Game Freak went with this decision.

Machoke’s prominence in the games and TV shows has helped flesh out its character over the years. I may not think about this Pokémon a whole lot when discussing the franchise, but I can talk a surprising amount about its design. All in all, Machoke is a solid character.

I didn’t think things could get even more cheesy awesome after Machoke, but Machamp has proven me wrong.

This four-armed, duck-faced muscle man looks like it could show up as an adversary for WWE. It even has a rash fighting spirit to go with its looks.

Japanese culture seems to love comically muscled superheroes. Think of Alex Louis Armstrong from Fullmetal Alchemist and Hildebrand's father in Final Fantasy XIV. Machamp is another one of those wacky, purposefully over-the-top characters, often wearing little more than their underpants.

I’m puzzled that I never liked Machamp as a kid. I tried (in vain) to watch as many Power Rangers episodes as I could, so this campy Pokémon should have been right up my alley. Alas, I instead ignored it for being “too ugly” or something.

I know I’ve been bashing my childhood in these articles as of late, but come on, past me! Look at what you’ve been missing!

What’s really sold me with Machamp is its appearance in Pokkén Tournament. I’ve yet to play it myself, but I’ve seen its wonderful animations through Youtube videos.

This is everything I was hoping for when I made the previous WWE connections. The way Machamp struts its musclebound prowess, gleefully poses like a superhero, and throws temper tantrums when things go awry are absolutely perfect for its character. Best of all, Machamp incorporates all these comical human behaviors while keeping that “mutant animal” aesthetic just like its other fellow Pokémon.

Funnily enough, I originally didn’t expect this Character Critiques to be so glowing. Machop’s family - and especially Machamp - were Pokémon I’ve never given much thought over. But now, I’ve realized how much Machamp embodies the appeal of the cheesy-but-awesome media I’ve always loved.

[sersgtdump-blog]

Drabble: Duties Unfulfilled

[Content/Trigger Warnings: Suicidal Ideation, Death mention, Gore mention, Blood mention]

Behold: my first post on this new blog! Huzzah! 

Regardless, here's a drabble based off a post I saw in the G/t tag months ago...and now can't find for the life of me.

It was a concept post from someone talking about a scenario where a giant king/queen would carry around their subjects and their servants would stitch up their clothes, polish their crown, etc.

I can't find the post scrolling back in the tag and it would appear that I didn't like it on my main blog when I saw it, so it eludes me: if anyone  knows the post I'm talking about, please submit the link/direct me to it and I'll add it here!!!

Regardless, here's a drabble inspired by that post: listen, readers, to the tale of Adalia, one of the many servants of the mighty Friern, towering ruler of the kingdom of Rothime, as she encounters and faces her greatest fear of all...

The very royal she is bound by duty and honor to serve.

Stepping into the throne room, she tried to hide her fear.

All the other servants were used to this, so completely at ease with the situation, at ease with the work that needed to be done, work they, just like herself, had been taught and trained to do from a very young age...

But the fear had never left Adalia.

Ever.

She kept her eyes focused downwards, clutching her basket full of cleaning supplies, towels, brushes, needles and thread, fine scented oils and other such accoutrements in her white-knuckled hands...

Please, let this be over quick.

One of the other servants turned to her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder: nearly everyone in the group knew she was still a little skiddish about this, and they weren't afraid to support her, strange though her behavior was to them.

"Th-Thanks," she muttered, though her comrade barely had hardly any time to properly reply as a familiar, thundering voice filled the hall.

Everyone in attendance, from the servants, to the guards, to Adalia herself knelt, the woman trembling as her ruler spoke...

"Greetings, friends," cooed the creature before them, their form reclined back against the solid black stone of their towering throne, the bright gold of their crown and jewelry glinting in the morning sun, which filtered in through the vast stained glass windows of the hall, filling the high-ceilinged throneroom with a rainbow of refracted color...

Not that that did anything to hide nor lessen the monstrosity of the king, who shifted in their seat resting one sharply-clawed hand under their chin as they smiled, revealing massive, curved fangs.

Their crimson, slit-pupiled eyes glared down at their gathered servants, their taloned feet tapping on the stone floor as they spoke, casually:

"It is good to see you all again. I look forward to your work, as always...come, serve your king."

With the order to begin finally given, the servants rose, approaching the giant monarch from various angles as they got to work.

Some clambered up ladders, carved meticulously into the sides of the stone throne, others making their way up the beast's own legs, meticulous hands searching for chips in the royal's scattered black scales, for cuts and bruises in the pale, human-like skin between outcroppings of scales, each servant tending to each wound with loving, tender care.

One servant sat in each of the king's hands, carefully examining each fingerprint, each claw for injury or imperfection, scrubbing and smoothing and polishing away, two more servants lifted all the way up to the ruler's ornate golden crown, polishing the many gems studded across it, singing a chipper tune as the titan sat, calmly enjoying the attention.

It had been well over a millennium now since the kingdom of Rothime had created the bloodline of kings.

Back then, forces of darkness had been primed to overtake everything, emerging from the badlands just outside of the small nation's border, and so man had merged with beast, to save both in kind.

The most noble of warriors in the land were merged with the last of the dragons through powerful magic, resulting in towering, half-human, half-monster giants, loomig above even the largest of foes, capable of fighting back any for that dared to attack the kingdom and put the good citizens of Rothime in danger, using both their massive size and strength and the powerful magicks innate to their draconian blood.

Over many long centuries, many types of the rulers had come and gone: ranging from those as short as 20 feet to those as massive as 100 feet in height, with scales and skin of vastly different colors and shine, and diverse magicks to go with them...

The line of Rothime's giant rulers was as long as it was varied, battle-hardened, and, above all else, kind.

Nary had a citizen been put in harm's way since the first king, golden-scaled and filled with the powrtful magicks of Light had driven back the forces of evil with righteous might...

And so the people had sworn, of their own volition, that when not fighting the many dangers that came from beyond the border for them, they would wait upon their king or queen, would ensure that the monarch's every need was met, their every wish granted, their every blemish and wound tended to...

It was the least they could do.

The royalty's Servants came from long, noble lineages themselves, a child chosen from each family each generation to be the luckiest one, dedicated to serving their ruler personally their entire life, and Adalia had been-

"You there."

"E-Eh?!"

The woman jumped, looking up, feeling the king's crimson gaze piercing into her as she looked up from her basket, still standing in her position on the floor as her fellow servants worked away above.

"Have you no task today?"

It took the woman a moment to respond, gulping down the shriek rising in her throat as she stood there, clamping her basket like it was a lifeline, her knuckles white, shaking from the exertion.

Though many had come before them, this king was different: where before even the largest ruler of Rothime had loomed at a mere 100 feet tall, this one far exceeded that, easily upwards of 150 feet tall.

Their black scales added another layer of subtle horror, as well: although many a monarch had come and gone that harbored Darkness magic within them, none before the mighty Freirn had wielded it with such deadly precision and destructive potential.

Darkness had been used to defend Rothime many a time before, it was true, but superstition about that most mysterious of elements still held, and added a layer of intimidation to Friern's appearance that even the most steadfast of servants occasionally commented on...

That, and one more thing usually made the rounds in gossip and hushed tones: it was rare that a ruler of Rothime strayed far from the titles of king or queen...but never before had there been one that had claimed BOTH.

Friern, the first royal highness to be both king and queen, man and woman, protector and guard to all peoples of Rothime...

And most powerful ruler of all.

"N-No, your h-h-highness, I am wi-without a task today."

Adalia had hoped that this would allow her to leave her post, but she knew that was not how it worked: if a servant was given no task by the king's advisors in the morning, it usually meant that it was now up to the ruler to decide what they would like done for them.

"...hmm. Alight to my side: search my cape for tears."

"Y-yes, my liege."

The woman made her way for the ladder carved into the creature's throne, making her way up slowly and carefully, basket carried up with her, hung over her arm as she ascended.

Clothing repair was always seen as a somewhat boring, menial task: so much more coveted were the jobs like crown polishing, claw maintenance, and skin mending...but, for Adalia, there was a slight comfort in knowing Friern's attention would be elsewhere.

Settling down on top of the king's thigh, she got to work, placing her basket down and gently pulling the heavy, lush velvet of their cape across her own lap to begin searching it for cuts, holes, any loose threads, the woman trying not to sweat, not to falter underneath their heavy, powerful gaze.

Adalia knew that Friern were going easy on her: of all the tasks given to servants such as herself, repairs on a largely decorative piece of clothing were at the lowest point of the hierarchy of the monarch's needs, and that, essentially, this was a job for someone with nowhere else to go, no better job to be given...

That, or no greater job that the king saw fit to give.

She shuddered as she worked, pleased as the king's attention quickly turned away from her, focusing instead on the others, allowing her to continue her work with a greater sense of calm.

Could it be that Friern thought of her as being useless, giving her a task as low as this?

She wasn't a bad servant, she knew she was capable of handling any and all of these tasks well...but it was her fear that always set her back, slowed her work, made her hands shake and her mind race when it should be focused.

She pulled another length of the king's heavy cape across her lap, sewing up a few more minor holes, eventually spotting a few of her fellow servants stepping away, moving back down the throne's sides as they completed their tasks, Adalia knowing better than to move from her position as they started to leave.

She had been trained from birth to tend to whoever sat upon the throne, and, yet, ever since the day she had met her monstrous monarch she had been unable to shake her fear of them.

When the others came to Friern's side, tending to claws with flecks of caked blood from lumbering, vicious beasts of evil, mended cuts and shattered scales, a few servants even stepping into their mouth on occasion, picking away at the cursed flesh of some invading monster still stuck to their fangs, Adalia's fellow servants were pleased, knowing that their king had protected them from powerful, dangerous forces, and that they had the honor of helping their king recover from such battles...

But all she saw were small, fragile creatures, mere inches away from being sliced open upon giant claws, crushed under careless talons, gobbled up between massive fangs, and other such horrors.

She knew Friern would never do such things, but the idea of this docile yet towering being suddenly deciding to indulge in such horrors, the servants helpless, unable to fight back, both physically and through their expected servitude and submission to their ruler's desires, well-

"That is all today, friends," came the thunderous voice of the monarch, Adalia's head whipping up and around to see her fellow servants all gathered before the king on the ground below, finished with their tasks.

Friern's claws happily tapped on the armrests of their throne as they continued, pleased:

"I shall see you all tomorrow: thank you for your stunning work, friends. As always."

With that, the other servants bowed and left, Adalia knowing better than to leave her station until the king ordered her to do so, and, as if to confirm this conviction,  Friern purred down to her:

"Stay right where you are. I have something to discuss with you."

Adalia tried to hide how pale her skin had turned, how completely drained of blood and courage her face was as she nodded, not daring to look up, only glancing upwards again when she heard the sound of metallic footfalls striding away...

The guards.

Friern had sent the guards away.

"There," cooed the draconic titan, a pleased, powerful tone in their voice that made Adalia's skin crawl as she realized she was now entirely alone with them.

"Now," Freirn mused, a long, black tongue emerging from their maw for a moment as they spoke, "Miss Adalia, was it?"

"Y-Yes, my liege?"

There was a moment of silence, Adalia attempting not to whimper as the king's shadow fell more heavily upon her, their voice much closer, much louder now as they leaned their head down over her, voice rumbling in her ears, even as they whispered:

"You have been having some trouble doing your work, yes?"

"Y-yes, my l-li-liege."

She was still, needle, thread, and spool gripped, white-knuckled, in her hands, the woman fighting the hot tears that were starting to form in her eyes as she felt the massive ruler's breath upon her skin, coming down from above as they spoke.

"I can smell your fear, servant," the royal said, flatly, "and I have smelt it for a good long time, now. I am no stranger the such scents, but it baffles me to sense it from one of your bloodline. I know your kin well: your parents both served my predecessor well, and I know you have both the capability and the drive to fulfil your duty with great ablomp. So, tell me, Miss Adalia..."

She froze, hearing their claws clicking on the black stone of their throne, high above her.

"...what is it that you're afraid of?"

The spool of thread in the woman's hand was shaken loose, dropping to the fabric below with a soft bounce, tears streaming down the woman's face, certain she was being set up for a fall, that she would go missing this very moment, that no servant who couldn't maintain their work for the one being they lived to serve would be permitted to continue on existing, wouldn't be punished by the very being she was meant to serve...

But she couldn't lie, not even with death itself awaiting her up on the vast, sharp, and meticulously-cleaned fangs of the monarch above, and taking a deep breath, she yelled out the truth, damning though it may be:

"...y-you, my liege!"

"...what?"

"I-I'm afraid of YOU!"

The woman braced herself against the floor of fabric beneath her, barely staying coherent as the rush of a released secret and the dread of an inevitable end rolled through her, Adalia trying to remain calm as the beast above surely aimed their jaws for a takedown...

But no such violent release came, no such gorey end, and, as Adalia watched, the shadow of the king's head over her receded, the woman making a cautious glance upward to see the looming figure sitting back up in their throne, one clawed hand over their mouth, looking away from her, out the window beyond.

"...afraid of me, you say?"

They inhaled deeply, then sighed, shallowly, then chuckled, hollowly.

"Hmmm, I suppose I underestimated you in a way, Miss Adalia."

The draconic titan shook their head, continuing:

"Here I was, convinced that your fear and shaky work was the result of some issue away from here: some problem at home, some medical issue perhaps, some need going unmet in your life, in your health, some bad association this place, this work brought to mind, perhaps...but instead, I've left you, day in, day out, working in close proximity with a being you fear so clearly, so deeply, myself too blinded by tradition, by expectation to see it..."

Adalia refused to look skyward, confused by the monarch's words, uncertain of the veracity of their statements, until-

"I've failed you, servant, and you have my utmost apology."

The woman finally lifted her head up, watching as the concerned, mortified face above her turned even more so, Friern's voice lowering into a quiet, sympathetic whisper:

"It's okay, there's no need to cry."

The woman flinched back as a massive hand reached towards her sobbing, shaking form, a long claw held out in her general direction, arcing closer until-

"Eep!"

It rested underneath her chin, quickly joined by the softest and gentler of pats on top of her head, giant fingertips so close to massive claws, yet not a single one came close to grazing any part of her body, the king's gentle touch and reassurances mirroring the ones she received daily from her fellow servants.

"I promise you, friend," Friern cooed, "you are as safe with me as any other citizen, as any other denizen of this mighty kingdom I have sworn to protect. I can assure you that, despite my appearance and inclination towards the shadows, I am no more a threat to you than a fly is to a dragon."

Adalia looked up, her gaze this time locking onto their eyes, seeing...

Kindness.

Kindness, understanding, and, most striking of all, regret.

Genuine, sorrowful regret: had they actually meant what they said, feeling as though they had failed her by not realizing her fear?

She looked away, leaning back against the fingers that were around her, feeling rather shaken, her body unsteady, ready to collapse from the emotional strain that had been building all these years, dashed away in a moment, not upon angry, fanged jaws, or violent, curved claws...

But upon kind words, and an even kinder touch.

"I will do what I can to make you more comfortable with your work, Miss Adalia: tell me, what task do prefer most while tending to me?"

"I...I-I'm not..."

There was a gentle chuckle, followed by another gentle pat on the head from the giant monarch.

"Hmmm, no need to rush, I suppose. Simply inform me when you decide, dear Adalia."

Friern took in a deep breath, a few wisps of shadowy, black flame flickering out from between their jaws as they continued, determined to make things right:

"Neither of us are in a position to escape nor neglect our roles, our duties...but the least I can do is make this more comfortable for you."

Again locking eyes with Friern, Adalia finally, shakily smiled up at her king, a sight they had not seen before, and which struck them like lightning out of the blue.

A new time had come, a metamorphosis of fear into the strength to grow, change, and, perhaps with time...

Even the chance for Adalia, fearful servant to the mighty Friern, to love her work again.

~~~

The other servants knew better than to comment on the situation: poor Adalia had it bad enough already.

They would come in every day, and like clockwork, she would be assigned to clothes-mending duty.

At times, many of them were optimistic: perhaps Adalia was particularly good at mending Friern's apparel, and that's why she was ordered to work on such things every day.

Maybe the king was taking pity on her, others speculated, although, if that were the case, the king was far kinder than any that had come before them, for every day Adalia would still be working after all the others were done, and Friern never seemed to be concerned about such a slow pace from such a well-bred servant...

Regardless of the rumors and gossip that flowed between them, the consensus was unanimous:

Poor Adalia: at least the king was kind to her.

Little did all those judging souls know, however, that Adalia and Friern were up to much more than what they appeared to be.

"Did you see Hira today?" inquired Friern, staring down at Adalia, sitting alone with them on their lap as she continued mending their cape, chatting with them one morning, long after the others had already finished their work and been sent away.

"I did: I cannot imagine how one could be so pleased, dancing around and practically frolicking like that whilst cleaning your teeth."

"She does have a certain fondness for such tasks, that is certain."

Both the monarch and the servant chuckled, enjoying the peace and calm that came from the two of them being able to be so informal with each other.

The throne room was empty of the servants, of the guards, no one else present as the two of them relaxed, Friern flexing their claws, noting the fine stitchwork and bandaging done on the many cuts they had attained in a recent skirmish with a hydra, Adalia carefully cleaning the remnants of the beast's venom out of the king's cape, patching up holes and tears as she went, commenting:

"I could never do that kind of work, you know."

"What, cleaning my teeth?"

"Yes, it's far too fr-frightening to me. No offense my liege, but I doubt I could ever be comfortable getting that close to so many large, sharp fangs."

"Hmmm, I see...a pity, that."

Adalia looked upwards, raising an eyebrow at her king as they looked through the window, thinking.

"What makes you say that, my liege?"

The monarch was quiet for a moment, then chuckled, explaining:

"Hmm, I would very much like to get you close to my mouth one of these days, but I suppose it's not meant to be."

That got Adalia to raise an eyebrow, asking:

"What purpose would getting me close to your mouth serve, my liege?"

The towering monarch shrugged, a soft smile on their face as their cheeks slightly flushed.

"Oh, no purpose at all, dear Adalia."

"...I see."

Returning to her work, Adalia leaned over their cape again, her hands moving deftly and carefully as she continued her work, neither flinching away nor particularly caring as the shadow of the king's head fell upon her, their breath felt across her skin as she worked, both sensations now common to her, comfortable and none the least bit stressful as she worked away, focused.

She knew that they occasionally liked to watch her work, finding her deft stitching and fine handiwork quite fascinating to watch-

"Mwah!"

"AHHH!"

Adalia shrieked, nearly flinging her spool and thread across the king's thigh as a pair of giant, gentle lips planted a sweet, short kiss atop her head, the monarch gently cooing, sweetly, kindly:

"There, that's I wanted you near my mouth for. Apologies if it was startling, dear Adalia."

Speechless, the woman attempted to return to her work, blushing beet red, stuttering and attempting to hide the smile across her face as she looked down at the cloth before her, replying:

"N-Not at all, my liege."