#light fury is epic

[octolanternz]

light fury doodle. and miniature shadow again

[octolanternz]

MY FAV AND MOST GORGEOUS LIGHT FURY REDESIGN LITERALLY PERFECT!!!!!

LF redesign and Tooth

[justinadelmann]

[damienkarras73]

An essay on Furiosa, the politics of the Wasteland, Arthurian literature and realistic vs. formalistic CGI

Mad Max: Fury Road absolutely enraptured me when it came out nearly a decade ago, and I will cop to seeing it four times at the theatre. For me (and many others who saw the light of George Miller) it set new standards for action filmmaking, storytelling and worldbuilding, and I could pop in its Blu Ray at any time and never get tired of it. Perhaps not surprisingly, I was deeply apprehensive about the announced prequel for Fury Road's actual main character, Furiosa, even if Miller was still writing and directing. We didn't need backstory for Furiosa—hell, Fury Road is told in such a way that NOTHING in it requires explicit backstory. And since it focuses on the Yung Furiosa, it meant Charlize Theron couldn't return with another career-defining performance. Plus, look at all that CGI in the trailer, it can't be as good as Fury Road.

Turns out I was silly to doubt George Miller, M.D., A.O., writer and director of Babe: Pig in the City and Happy Feet One & Two.

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is excellent, and I needn't have worried about it not being as good as Fury Road because it is not remotely trying to be Fury Road. Fury Road is a lean, mean machine with no fat on it, nothing extraneous, operating with constant forward momentum and only occasionally letting up to let you breathe a little; Furiosa is a classical epic, sprawling in scope, scale and structure, and more than happy to let the audience simmer in a quiet, almost painfully still moment. If its opening spoken word sequence by that Gandalf of the Wastes himself, the First History Man, didn't already clue you in, it unfolds like something out of myth, a tale told over and over again and whose possible embellishments are called attention to in the dialogue itself. Where Fury Road scratched the action nerd itch in my head like you wouldn't believe, Furiosa was the equivalent of Miller giving the undulating folds of my English major brain a deep tissue massage. That's great! I, for one, love when sequels/prequels endeavour to be fundamentally different movies from what they're succeeding/preceding, operating in different modes, formats and even genres, and more filmmakers should aim for it when building on an existing series.

This movie has been on my mind so much in the past week that I've ended up dedicating several cognitive processes to keeping track of all of the different ponderings it's spawned. Thankfully, Furiosa is divided into chapters (fun fact: putting chapter cards in your movie is a quick way to my heart), so it only seems fitting that I break up all of these cascading thoughts accordingly.

1. The Pole of Inaccessibility

Furiosa herself actually isn't the protagonist for the first chapter of her own movie, instead occupying the role of a (very crafty and resourceful) damsel in distress for those initial 30-40 minutes. The real hero of the opening act, which plays out like a game of cat and mouse, is Furiosa's mother Mary Jabassa, who rides out into the wasteland first on horseback and then astride a motorcycle to track down the band of raiders that has stolen away her daughter. Mary's brought to life by Miller and Nico Lathouris' economical writing and a magnetic performance by newcomer Charlee Fraser, who radiates so much screen presence in such relatively little time and with one of those instant "who is SHE??" faces. She doesn't have many lines, but who needs them when Fraser can convey volumes about Mary with just a flash of her eyes or the effortless way she swaps out one of her motorcycle's wheels for another. To be quite candid, I'm not sure of the last time I fell in love with a character so quickly.

You notice a neat aesthetic contrast between mother and daughter in retrospect: Mary Jabassa darts into the desert barefoot, clad in a simple yet elegant dress, her wolf cut immaculate, only briefly disguising herself with the ugly armour of a raider she just sniped, and when she attacks it's almost with grace, like some Greek goddess set loose in the post-apocalyptic Aussie outback with just her wits and a bolt-action rifle; we track Furiosa's growth over the years by how much of her initially conventional beauty she has shed, quite literally in one case (hair buzzed, severed arm augmented with a chunky mechanical prosthesis, smeared in grease and dirt from head to toe, growling her lines at a lower octave), and by how she loses her mother's graceful approach to movement and violence, eventually carrying herself like a blunt instrument. Yet I have zero doubt the former raised the latter, both angels of different feathers but with the same steel and resolve. Of fucking course this woman is Furiosa's mother, and in the short time we know her we quickly understand exactly why Furiosa has the drive and morals she does without needing to resort to didactic exposition.

Anyway, I was tearing up by the end of the first chapter. Great start!

2. Lessons from the Wasteland

Most movies—most stories, really—don't actually tell the entire narrative from A to Z. Perhaps the real meat of the thing is found from H to T, and A-G or U-Z are unnecessary for conveying the key narrative and themes. So many prequels fail by insisting on telling the A-G part of the story, explaining how the hero earned a certain nickname or met their memorable sidekick—but if that stuff was actually interesting, they likely would have included it in the original work. The greatest thing a prequel can actually do is recontextualize, putting iconic characters or moments in a new light, allowing you to appreciate them from a different angle. All of season 2 of Fargo serves to explain why Molly Solverson's dad is appropriately wary when Lorne Malvo enters his diner for a SINGLE SCENE in the show's first season. David's arc from the Alien prequels Prometheus and Covenant—polarizing as those entries are—adds another layer to why Ash is so protective of the creature in the first movie. Andor gives you a sense of what it's like for a normal, non-Jedi person to live under the boot of the Empire and why so many of them would join up with the Rebel Alliance—or why they would desire to wear that boot, or even just crave the chance to lick it.

Furiosa is one of those rare great prequels because it makes us take a step back and consider the established world with a little more nuance, even if it's still all so absurd. In Fury Road, Immortan Joe is an awesome, endlessly quotable villain, completely irredeemable, and basically a cartoon. He works perfectly as the antagonist of that breakneck, Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote-ass movie, but if you step outside of its adrenaline-pumping narrative for even a moment you risk questioning why nobody in the Citadel or its surrounding settlements has risen up against him before. Hell, why would Furiosa even work for him to begin with? But then you see Dementus and company tear-assing around the wasteland, seizing settlements and running them into the ground, and you realize Joe and his consortium offer something that Dementus reasonably can't: stability—granted, an unwavering, unchangeable stability weighted in favour of Joe's own brutal caste system, but stability nonetheless. It really makes you wonder, how badly does a guy have to suck to make IMMORTAN JOE of all people look like a sane, competent and reasonable ruler by comparison?!?

…and then they open the door to the vault where he keeps his wives, and in a flash you're reminded just how awful Joe is and why Furiosa will risk her life to help some of these women flee from him years later. This new context enriches Joe and makes it more believable that he could maintain power for so long, but it doesn't make him any less of a monster, and it says a lot about Furiosa's hate for Dementus that she could grit her teeth and work for this sick old tyrant.

3. The Stowaway

Here's another wild bit of trivia about this movie: you don't actually see top-billed actress Anya Taylor-Joy pop up on screen until roughly halfway through, once Furiosa is in her late teens/early twenties. Up until this point she's been played by Alyla Browne, who through the use of some seamless and honestly really impressive CGI has been given Anya's distinctive bug eyes [complimentary]. It's one of those bold choices that really works because Miller commits to it so hard, though it does make me wish Browne's name was up on the poster next to Taylor-Joy's.

Speaking of CGI, I should talk about what seems to be a sticking point for quite a few people: if there's been one consistent criticism of Furiosa so far, it's that it doesn't look nearly as practical or grounded as Fury Road, with more obvious greenscreen and compositing, and what previously would've been physical stunt performers and pyrotechnics have been replaced with their digital equivalents for many shots. Simply put, it doesn't look as real! For a lot of people, that practicality was one of Fury Road's primary draws, so I won't try to quibble if they're let down by Furiosa's overt artificiality, but to be honest I'm actually quite fine with it. It helps that this visual discrepancy doesn't sneak up on you but is incredibly apparent right from the aerial zoom-down into Australia in the very first scene, so I didn't feel misled or duped.

Fury Road never asks you to suspend your disbelief because it all looks so believable; Furiosa jovially prods you to suspend that disbelief from the get-go and tune into it on a different wavelength. It's a classical epic, and like the classical epics of the 1950s and 60s it has a lot of actors standing in front of what clearly are matte paintings. It feels right! We're not watching fact, we're watching myth. I'm willing to concede there might be a little bit of post-hoc rationalization on my part because I simply love this movie so much, but I'm not holding the effects in Furiosa to the same standard as those in Fury Road because I simply don't believe Miller and his crew are attempting to replicate that approach. Without the extensive CGI, we don't get that impressive long, panning take where a stranded Furiosa scans the empty, dust-and-sun-scoured wasteland (75% Sergio Leone, 25% Andrei Tarkovsky), or the Octoboss and his parasailing goons. For the sake of intellectual exercise I did try imagining them filming the Octoboss/war rig sequence with the same immersive practical approach they used for Fury Road's stunts, however I just kept picturing dead stunt performers, so perhaps the tradeoff was worth it!

4. Homeward

Around the same time we meet the Taylor-Joy-pilled Furiosa in Chapter 3, we're introduced to Praetorian Jack, the chief driver for the convoys running between the Citadel and its allied settlements. Jack's played by Tom Burke, who pulled off a very good Orson Welles in Mank! and who I should really check out in The Souvenir one of these days. He's also a cool dude! Here are some facts about Praetorian Jack:

He's decked out in road leathers with a pauldron stitched to one shoulder

He's stoic and wary, but still more or less personable and can carry on a conversation

Professes to a certain cynicism, to quote Special Agent Albert Rosenfield, but ultimately has a capacity for kindness and will do the right thing

Shoots a gun real good

Can drive like nobody's business

So in other words, Jack is Mad Max. But also, no, he clearly isn't! He looks and dresses like Mad Max (particularly Mel Gibson's) and does a lot of the same things "Mad" Max Rockatansky does, but he's also very explicitly a distinct character. It's a choice that seems inexplicable and perhaps even lazy on its face, except this is a George Miller movie, so of course this parallel is extremely purposeful. Miller has gone on record saying he avoids any kind of strict chronology or continuity for his Mad Max movies, compared to the rigid canons for Star Trek and Star Wars, and bless him for doing so. It's more fun viewing each Mad Max entry as a new revision or elaboration on a story being told again and again generations after the fall, mutating in style, structure and focus with every iteration, becoming less grounded as its core narrative is passed from elder to youth, community to community, genre to genre, until it becomes myth. (At least, my English major brain thinks it's more fun.) In fact there's actually something Arthurian to it, where at first King Arthur was mentioned in several Welsh legends before Geoffrey of Monmouth crafted an actual narrative around him, then Chrétien de Troyes added elements like Lancelot and infused the stories with more romance, and then with Le Morte d'Arthur Thomas Malory whipped the whole cycle together into one volume, which T.H. White would chop and screw and deconstruct with The Once and Future King centuries later.

All this to say: maybe Praetorian Jack looks and sounds and acts like Max because he sorta kinda basically is, being just one of many men driving back and forth across the wasteland, lending a hand on occasion, who'll be conflated into a single, legendary "Mad Max" at some point down the line in a different History Man's retelling of Furiosa's odyssey. Sometimes that Max rips across the desert in his V8 Interceptor, other times driving a big rig. Perhaps there's a dog tagging along and/or a scraggly and at first aggravating ally played by Bruce Spence or Nicholas Hoult. Usually he has a shotgun. But so long as you aren't trying to kill him, he'll help you out.

5. Beyond Vengeance

The Mad Max movies have incredibly iconic villains—Immortan Joe! Toecutter! the Lord Humongous!—but they are exactly that, capital V Villains devoid of humanizing qualities who you can't wait to watch bad things happen to. Furiosa appears to continue this trend by giving us a villain who in fact has a mustache long enough that he could reasonably twirl it if he so wanted, but ironically Dementus ends up being the most layered antagonist in the entire series, even moreso than the late Tina Turner's comparatively benevolent Aunty Entity from Beyond Thunderdome. And because he's played by Chris Hemsworth, whose comedic delivery rivals his stupidly handsome looks, you lock in every time he's on screen.

Something so fascinating about Dementus is that, for a main antagonist, he's NOT all-powerful, and in fact quite the opposite: he's more conman than warlord, looking for the next hustle, the next gullible crowd he can preach to and dupe—though never for long. For all his bluster, at every turn he finds himself in way over his head and writing cheques he can't cash, and this self-induced Sisyphean torment makes him riveting to watch. You're tempted to pity Dementus but it's also quite difficult to spare sympathy for someone who's so quick to channel their rage and hurt and ego into thoughtless, burn-it-all-down destruction. When you're not laughing at him, you're hating his guts, and it's indisputably the best work of Chris Hemsworth's career.

It's in this final chapter that everything naturally comes to a head: Furiosa's final evolution into the character we meet at the start of Fury Road, the predictable toppling of Dementus' precariously built house of cards, and the mythmaking that has been teased since the very first scene becoming diagetic text, the last of which allows the movie to thoroughly explore the themes of vengeance it's been building to. A brief war begins, is summarized and is over in the span of roughly a minute, and on its face it's a baffling narrative choice that most other filmmakers would have botched. But our man Miller's smart enough to recognize that the result of this war is the most foregone of conclusions if you've been paying even the slightest bit of attention, so he effectively brushes past it to get to the emotional heart of the climax and an incredible "Oh shit!" payoff that cements Miller as one of mainstream cinema's greatest sickos.

Fury Road remains the greatest Mad Max film, but Furiosa might be the best thing George Miller has ever made. If not his magnum opus, it does at least feel like his dissertation, and it makes me wish Warner Bros. puts enough trust in him despite Furiosa's poor box office performance that he's able to make The Wasteland. Absolutely ridiculous that a man just short of his 80th birthday was able to pull this off, and with it I feel confident calling him one of my favourite directors.

[denofimagination-blog]

Tell me, Bail Sharr, who can withstand the light of your faith and the shadows of my fury?

No one, Tyberos. We are the Emperor's sword and his shield united in glory. ⚔️🦈

👉 Want your models to look epic? Contact us at service@denofimagination.com and start your journey with us today!

[bestworstcase]

Tbh I can only imagine the rage Salem might feel on Oz's behalf once she finds out Light manipulated and trapped him into the task Light gave him, and that he has no choice in coming back (assuming she doesn't know that it isn't his choice). I think finding out he's essentially been trapped in a prison (the prison being the fucked up cycle of life/death/rebirth and the Mandate) this entire time would give her extra incentive to, presumably (if that's her goal), overthrow the tyrants that are the gods.

And honestly I think that would really show Oz that yes, Salem does still love him and care about him (quietly slides over Would You Fall In Love With Me Again from EPIC the Musical). Ugh I just want them to make uppp they mean everything to me. I need that reconciliation arc sm. And sighs. Salem saving Ozma from his metaphorical tower like how Ozma saved Salem from hers :( i want them to at least be friends again. There's sm they have to talk about and make up for

in all honesty i think her immediate reaction is more likely to be anguished guilt than fury, because the god of light deftlymanipulated her into acting as the lock on ozma's cage. it's been evident since 6.3 that salem already feels an immense burden of self-blame and guilt and in v8 we see, with cinder, salem turn on a dime while articulating a very precise and accurate understanding of why cinder acted as she did in response to the way salem treated her.

(and i do also think ozma's view that salem is at least partially responsible for what the brothers did to her and to the world may be, ultimately, because she told the story that way: if salem really did hesitate to tell him parts of it at first because she feared ozma would reject her, then it follows she felt ashamed and guilty, and feeling that way would undoubtedly color her account.) 

and in 6.4, the one time in the present we've ever seen salem truly lose her temper, what happens? she sends everyone else out of the room and self-harms. the windows shatter inward—the scene cuts away before we see salem get ripped apart by broken glass, but that is what she's doing. that unbearable uncontrollable rage is for herself. 

so how will she feel when she learns that all this time she spent believing that ozma  cynically took advantage of her trust and love to manipulate her into serving her tormentor, that he willingly bent the knee to tyrannical monsters and never wavered from his obedience—how will she feel when she finds out that actually, all that time, ozma was being tortured and forcibly twisted into an unwilling pawn by a curse he was tricked into accepting?

like. 

look at what she did to herself when she realized her decision to abandon cinder meant leaving cinder to infiltrate atlas and recover the lamp from oz all by herself, with no support, mere weeks after cinder nearly died at haven. and that was harm of a much smaller scale, spanning just a couple weeks. salem fled into exile after that horrible fight and left ozma to suffer alone in a state of inescapable torment for thousands of years. 

i think she's going to be devastated and furious with herself first, and she'll have to navigate that before she can reach being enraged at the god of light for ozma's sake. but yeah once she's had that time to process her hatred of the brothers and conviction that they must be cast down will only deepen. 

for ozma it's far more important that he sees the anguish and grief and guilt clearly. he already knows her rage. he knows she hates the brothers and why. salem is a deeply emotional character but her affect is blunted and notably in the narration of the lost fable, spite and anger at the gods are the only emotions jinn ever describes salem feeling—everything else we see salem feeling in that episode is framed as a manipulative lie, because ozma is terrified that her spiteful anger at the gods might have been the only thing that was real. 

and again i think this is a misconception rooted in the way salem presented herself because in both the kitchen scene and even more so in their last conversation, salem keeps what she wants and what shefeels very tightly locked down. from the instant ozma suggested that he wanted more than their cozy little life in her cabin, salem was one hundred percent focused on giving him what he said he wanted. literally, "whatever we want—what you want!"

salem fearing ozma would reject her didn't begin and end with just flinching before she plucked up the courage to tell him of her rebellion. it also encompassed what she wanted, if he wanted something else, and anything she felt that she feared might upset him. even when he told her the whole truth, she crushed down her own feelings and quoted from a myth—spoke in his language—and tried to reach out to somehow find a compromise because even then she was putting him and what he wanted so far above herself that she couldn't even bring herself to admit that she felt hurt. 

fundamentally what ozma needs is to see her pain, her grief, without any restraint—not just for her sake but also for his own. anger is what he expects. it's the only thing he expects. and i think a lot of the resentment he feels toward salem in the present comes from a place of believing on some level that he's just her excuse for being angry at the gods because he feels so much doubt that she truly loved him. 

which is where the maiden-in-tower allusion becomes salient; when the prince is blinded his sight is healed by her tears. ozma won't be able to see her clearly until he sees her sorrow.

[magnoliasandarson]

gods of gotham- apollo

In the songs and stories, the nature of Apollo was generally agreed upon as vapid, self-serving, womanizing, performative, and endlessly bright. Farmers, doctors, and scholars alike prayed at his altars. But there is an oft-forgotten truth hidden amongst the gilt—Phoebus Apollo’s light not only shone but burned.

The people sang odes to his beauty, to his mercy, to his power. The faithful wrote hymns and poems describing his epic deeds; the wrongs righted through his wisdom- the glory of the sun god. Fanciful artists sculpted his form- the lithe frame and the smile. He was beloved, for how could he not be? A beacon of truth, light, and hope. And yet…

Crops withered under his gaze, plagues spread on his whims, arrows struck down the faithless and villainous, cities burned with his rage, and entire civilizations trembled at his fury. Let them write him off as a peaceful god; let them forget who saw Achilles struck down; let them forget the creation of disease. Let them write him off as a merciful god; let them forget who slew the beast sent to harm his mother; let them forget why he carried a bow. 

In Gotham and Blüdhaven, the nature of Nightwing was well-known and well-loved. The cheerful, performative, endlessly bright, and eternally heroic. Civilians and first responders alike knew that his presence meant safety and hope. But there are truths unuttered and ignored about the blue-crested hero- Nightwing’s light not only shone but burned.

In the streets, people spoke of his mega-watt smile, the way his suit conformed to his muscled frame and his unending good humor. Other heroes called on him when in need and spoke fondly of his brightness and honorable nature. Graffiti artists painted his symbols in alleys and on train cars. He was beloved, for how could he not be? A beacon of justice, light, and hope. But…

Bones shattered under his fists, buildings turned to ash heaps, electric shocks made the villainous fall to their knees, criminal enterprises burned with his fire, and entire planets grew to fear him. Let them write him off as the peaceful vigilante; let them forget who killed the Joker; let them forget who allowed Blockbuster to die without blinking. Let them write him off as the merciful vigilante; let them forget the way hunted his parents’ killer; let them forget his escrima sticks had a lethal setting.

Welcome back, Apollo- your people have missed you.

In Greece and Gotham,  when screams echoed through the air and the warriors and wounded alike prayed for salvation, a glimmering grin appeared in the shadows. After the blood was shed and the flesh was burned, they would forget the brutality and praise his virtues. But words could no more change the nature of the sun than the clouds, for the light cannot exist without the blaze.

[jessicas-pi]

Unwilling Mand'alor Satine AU: Part Three

(part one (sort of?) || part two)

The Empire has been preparing for its attack on Mandalore for many years. They are well-equipped; more than enough stormtroopers to overwhelm Bo-Katan's Nite Owl forces, and Vader and his inquisitors will be there to deal with the Jedi.

But here's the thing.

Vader was Anakin Skywalker once, and Anakin Skywalker was there on the Coronet that day, all those years ago, when Satine Kryze pointed a blaster at Tal Merrik and couldn't pull the trigger.

Vader remembers this, and when the battle is being organized, he directs the plans accordingly. Satine Kryze couldn't shoot one man to save a ship full of people, so of course she will stand back while Mandalore burns and the Jedi under her "protection" are slaughtered. Satine will not pull the trigger.

Vader is so very, very wrong.

Satine hates violence, that is true. She hates war. The idea of taking a life makes her feel sick.

But she cannot, will not, stand back while the Empire does its worst to the people she has sworn to protect.

Satine pulls the trigger.

---

Kelleran Beq is leading an evacuation of the younglings from the palace when an armored Mandalorian he's never seen before runs past him in the palace hallway, presence burning with controlled fury.

Obi-Wan is drawing Vader's attention away from the palace when he sees a single warrior soaring high above him, a black blade in her hand.

Bo-Katan, who spent quite a bit of her teenage years getting thrown around the training mats by her older sister, looks up and grins.

The Empire will not win this round.

Satine hasn't worn her armor in over a decade, but the weight of it is familiar all the same. She is fighting for the Jedi as much as she is fighting for Mandalore, and the kyber at the heart of the Darksaber knows this. Satine is not practiced at wielding it, but she does not have to be. The Darksaber wields her. It is magnificent to her people. It is terrifying to the Empire.

But this is not the only sight that will be remembered, and in the years that follow, the legends of the Battle of Mandalore begin to spread.

---

Ahsoka has acquired a jetpack by this point, and she leads a charge of Nite Owls in an aerial assault on the Imperial ships hovering around Sundari. She takes a light cruiser by storm, smashing feet-first through the front window, lightsabers blazing green and gold.

(In this universe, she does not wield lightsabers that Anakin modified to be blue like his own. She uses new blades, blades that are hers, blades forged with beskar hilts and powered by crystals she claimed from the depths of the Living Waters.)

(Ahsoka Tano has become a child of two worlds, and she is wearing it well.)

She is the second Jedi in Mandalorian history to have an epic ballad written about her.

She will not be the last.

---

Years ago, Rex was dragged to Mandalore bound hand and foot, writhing against his bonds because his mind was telling him to kill, kill the Jedi, kill her, destroy her, destroy them all, even as every instinct rebelled against it. But Ahsoka and a med-droid working together removed the chip that had wrested control of his body from him, and he's been free for years. Free, and working to free all his brothers. There is a sizable squad of them by now, and they fight for their Generals and their Commanders and the brothers they lost and the brothers they still have.

They fight, and they win, and their songs of victory are sung proudly.

(Jango Fett refused to share his heritage with them. The Mando'a they knew was negligible; they never considered themselves Mandalorians.)

(That has changed.)

(They are not Mandalorians by blood, but by choice, because to a true Mandalorian, blood means nothing.)

---

There are many Inquisitors who accompany Vader to Mandalore---and they do not fail entirely in their mission. More than a few Jedi die.

One Jedi who falls is accompanying a Padawan when she is attacked. She screams for the boy to run, seconds before a red blade pierces through her chest.

But he does not run.

(Not this time.)

Though Caleb is nineteen and a capable duelist, he is no match for the Grand Inquisitor. He lasts four minutes before a slash to the face ends the fight, and he falls to the ground. The Grand Inquisitor steps closer, and raises his blade to finish the boy off, when a single voice rings out loud and clear.

"Leave him alone!"

Through vision blurred with pain---through only one eye---Caleb sees the form of a scrawny child, standing fierce and tall and hopelessly unprepared to face an Inquisitor.

The Grand Inquisitor glances over his shoulder, laughs coldly, then turns back to Caleb, twirling his blade.

"I said leave him alone!"

There is a snap-hiss and a flash of green light, and behind the Grand Inquisitor, the girl drops into the Djem So opening stance. The dead Jedi's lightsaber is comically big in her grasp, and she holds it backwards, but her form is precise, and she is undaunted.

"Come at me, hut'uun," she spits.

She can't be more than seven years old.

Caleb's grip on his own blade tightens, and as the Inquisitor turns away from him to cut down the annoyance, Caleb staggers to his feet and rams his blade through the Grand Inquisitor's chest.

"I coulda taken him," the girl complains, as the Grand Inquisitor staggers once and then drops dead at her feet. Up close, Caleb finally recognizes her.

"You're that kid," he says, gripping the wall with one hand because he's dizzied by pain. "The one Ahsoka's training."

(It's more polite than that feral demon child from Death Watch, which is also what he's heard her referred to as.)

Caleb grabs her by the wrist and runs as best he can---runs not for himself, but for a child in his protection---bringing her to the Sundari citadel, where the Jedi are taking refuge. A Twi'lek healer sits him down and patches him up as best she can, but his left eye is lost to him.

In the aftermath, Sabine draws a crooked jaig eye on Caleb's eyepatch.

---

A stealth squad of purge troopers, led by an Inquisitor, break into the Palace, taking it by surprise and cutting off the escape route for a group of Jedi children. Kelleran orders them to run. He says he'll be right behind them.

Most of the children know it's a lie.

Most of the children do as he told them.

But one turns back.

It is a girl, seventeen years old and different from the rest of the Jedi, because she's not a Jedi at all—only a lonely girl rescued from a dusty red world, the last of her kind. She stops and looks back and sees Kelleran Beq holding his own against the advancing purge troopers, and she knows he will not get out alive. Many of them have fallen, but many more remain, and an Inquisitor with them.

She wonders if she could even the odds.

No, she knows she could even the odds.

So she turns around. A Jedi boy runs after her, grabbing her hand and trying to pull her away, frantically demanding to know what she's doing. But she just grips his gloved hand tightly, narrows her focus to the purge trooper bodies littering the ground, and whispers— sisters, give me strength.

Merrin's eyes burn green and flame dances on her fingertips as she begins to chant.

(This story is spread in whispered rumors from stormtrooper to stormtrooper, and is usually dismissed as horror story nonsense. But the Purge troopers who were there to see it—well, they won't be forgetting it any time soon.)

---

Another Inquisitor breaks into the citadel in the center of the city, lightsaber flashing, ready to strike. The few Jedi Masters there ignite their blades, ready to defend their own.

But one holds her hand up sharply, halting the rest.

The verdant blade in her hand hisses as it deactivates, and she steps forwards.

"Padawan," she says.

The Inquisitor falters.

"Padawan," she repeats, more gently.

The Inquisitor's own blade deactivates as she stares in petrified indecision and fear.

But the Jedi doesn't hesitate at all. She holds out a hand to her, palm up. "Come here, my child."

The twisted black hilt of a scarlet saber clatters to the ground, and with a choked sob, Barriss Offee crashes into her master's arms.

---

Obi-Wan pushes past his grief and his guilt and fights Vader head-on. It is difficult to believe that this twisted monster used to be Anakin Skywalker.

At least, it is difficult to believe it, until Padme shows her face.

She wears armor painted in the colors and patterns she wore as Queen, and tears her helmet off to reveal her face.

Vader freezes.

"Padme?" he wheezes, sounding like someone reached into his chest and ripped his heart out.

Padme levels a blaster at his head.

Bombs fall and blasters fire all around them, but for the three old friends torn apart, there is pure silence.

"Padme," Vader says again, stepping towards her once. "Padme, it's---it's me, it's---"

She cuts him off sharply. "I know who you are, Anakin."

"But---"

"I miscarried. Did you know that?" she spits out. An accusation. (A lie.) "Our baby is dead because of you, and if Obi-Wan hadn't brought me to Mandalore, I would have died with her."

"Padme---"

Padme goes on, breathing fire and fury, because even if her children are alive and safe, her heart is shattered, and she uses that pain. She always has. "I called her Annie. For the moment I held her, I named her for the man I loved! I loved Anakin Skywalker---I love him still!"

Her voice drops low and she lowers her blaster.

"But---" She shakes her head slowly, never looking away from the skeletal mask he wears, and Obi-Wan knows she swallows down tears. "I don't know who you are. Not anymore."

And Vader does something truly unexpected.

He retreats, leaving behind a brother and a wife who watch him go.

(Both of them could have killed him.)

(Neither of them could do it.)

---

Above, around, and through it all, Satine Kryze does battle. Her blood runs hot, and she does not hesitate. She disarms when she can, injures when she must, and kills only as a very last resort.

But she does kill.

When the next morning dawns and the Empire is gone and Jedi leap nimbly from one rubble heap to the next, searching for the gleaming sparks of life as they lead search-and-rescue teams, the Duchess of Mandalore locks herself in her bedroom. Her scorched armor screeches against the wall as she slides to the floor, a blaster in one hand and the Darksaber in another.

She is too tired to cry.

She is too tired to be sick.

She is too tired feel anything but loathing.

Oh, Manda. What have I done?

But even as she chokes the question out to herself, she knows the answer.

She did what she had to do.

And she will never forgive herself for having done it.

[zuzuelectricbugaloo]

Tête-à-Tête

Rating: Teen

Synopsis: Nightmare and Epic have a chat. A deal is struck.

CW: Referenced/mentioned canon of Nightmare and Something New Chara’s abuse to Killer, though no abuse is depicted

Word Count: 1,604

Part 1 of A Guardian, A Scientist, and A Parlay

The living embodiment of negativity and a pseudo immortal skeleton walk into a cat cafe run by a skeleton who ran on spite and coffee alone.

It sounds like the start of a nonsensical joke, one Epic could appreciate with a mental laugh as he slides into the unoccupied chair by the table the self proclaimed King of Negativity sat.

Nightmare’s gaze lifts from his book to glare at a grinning Epic as he twirled the wooden chair by its top rail. His eye narrowed further when he finished his risible twirl and sat backwards, languidly crossing his arms atop the rail and propping his chin upon them to beam beatifically.

“…”

Epic tilted his skull to the side, his scarred eye remaining closed while his right crinkled into a half crescent as he continued to silently grin.

Nightmare snapped his book closed with one hand. “Epic.” His eyelight narrowed into a slit. “To what do I owe this unprompted…mingling?”

Epic shrugged. “Wanted to talk to ya, figured you’d be here, and I was right.”

Nightmare’s eye twitched. Before he could voice his displeasure, Epic called out, “I’ll take a matcha latte if ya can, Ccino.” Despite the projection of his voice, his eye remained on Nightmare.

Nightmare tasted the familiar flare of ignominy and curiosity and glanced from his seatmate to the front of the cafe, where the sound of ceramics clashing against one another and a startled yelp was caught by his keen hearing.

The named skeleton startled, jolting with wide eyes in his surprise as an embarrassed beige blush tinged his cheekbones at having been caught.

“O-oh, sorry, yeah,” Ccino mumbled, “just that?”

“Yep!” Epic lifted an arm and crossed his thumb and index finger.

Strange. Nightmare assumed the good luck gesture was composed of the pointer and index. But why would Epic wish Ccino luck at all? Did he assume the barista to be inept with his livelihood?

“Pretty plez and ty bun bun!”

Ccino nodded, bustling off to one of his machines. “Okay.”

Nightmare returned his gaze to his sudden acquaintance, who hadn’t taken his own gaze off of him. Unlike Ccino, Epic’s emotions were not reflected by his outward lackadaisical, pleasant expression and body language. No, there was something dark, something that made his tentacles undulate in delight, corruption greedily absorbing the potent, bitter negativity of a vindictive, protective fury, of agony and pain and death simmering low and deadly in LV that spanned decades.

However, what made him weary was also the positivity that burned on his tongue. Bright, bubbly mischievousness and affectionate ardor so deep and profound that it roiled his corruption and stirred flickers of, unfashionably, envy within the dark lord himself.

“A chat, you say.” Nightmare allowed his mouth to grow wide and crooked, his now jagged, razor sharp teeth glowing teal under the warm lights “Come for a Faustian bargain, have you?” He purred.

His echoed voice drips with honey as he croons invitingly, teal eyelight glittering bright and hypnotic. “I can taste your torment, Epic. The suffering you hide from the world and loved ones both.” With faux gentleness he intoned softly with a hooded eye, “I can take it all away. Your terrors of the night given life, the endless death, the hopelessness of it all…”

Epic’s façade was immaculate, he begrudged. If Nightmare couldn’t sense his emotions he’d assume the man was pleasantly engaged in their conversation.

“Wouldn’t you like a blissful night of rest for a change? You’ve fought for so long, you deserve to rest.” Nightmare’s tentacles dipped slightly at the tips, beckoning him forward. “I can grant you the peaceful slumber you so desire.”

Epic hummed. “Nah,” he declined. “Even if you could, you’d just eat up all my bad mojo an’ still leave me to deal with those damned creatures myself.”

“What if I did so out of the kindness of my heart?”

That pulled an abrupt, disbelieving snort out of the man. “You don’t have a heart, Nightmare.”

Nightmare’s gentle smile widens. “Yes, I do,” It morphs into a jagged smirk. “It’s cold and black, just like yours.”

A shame he didn’t fall for his taunt. Instead, Epic sighed and sat up straight. “Let’s cut to the point.”

It was at that moment Ccino appeared. Epic thanked him for the drink, exclaiming in delight at the adorable foam art of a cat that looked like Epic, eating a macaron Ccino had carefully added. Epic thanked him for the lovely drink and with a playful compliment and wink, and pointedly pressed the center top of Ccino’s gloved hand to his mouth for a gentle kiss.

Nightmare watched, unimpressed, as Ccino blushed under the grateful gesture, sputtering that he had to go feed his animals as his skull flushed and he ran off.

After taking a long, indulgent sip, Epic sighed blissfully. “Damn, that’s good. Anyways,” Epic carefully set the ceramic cup down with a gentle clink. “You’re gonna pay for what you did to Killz.”

Nightmare’s tentacles twitched. “Ah. My mutinous right hand.” He tilted his skull to the side. “What of him?”

Epic’s baritone deepens further as his eyelight flares in his open eye. “How you hurt them, made them suffer and broke them almost as much as their Chara had. And every time he tried to escape, tried to heal himself, you’d hurt them all over again.”

Dark, amused chuckles rumbled out the dark one’s chest. “I gave Killer purpose. Whatever worth or greatness they achieved is because of my direction.”

How Killer himself was thankful to Nightmare and he couldn’t say exactly why when asked.

Epic opened his mouth to speak but Nightmare cut him off. “And how exactly do you propose to enact this “righteous vengeance” of yours?” A tentacle coyly tapped the center of his chest. “You can’t kill me.”

A pearly-white smile mirrored his own. “Exactly.”

Epic took another, longer sip of his drink. “If I die, I come back. You can’t die, period, unless by Dream’s hand. Fighting’d be pointless.”

A nod of agreement as Nightmare drank from his own cup. “An immortal quarrel, yes.”

“So,” Epic suggested, “let’s play a game.”

“What kind of game?”

“Of wit and charm.”

Intriguing. Nightmare perked up. “Oh?”

“Whoever can accurately glimpse into and freak the mind of the other wins.”

“Hm.” Nightmare mulls it over. He won’t admit it aloud, but Epic can tell by the gleam in his eyelight and the tiny wags of his tentacles that he’s intrigued. Aloud, he inquires, “The guerdons?”

Epic set his cup down. “If I win,” his smile fell, the glacial fury of Epic’s agitated LV simmered and burned delightfully when Nightmare absorbed it. “You stay away from Killer. No contact, no reaching out through a third party, nothing.”

Before Nightmare could speak, Epic persisted. “And that includes alternate timelines.”

Nightmare continued to smirk, unaffected.

“Yeah, I know about them, and you’re not putting Killer through that shit.” Epic’s voice is cold as verglas when he intones, “Any version of him.”

How droll. “Is that all?” Nightmare gave an unimpressed quirk of his brow. “I have no use for a traitor. What,” he taunted, “are your other companions not nearly as important?”

“It goes without saying you stay away from them. All of them.”

A dark claw idly tapped at the elegant table cloth while Nightmare rolled his eye and scoffed. “Please, as if I care about your little band of misfits. The rainbow was a persistent annoyance but he's Killer’s problem now, and the orange one tears himself apart far better than I ever would.”

He grinned as he brought his cup to his mouth for a long, pointed sip. “Though it would be interesting to perhaps invite Cross back to the draw,” he emphasized. “Second to only you, his torment is,” his forked tongue slid over his jagged teeth, “simply exquisite.”

Ah, Nightmare thought giddily, corruption greedy as it absorbed Epic’s anger and fear for his dearest friend. That got him.

Electric indigo sparked and spread along Epic’s body as he opened his left eye, the violet orb burning within its onyx prison. His words dripped with verglas, the frost on his ivory bones glittering under the lighting, “Everyone.”

As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. The biting cold easing away as though it were a bitter breeze. Epic took a deep, steadying breath when he sighed, slipping out of his chair and turning it to sit in a side straddle.

“And,” Epic held up two phalanges. “A favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“An ROI. An I-Owe-You. Save for later, Chekov’s succor, whatever ya wanna call it. And,” Epic added, “When I cash in, you pay up. No take backs, no cut corners, nothing.”

Nightmare chuckled. “How titillating,” he crooned derisively. Epic’s mouth quivered at the corner in a reluctant chortle.

“Ha, you wish.”

“Cheeky. A thought I’ve had for this proposed game,” Nightmare vaguely gestured to himself. “How do you propose to beat an empath that can See you for all that you are?”

He doesn’t answer the clearly baited question. Instead, Epic shrugs carelessly. “I guess you have nothing to lose, then.”

Nightmare's tentacles writhe behind him, betraying his eagerness. “Very well, I accept. And if I win,” shadows grew and lights flickered, several cats and a few dogs scurrying to hide. His form melts and shifts with the echo of his voice sounding like several overlapped into one. “I get to devour your negativity. Permanently.”

Epic leaned forward and held his hand out, not even flinching once as Nightmare’s own claw dripping with viscous corruption encircled his. “Deal.”

[thy-valhallen]

Batfam Voices as Instruments

Batfam voices as instruments bc i think of things very musically and it struck me others don't

Bruce: bass guitar. he's low and deep and when he speaks, you feel it in your eardrums, straight into your jaw. his words are like injections into your skull, feel intense and impossible to ignore-- but he has softer moments, too. quiet, gentle plucking of strings, the careful, slow strums of a man who plays only for the ears who will know what the notes will mean

Alfred: viola. slightly deeper than a violin, but mostly just warmer. a voice you hear and want to hum along to, a voice that sits in your ears before it sinks into your chest. it's gentle and sways with grace across strings and notes, it plays a harmony that supports and compliments, that is a steady through-line for everything that surrounds it

Dick: trumpet. brassy and loud and present and fuck do you KNOW when he's in the room. he's so bright and warm and MEANT to be heard. you hear him in your heart, every time he speaks, feel it deep in every vein like he's writing gospel into your DNA. and usually it's jazzy, it's excitement and riffs and improv and leaping off the page and doing cartwheels across a music staff-- but he's just as capable of whispersoft confessions of heartbreak and loss in D minor, can let loose a lament of all he's lost in an elegy of epic proportions

Barbara: harp. a challenging instrument to understand and play, and one she plays with ease. she is plucking strings with careful fingertips, strums across them all with a single hand. she's a melody that glides past your ears, a song that doesn't sink in-- if you're not paying attention to the hooks that latch into your brain. she is careful compositions and sweeping songs arranged for each audience with care. yet when she feels wrath, she shreds herself to make sure you feel it-- she takes scissors to her own strings to cut deeper than the song could alone

Jason: cello. deep and contemplative, with a sort of vibration that bites into your bones from the moment he opens his mouth. waxing poetic is his native tone, and it sounds like a bow dancing across strings and fingers traversing the frets like they were made for it, a soothing melody that could be a lullaby. when fury comes, the sound alone is so sharp where it's settled into your joints that you can't fight back; it's vicious strokes across the strings that shred the bow's hairs without care, wrath in every pull like it's a sword. he can settle into the orchestra or he can sweep them all offstage to stand alone against the conductor that dared to direct him

Cass: marimba. light and soft and so very deliberate. all those bars close together, and each hit with precision, because when Cass speaks, each sound and syllable is effort and choice and control. she is range and gentle dancing note to note and a sound that settles on your skin like a gentle rain, clinging and soft and so very present. to hear it is to hear if a storm could sing and serenaded the sky it calls home. she is echoing in an empty room until she fills it herself (i think of this specifically)

Tim: piano. it's all about the force put into it-- he can be the most careful, calculated guy in the room, playing with all the rigor and rigid professionalism of a NY Symphonic pianist. but the real Tim is the one who's fingers flutter playfully over the keys, who's voice cracks from laughter and sleep deprivation and stress, who trembles between octaves as his fingers tire but makes the leap anyway. he is clear ringing notes in a crowded room and rambling words like a glissando back and forth across the ivories, he is a song quiet enough to fall to the background but a complex and delicate tune if you care to listen

Steph: drum kit. she is all intensity and living in the moment and sharp impacts and a beat that never stops, never waits for the rest. she can get lost to the rest of the voices in a room, but you'll never shake that she's in your head, that her voice is there and present and presses against the base of your skull like it wants to worm straight in. she's rhythm and motion and changing things up just to do it; her voice hops from the snares to the bass to the snares and back to bass and never lets you think between notes, she's moving so fast, because it's all her, nothing she ever has to question, even if she makes you question with every slam on the cymbal

Damian: violin. he is careful in his every motion, ever meticulous with all he does; he lives in fear of being out of tune, of off-key notes for a long time, and so each one is practiced and known to the point of monotony. but over time, he thaws and the notes become more loose, more free-- he speaks less like his eyes are glued to the page, furiously tracking each note he'll play and more like the natural he is-- he becomes sharper in a different way than the rest of him, notes out of place that jut from the rest and it's okay that they do, a hum of songs that don't follow classic melodies and don't feel the need to. don't mistake it though-- his voice has always been as regal and pointed as the rest of him was raised to be, and his voice grabs both your ear and your eyes, dragging you to look at him, for him to be seen and noticed and given attention

Duke: saxophone. he is deep and rich and resonating. his voice is emotion and expression and honesty. his voice sits on your tongue because hearing him makes you want to speak, want to talk and chat and ramble with him, to reply to his melody with any harmony to match. he is a voice meant to be heard by many, who may not stand out in a room naturally but makes himself stand out by the passion in his voice. he is a slow, experimental hand that plays notes with hesitance until the rhythm hits him and suddenly, it's a melody of energy and power and a presence that he doesn't even know he has

[temperedink]

my favourite ACOTAR fic by authors not on tumblr

I wanted to give some love to stories that aren't often mentioned on Tumblr and don't get reblogged over and over because their writers don't have accounts here. (I also just want more people to read some of my faves and scream about them with me.)

A Court of Ash and Sunlight by aturner1205 (Elucien; complete)

This Elucien fic had me on the edge of my seat and making up wild theories while it was posting. (I was incredibly wrong in said wild theories.) Elain and Lucien start to get to know each other better when they both are mourning her father on his birthday, and she confesses to him that she's never felt their bond. They're getting closer, and then Lucien is sent off on a dangerous mission, there's an accidental pregnancy, and Koschei after the Archerons. Tons of twists and turns here!

Fury and Siren by hurricane (next-gen; complete)

Next-gen fics where the kids are already adults are sometimes a hard sell, but these two interconnected stories get you deeply invested in Nyx and his cousins (their parents are all still around too). The first one is Nyx and an Illyrian shadowsinger (hmmm...) who's secretly been avenging abused and clipped Illyrian females, and the second is Nessian's son Caden and the only female Darkbringer who's been sent to assassinate him. These boys are definitely their fathers' sons, with their charm and flirting, but their partners do not let them rest on their privilege.

I Miss You (When the Lights Go Out), I Want to Taste the Way That You Bleed, and I Am Done With My Graceless Heart by greenvelvet_couture (Nessriel; ongoing series)

Soooo much Nessriel smut that kicks off when Azriel returns from a mission injured and Nessian want to take care of him (physically first, then sexually). Also a lot about Nesta training her post-ACOSF powers and the dangers that go along with that. But the author is VERY dedicated to the smut, bless her. Part 2 has just started and picks up with Bryce in the Night Court.

A Long Way Down by becauseofreading (Nessian; ongoing)

This one is a tough read, but it does a beautiful job of showing the recovery process from trauma and a suicide attempt. Nesta is suicidal and has deeply convinced herself of her unworthiness. Cassian is taken to task for his treatment of her and the words he's levelled at his mate, and the Valkyries, Azriel, and Elucien rally around her as she tries to heal and love herself with proper therapy. Cassian is ashamed of his treatment of her and is allowed in to help her heal if he doesn't upset her.

Where You Used to Lay Your Head by loveL (Gwynriel; complete)

This one is a bit of a time mindfuck, so you have to just accept that the Archerons and the Valkyries were born much earlier than they were in canon. Sixty years ago, Azriel and Gwyn were happy in their secret 20-year relationship (the IC knew he had a partner, but didn't know who she was) when suddenly Gwyn up and left him. Now she's back in the Night Court with Nesta and Emerie after creating the Valkyries in the Day Court, and Azriel is finally going to try to find out what happened that made Gwyn leave and stay away for so long.

Forgive Me, A Court of Shadow and Smoke, and The High Lady, the Shadowsinger, and the Omega, Part 1 and Part 2 by darcyshandflex (Elucien, Azris, next-gen; ongoing)

This epic series starts with Elucien and explaining why Elain has avoided him for so long--but now she's ready to fight for him. In A Court of Shadow and Smoke, we have omegaverse!Azris finally getting together (Azriel's the alpha, Eris is the omega) and all of the emotional and political issues that causes. The final two parts span 30+ years with Azris raising their three girls. When the girls are adults, their future partners are discovered, and that has long-lasting impacts on multiple courts in Prythian. This one is still ongoing, and apparently the final part is going to be sad and I'm not ready for it.

And here are three writers I would have included on this list who have since gotten on Tumblr (I procrastinated on writing this post for THAT long, but they were on the original draft!):

A Little Bit of Light Reading by @infinitefolklore (Elucien; complete)

One of my all-time favourite ACOTAR stories that I have reread a bajillion times. Elain and Lucien are alone at the townhouse and start flirting, which leads to other things, including library sex, a sorta blood duel, a reconciliation, a solstice sex party in the Summer Court, PLUS a threesome near the end, as a little treat.

I Can Wait For You at the Bottom by MissFreakingFortune/ @missfckingfortune (Elucien; ongoing)

Listen, if you're not reading this super-sexy modern Elucien rockstar second-chance romance, I don't know what you're doing with your life. Elain and Lucien were high school sweethearts who had their lives together all planned out, until Lucien left to chase his rockstar dreams. Ten years later, he's returned home for Beron's funeral and once they're back in each other's orbit, they both can't stay away. Lucien is determined to win her back, but Elain is much more wary, even though the attraction is definitely still there. There's also a great big bro Eris, and Mama Vanserra finally has her freedom from Beron so she can maybe start something up again with hot French professor Helion...and also tell him about their child, who is also going to need to know about his true parentage.

Phoenix Rising by Vivienne1412/ @annaskareninas (Elucien; complete)

I need you to drop everything and go read this fic. Yes, NOW. No, I'll wait.

Beron has seized control over all of Prythian and has either killed or exiled all of High Lords and other powerful fae (Feysand and Nyx are in the Hewn City dosed with faebane everyday; Nessian escaped to Hybern). The humans have also gathered enough power that they're a dangerous threat to the fae. Elain has been working as a nurse for the fae resistance efforts, and her latest patient is the long-thought-dead Lucien, the only free heir of any of the High Lords. They go on the run to protect him, as there's a prophecy about him that makes him the last hope to defeat Beron and Autumn for good, and shore up support from the Continent to get a fighting force. This is an incredibly well-written fantasy story with crazy-high stakes and DRAGONS. Go read it.

[octolanternz]

LIGHT FURY DOOOODDDDLLLLLEESSSSSSS!!!!!!

shadow is here too say hi shaodw

[fantasy-nerdddd]

heyyy @fangirlsleep (?) I just finished your Epic Secret Santa one shot, it's a bit short but I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I haven't listened to the Ithaca Saga. This will probably be the most inaccurate thing in existence. In my mind, it's kind of a different AU of I Can't Help But Wonder

As Telemachus stepped into Ithaca, he couldn't help the feeling of dread that started developing inside him. At his last meeting with Antinous and the other suitors, he had had the worst fight of the year, and ended up with a broken nose. He tried convincing himself he'd be fine. He had his patroness, after all. He'd be fine. He'd be fine.

That's what he told himself as he made his way to the castle. Yet the tightness on his chest told him otherwise. The tension in the air was palpable, so solid you could almost cut through it. Obviously, the suitors were on a ruthless mood today. He was so dead, so dead. He had prepared for the possibility that they had planned to kill him the moment he returned. But it was too real now. Too close. The only thing that gave him some comfort was the light brown owl with piercing gray eyes that made circles around the castle.

The moment he stepped into the castle, he took notice of two things: the tension in the air hadn't lessened, if anything it had gotten worse. And the castle was silent. That's more unexpected than anything. The suitors hadn't been silent since... Never. The suitors have never been silent since they moved almost 10 years ago. He took some wary steps towards the main hall, trying to make sense of the eerie silence while his hands were on his sword. He turned a corner and as he stepped into the next room, he stepped on blood.

Wait... Why would there be blood on the floor? He tried to look at the source - the room, just like the rest of the castle, was frustratingly dark. Maybe it was animal blood? Yes, the suitors must have made a sacrifice to some God. This theory of his was disproven when Telemachus saw Archelaos on the ground, with an arrow lodged in his heart.

Telemachus was more than stunned. How is this possible? Maybe his mother had decided to finally give in and marry the strongest, so the suitors fought for her hand. Gods, he hoped not, since Antinous would win this fight, and if so he'd probably be dead before he could call out to Athena. "It's probably not that" he tried to reason with himself "Mom is too loyal to father to do that." It's the truth, mom has always been more hopeful than he had. And Gods know he had been hoping. Then what?

Telemachus decided that it's pointless wondering, that whatever killed all the suitors is probably a threat to him to. He followed the bodies, hand close to his sword and shooting wary looks all over, as those bodies lead to the main hall. Inside he saw the same thing, bodies all over and the room covered in red blood. Mostly the same thing, as he also saw a figure standing there, holding a sword and his father's arrows. The figure wore a cape, but he could tell it was of a human, considerably shorter than him.

As he approached the figure, it turned back, revealing a man, probably in his late 40s. He had Athena's signature grey eyes - that explained the owl outside, mixed with some red hot fury which would probably make his mentor really disappointed. He'd never admit it, but Telemachus felt kind of frightened, even though the stranger didn't look like he intended to attack him. If anything he felt strangely familiar. Like those people that you remembered their face, without actually remembering why or how. Well, the stranger seemed to recognise him somehow, for his shoulders dropped and he seemed to get a small, hopeful smile.

"Telemachus...?" The stranger wondered out loud. This was getting weird. Really weird. Telemachus didn't have any memory of introducing to this man. But he seemed so happy at the thought, the man wasn't there for trouble. Most likely.

"Yes...?" Telemachus replied wearily. He had never seen someone get so relieved, so instantly, by such simple words. The other man dropped his weapons and reached out to hug Telemachus, making him freeze slightly by the unexpected contact. The man pulled back a little, a wide smile across his face

"My son..." He mumbled. Wait, what? Telemachus was absolutely baffled. Did this man refer to him as son? Looking closer, Telemachus could see a few features similar to his own. He looked like Telemachus expected himself to look when he's older. Much older, but still. Could that really be his father?

"Father?" Telemachus enquired, not getting his hopes up. His father nodded, and Telemachus returned the hug as they embraced each other. His brain was short-circuiting. He didn't even know for how long he'd been hoping, planning what he'd say to his father when he came back. But now that he was actually here, he was utterly speechless.

"I never thought this day would come." His father said a few moments later. Telemachus was glad that father broke the silence. "I never thought that I'd get to meet you. Or your mother, or this land. Oh, I'm so happy to be here."

That wasn't a lot. From the stories Telemachus heard about his father, he knew that he was smart and never shut up. Telemachus assumed that this might as well be a stranger, wanting to take the throne by convincing everyone he is the king. Eh, he'd leave the worrying to mother, she was the one that always did so anyways. He was the hopeful one, looking at the bright side of things.

"I never thought I'd see you again either." He responded "I never thought I'd get to meet you. I heard all of these stories, about how cunning and smart my father was, and I had accepted I'd never talk to him. I was hopeful, like mother, but deep down... I was already mourning." He hated to admit it, but it was the truth. After all of these years, he was mourning a live man.

Father just gave him a sympathetic smile "I never thought I'd get to have such a great son. With those... suitors around here, with all this responsibility... I never thought I'd have such a strong son"

A sense of pride consumed him. Telemachus didn't even want to know what his father must have faced, and there he was, calling him strong. "I never thought I could have such a dedicated father. After all those years, you still came back to us..." He trailed off. It felt impossible.

"I always will" his father answered before he snapped his head towards the door. Soon enough, Telemachus also heard someone coming. Soon enough, his mother showed up, and father's face visibly lit up so much, Telemachus was wondering how tales about how much of a wife-guy his father obviously was hadn't reached Ithaca. When his mother spotted the two of them, Telemachus pulled back completely and exited the room. He really did not want to see that reunion, it'd make this too awkward.

As Telemachus stepped outside of the main hall, looking at all the dead bodies and blood, his mind trailed off. He was sure he should've been worried. After all, all of the tales about the cunning, stealthy Odysseus had one thing in common, and that was the least amount of ruthlessness possible. He wasn't very worried, though. Even if his father had magically turned into a monster of some sorts, he didn't mind if it meant taking out his mother's suitors. He'd leave his mother to do the worrying.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Catch Me If You Can | Chapter 00 Chapter 00 | Blurb⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Knowledge of EPIC: The Musical isn't technically needed; this can be read with just common knowledge of Greek mythology.

Your stomach twisted violently as the man stepped into view.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his weathered armor scuffed with dirt and streaked with dried blood. A jagged scar ran across his jawline, disappearing into a patchy, grizzled beard. His eyes burned with a dull gold light, glowing faintly under his furrowed brow as he glared directly at you.

The mercenary spit onto the ground, the sound sharp and deliberate as he reached back for another arrow. His movements were slow but precise, the kind that came with years of experience.

Your mouth dropped open, horror spreading across your face. ❝T-That's... that's one of them, isn't it? The mercenaries?❞

Hermes' gaze flicked briefly toward the hunter, but his expression remained frustratingly calm.

❝HERMES!❞you screeched, throwing yourself into the god's arms without a second thought in blind panic.

His arms came up instinctively, one curling firmly around your waist while the other caught your wrist. His body shook slightly with laughter, his breath brushing against your ear in a warm, uneven rush.

❝Oh, you're precious,❞ he said, his voice low and amused. ❝Guess it's time to run, little thief!❞

❝Run?!❞ you managed to shriek, just as the hunter loosed his next arrow.

..... ... ..... ━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ ..... ... .....

To steal from the gods is to play with fire—but you've always been good at staying one step ahead.

One daring heist, one gleaming treasure, and now Apollo's fury is hunting you across the realms. Curses, omens, and divine wrath shadow your every step, yet you've somehow gained an unexpected ally: Hermes, the Trickster God—a man as dangerous as he is charming.

To him, you're a game—something to amuse him in the endless boredom of immortality. But beneath his smug grins and golden wings lies something far more unsettling: a loyalty you didn't expect and a spark you don't dare name.

The gods want retribution.

Mortals want your head.

And Hermes? He just wants to see how far you're willing to go.

But here's the truth they all forget: you may be mortal, but you're no one's pawn.

..... ... ..... ━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ ..... ... .....

╭─↬ ❗𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆❗ ↫─╮ There will be mentions/descriptive scenes of the following:

╭ ⁞ ❏. Language ┊ ⁞ ❏. Stealing

🔺 Reader Discretion Advised.

Lol, I don't know if I got them all, so if you see anything I didn't list, come back and comment right here so I can add them to the list later ➡

Also, before you start, if you're new here, welcome! But if you're a returning reader/came from my other books, hi winxies🥹❤️ Enjoy (•͈˽•͈)

[superscrub323]

Some Fun Facts about the Aphrodite and Hephaestus Divorce

Everyone knows the story, Hephaestus and Aphrodite get married, in most tellings more or less against her will, Aphrodite cheats with the man who already gave her one of her kids and gives her 3 more, Hephaestus finds out, Golden Net, Ares (or Poseidon) pays back the dowry, and the two get divorced with bitter feelings for all involved. But one thing I did find curious is that where Hephaestus was raised after getting baby yetted by Zeus and/or Hera was a place called Limnos which is a sacred placed to Hephaestus. Aphrodite also, in a time which is implied after the divorce, stops getting worshippers and tribute, which is also implied because Hephaestus worshippers aren't going to worship the Goddess who broke their poor smith god's heart, so as a method of punishing them and getting back at Hephaestus for both the marriage and the net, she then curses the women to have bad body odor making the men not want to have sex with them*. The men, unwilling to let a little thing like bad body odor slide in the name of booty, like actual champions, decide to conveniently go to Thrake, a homeland that is sacred to Ares and is where he goes to his metal palace** whenever he's sick of the Olympians' shit***, to kidnap the woman as sex slaves which is implied as retribution to Ares for making Aphrodite break the poor smith god's heart (as if Hephaestus didn't force Aphrodite to break Ares's heart first). The women, both Thrakian and Lemnians, in response decide to take a page out of Ares's playbook by getting revenge on the men for neglecting them and stealing them from their homeland to be sex slaves by violently murdering them and making it so that only women reside on Limnos (which is implied to be motivated by either Aphrodite and/or Ares) until Jason and the Argonauts came to *fix* that problem. Which in turns makes me think that the whole Limnos situation was a cycle of revenge situation involving all 3 Gods.

*Pseudo-Apollodorus, Bibliotheca 1. 114 (trans. Aldrich) (Greek mythographer C2nd A.D.) : "Lemnos happened to have no males at the time [when the Argonauts visited the island], and was ruled by Hypsipyle, the daughter of Thoas. The reason for this was that the women of Lemnos had failed to give due honour to Aphrodite, in return for which she afflicted them with a foul odour. Whereupon their husbands took to bed women whom they captured from neighbouring Thrake. For this dishonourable treatment the Lemnian women slew their fathers and husbands."

**Statius, Thebaid 7. 64 ff (trans. Mozley) (Roman epic C1st A.D.) : "Barren forest [of Thrake], the sacred haunts of Mars [Ares] . . . where on the far slopes of Haemus his savage mansion is ringed by a thousand furies. The walls are of iron structure, iron portals bear upon the threshold, the roof is carried by columns wrought of iron. The rays of Phoebus [Helios the Sun] are weakened when they meet it, the very light fears that dwelling, and its murky glare dismays the stars. Fit sentinels hold watch there: from the outer gate wild Impetus (Passion) leaps, and blind Nefas (Mischief) and Irae (Angers) flushing red and pallid Metus (Fear) [Phobos], and Insidia (Treachery) lurks with hidden sword, and Discordia (Discord) [Eris] holding a two-edged blade. Minis (Threats) innumerable make clamour in the court, sullen Virtus (Valour) stands in the midst, and Furor (Rage) exultant and armed Mors (Death) [Thanatos] with blood-stained visage are seated there; no blood but that of wars is on the altars, no fire but snatched from burning cities. All around were spoils of every land, and captured peoples adorned the temple's high front, and fragments of iron-wrought gates and ships of war and empty chariots and faces ground by chariot-wheels, ay, almost even their groans! truly every form of violence and wounds. Himself [Mars-Ares] was everywhere to behold, but nowhere with softened looks; in such wise had Mulciber [Hephaistos] with divine skill portrayed him: not yet had the adulterer, made manifest by the sun's bright beams, atoned his shameful union in the bed's grasping chains [in which he was caught with Aphrodite] . . . Lo! Earth trembles, and horned [river] Hebrus bellows and stays his torrent's flow; then all the war-steeds that troubled the valley sped foaming o'er the frightened meads, sure sign of his approach, and the gates barred with everlasting adamant flew open. Glorious in Hyrcanian gore he himself [Mars-Ares] comes riding by; far and wide the dire bespattering changes the aspect of the fields, behind him are borne spoils and weeping throngs; forests and deep snows give him room; with bloody hand dark Bellona [Enyo] guides the team and plies them hard with her long spear." 

***that part was added my me but if you want to tell me that he doesn't go to his kick ass Thrake palace whenever he's sick of the Olympian's shit go ahead

[cookie-nom-nom]

Had this dream about lich forms Lup and Barry but it was distinctly in the form of a ballet duet set to a dream version of Scylla. IE some verses were word for word but others were whatever the dream felt like it. Their lich powers shifted wildly depending on mental state. There was this orchestral solo section with Lup where her fire became more celestial themed, and she was resplendent with constellations gleaming across her skin. In elegant twirls and leaps she crossed the stage, the arena of the crowd encircling and enthralled. Her smile stretching ever wider from the fame and adoration, basking in stardom. (There was definitely some Taako bleeding into this part). Spinning faster faster in this swirl of elation and starlight.

And then she suddenly stills.

And then the words kicked in.

Drown in your sorrow and fear

It's this moment of pure collapse as the stars in her eyes, the countless universes she's experienced, all quenched by the Hunger. Where once the audience was lit up now it was inky black surrounding Lup. That desperation that lead the 7 Birds to forge the relics, and the intolerable guilt of what they cause.

Live out your life as a wraith

And then we see Lup. Horrific and blistering, this overwhelming destructive force scorching all. Her body is barely one at all, as she's transformed into apoplectic destruction. She is the phoenix gauntlet. She's utterly lost control of her lichform, dissolving into fire and fury incarnate. Because have they not earned a little wrath?

Enter, Barry. He swirls with dark necrotic clouds, this ominous shadow piercing into the heart of the inferno. The pair dance around each other, these titanous forces of darkness and light, so completely anathema this raging radiance and gentle gloom. And he is reaching for her.

We must do what it takes to survive.

In Epic, this is the moment when two have chosen to be monstrous. And in Taz it was too, the Lovers becoming liches. But it's so, so much more. Because it is bonds that have saved them through that wretched stolen century, and love is what it takes to survive. And he is reaching for her, begging her to remember the love that has kept her from falling apart for so long. Yes it is asking her to bear the pain and guilt of what they have done to try and save the world time and time again. But he is also asking her to do what it takes for any of the planar realms to survive the Hunger.

We are the same you and I.

And Lup reaches back, pure light entwining where Barry gently cups what is becoming her face, willing her to resemble a person again. Fire melts into her elven form, grounded once more into a controlled form by the love for each other that keeps them same. She sinks into his arms, and the pair collapse to their knees, clutching each other so tightly they're forced to be made of flesh and blood. They both begin to weep, both in crushing pain and relief. The spotlight above shrinks until they are alone in a small pool of light.

The world becomes pitch black to thunderous applause.