#most if not all countries are built on the graves of others and most of the world is entrapped by capitalism

[jeepers-scoob]

Also in light of recent political events in the USA:

People are talking about how they hate it here and that they want to leave/are going to and that's valid and so understandable but on the flip side

I don't want to fucking move! I like my home I like the landscape and even if I could afford to move countries I don't fucking want to!

What I want is a government that isn't filled with fascists who want the majority of us dead.

What I want is an end to the capitalistic society that is killing all of us

What I want is a complete burn down of our government as a whole to rebuild from

Nobody should be forced to move bc of safety. Our government shouldn't be entrenched in religion and fascism. The land itself is not the problem it's the shitty people running it and that goes for so many other countries as well. We are not alone and we will continue to be here whether they want us or not. Things will get better bc we were not born just to fucking suffer

TL;DR: I was born in this hole and I'll die in this hole but not before seeing shit get better and that is a warning

[dykealloy]

spoilers up to the end of dressrosa arc here but. I can't stop thinking about how Law takes on Rosinante's will. Corasan freed him from Doflamingo and the marines and the world government and everyone that ever could have touched him at the time, but has Law really felt free? “Everything I do until I die represents what Corasan achieved” is sweet until you recognise that Law is willing (and planned) to go to the grave for that belief. Until Doflamingo dies there is always a part of him stuck in that treasure chest, constrained by what Law felt happened to Corasan due to him that day.

It's crazy how textbook survivors guilt victim Law is (I’m new here so I wouldn’t be surprised if this isn’t the first time this has been brought up), but let’s just quickly go over some symptoms:

Obsessive thoughts about the traumatic event ✅ (will go over this in greater detail below)

A sense of disconnection or detachment/need to isolate oneself from others ✅ (Law doesn't fully isolate himself but he definitely has his walls up at all times, though there are often subtle hints of him enjoying the company of the people he chooses to surround himself with. He is notably more reserved, emotionally unavailable, cold and distant than others around him, and watching closely you'll notice that even physically he has a tendency to situate himself three steps behind the group)

Insomnia, nightmares, flashbacks of the traumatic event ✅ (if we can assume some of his backstory expressed in Dressrosa are flashbacks, and also assuming that the perpetual eyeliner he wears are covering some pretty heavy eyebags. Also mention that the only time we see him resting is against Sunny's mast on the way to Dressrosa - and that was 1. a filler episode, and 2. if he was sleeping, it was very quickly interrupted by an attack by petplay guy - a nightmare in of itself)

Irritability and anger ✅ (though elements of this could just be attributed to Law's personality or a natural response to the straw hat's shenanigans, as well as Luffy's total inability to stick to a reasonable plan)

Feelings of despair and thoughts of suicide ✅ (that's Law's Dressrosa arc babe)

Now, there's many reasons why Law is unable to move past this guilt (an apparent lack of therapists in one piece being one of them) - but his inability to believe in unconditional love is likely the biggest offender.

Law may have started off (initially) with one of the most fortunate, stable beginnings, with a loving family and a big house in a rich country (wealth of which was built off the back of lies and corruption and the murder of innocent future generations - we'll get there). But he had a mother and a father who loved and nurtured Law (and were both highly respected doctors in their own right who citizens trusted and relied on). Law's happy beginnings really juxtapose the unfathomable horror that had been lying in wait in Flevance.

Even when shit started to hit the fan, at a very young age (<10 yrs old), Law was already stepping up and showing love for his little sister (lying to her when she was on her deathbed, knowing full well he would likely face the same fate after reading his charts, putting on a brave face for her so she wouldn't be afraid when the screams began to reach their front door, hiding her away when soldiers sieged their home and rushing to check on his parents). Given everything that happened in Flevance, it's completely understandable that, while Law will likely never forget the love his family gave him, remembering it became twisted in the lasting memories of his home — parents riddled with bullet holes. a closet holding a sick little sister waiting for him in a house engulfed by flames. stumbling through a town of friends, neighbours, just... people he used to pass by on the street, now all dead.

Seeing hell, knowing why and how it transpired, who were responsible (spoilers, the World Government; the same body that most citizens believe exist to protect them — yeah, sister "a merciful hand of salvation waiting to help" were perhaps the worst possible combination of words you could have left Law with here. Likely instrumental in having him lose his faith "I don't believe in anything anymore."), knowing he is the only survivor, and fated to die anyway due to the terminal illness that is slowly killing him because some figureheads years back were greedy and the governing powers above the figureheads were willing to cover up everything if it meant garnering a portion of wealth and maintaining influence and control. It's beyond grief, beyond rage. And there's absolutely nowhere Law can put it. No one he can retaliate against. Who could come out of hell knowing this and not want to see the world burn?

So, smart little Law escapes under a pile of bodies and goes to the one person infamously revered for being in the business of that kind of thing. And boy oh boy I can only begin to imagine how a young and impressionable Law - fresh from a genocide, with a hole in his heart and a hatred for everything still alive - had his concept of love warped whilst surviving those two years around Doflamingo and his family. A family where members are only welcome so far as they are useful to Doflamingo and his aspirations. Of course Law's going to pick up some fucked up ideas about how love works outside this little white fence he grew up and watched burn down.

Then. Enter Corazon.

Their relationship may begin on shaky legs (near-juvenicide via defenestration in a failed attempt to ward Law away from sticking around) but Corazon quickly becomes the one person in the world Law can trust and rely on again. And Rosinante can only do so much in terms of healing and guiding this broken kid (yes, his position both as Doffy's brother and as a double agent made things difficult, but need I mention he was only 26! 26 when he died!) but he showed Law kindness and compassion when he was at his lowest. He had faith in the existence of a cure that Law was long past believing. Was determined to help him, even against Law's wishes, even if it meant having Law relive his trauma over and over again. Corasan becomes incredibly important to Law, giving him a reason to live beyond just destruction and revenge.

After the rest of the world had long turned his back on him, when he had been nothing but a dying puddle of rage and self-destructive nihilism, Corasan saved Law. He told Law "Aishiteru" - a very rare way of saying "I love you", never used casually due to the depth of its meaning and the massive connotations behind it - in essence translating to "I love you so much I cannot possibly imagine life without you". There's a high likelihood that at his age, Law had never heard these words before, and probably didn't quite understand the weight of Rosinante saying it at the time.

Corasan frees Law, then he dies at the hand of Doflamingo, Rosinante's own brother.

All Rosinante wanted was for this poor kid to go on and live his life unburdened by his more than turbulent history and his connection to Doffy, but I think for all his planning, Rosinante's one critical error was well and truly underestimating how much him loving Law, and loving Law to the extent he did, would mean to that kid. Law really went from that ten year old hollow void sentiment of "why does anyone or anything at all get to exist when everything that was important to me is dead, burned to ashes and wiped off the map" to "I should have died at age thirteen and every second I've lived since then, I've only lived as a result of Corasan's efforts and as a personal affront to Doflamingo." This time, Law has a tangible, heinous 10 foot monster of a target to direct 1. his grief and anger and 2. justice for Cora towards, and this time he has the power and will to follow through. More than that, he believes Corasan sacrificed himself for him because he's a D. (someone destined to rain down destruction on the gods - Doflamingo, in this case). Corazon becomes a saint that Law dedicates the rest of his life to. Which is something that Law is not vocal about to just anyone he comes across, but is so unbelievably obvious once you know what you're looking at — his tattoos, his jolly roger, his crew, his ship, his ambitions, his beliefs, his fucking. custom-made Corazon jacket. all of it for this man that showed Law - at a time when he hated the world and everything in it - love. For all of six months. max.

And his whole life and personality and behaviour CONTINUES to be guided by this trauma — the way he's reckless with himself, his borderline self-destructive actions, the way he keeps telling himself that none of it would've been worth it unless Corasan's last wishes are fulfilled, the way he surrounds himself with bright people and soft things, the way it doesn't register that his crew genuinely loves and cares about him, the way he's terrified of losing anyone important to him again (and I would say this is one of his biggest downfalls as a Captain compared to someone like Luffy - who is just as reckless as Law is but trusts his crew, doesn't try to send them away, isn't afraid to let them grow and risk their lives for him like Law is with the heart crew), his inability to take a damn compliment. The way he doesn't understand Luffy AT ALL.

Doesn't understand that this alliance that he's brokered means nothing to Luffy because he sees him as FRIEND. No transactions or mutually beneficial pacts necessary. Doesn't get that he's the one that inadvertently asked Luffy to be his friend, thus breaking a long chain of people (mostly parental figures and siblings) abandoning or leaving Luffy behind/no one taking the first initiative to ask to be around him. Law is complete and utterly in the dark as to why someone would ever bat for him when the stakes are this high for no other reason than because they like them and care about them as a person.

Luffy, with his playground rules where he loves unconditionally and will take on the world for a friend he made five minutes ago, perplexes Law with his sheer simplicity.

When Sengoku tells Law, "Don't try to find a reason for someone's love", I do NOT think he takes it well. Because there must be a reason. There has to be. Between the two options of Corasan saving Law's life and freeing him because he believed in the will of D., or Rosinante saving him for no other reason than because Law was a kid that was loveable, and because he loved him unconditionally... everything we've learned about how Law functions up until this point suggests the former will always make more sense to him, and after everything he's been through, is most likely less painful for him to accept.

[livuyang]

snowfall director has now closed his account because he is facing criticism from novel and drama fans. fans were dissatisfied with the ending so he released an alternative ending for characters but this made them more mad. they said if he didn't put in the drama, there was no need to read it. they are also saying why they changed a rapist character and gave him a redemption arc, the director also cut a lot of situ and milan scenes (not due to censorship), he was the one who turned the female lead into a vampire they changed it, he changed also the ending in the novel, from it seems he gave extra scenes to ryan ren and cut from others characters. you can check it on weibo just searching chinese name of the drama. i will keep watch the drama but it's so sad seeing this.

the alternative end:

a few years later

△mi lan sat at the table and wrote a letter. the handwriting is beautiful but free and easy, quite in the style of shen zhiheng.

mi lan: (vo) mr. shen, i have also traveled all over the country, met many friends, and read many stories. i thought i would no longer remember the name shen zhiheng. however, everything i saw seemed to have your name written on it. i think this is the world you taught me.

△mi lan's room is piled with a lot of groceries, and the whole small room is like a grocery store. almost all the items that used to be in shen's mansion are preserved and placed in various positions within reach. there is also a piano in the sun.

mi lan: (vo) you once told me that you wanted to see when the prosperous era would come. i especially want to tell you about my experiences over the years. i have seen wars, sufferings, and the difficulties when it was first built, but i have also seen that this country is getting better and better. you… should be very happy, right?

△mi lan was walking on the street and happened to be standing at the door of a concert hall. there is a poster hanging outside the concert hall, which reads: the most mysterious pianist lan tianjin-hong kong concert.

△mi lan looked at the full moon on the poster and was lost in thought.

mi lan: (os) mr. shen, study hard and write, and see the world for you… you used newspapers back then, and now i use music. i am learning the path you have taken, moving forward step by step. i am so lonely, so lonely, i seem to have finally become you, so where are you?

mi lan: (laughing and whispering) i have waited for you year after year. waiting for the first spring rain every year. so today, i miss you especially.

△as soon as the words fell, mi lan seemed to feel a familiar breath, but when she turned around, she saw nothing.

2,

△situ weilian walked slowly through the cemetery, and then stood in front of one of the graves.

△situ weilian was holding a bunch of tuberose flowers. situ weilian slowly bent down and placed the bouquet in front of the tombstone.

△the tombstone reads: tomb of mother jin jingxue

△situ weilian stood in front of the tomb, looking at these three words.

△at this time, a descendant (female) of the jin family came to visit the tomb, and for the first time saw a young boy standing in front of jin jingxue's tomb. very curious.

descendant: hello, do you know grandma jingxue?

situ weilian: (chuckles) of course i know her. she is the most beautiful woman in tianjin.

descendant: (even more curious) i heard so too. my mother said that this grandma was the most fashionable person in tianjin. she never got married and lived a very chic life. it seems that your family has also received her kindness.

situ weilian: yes, you are right.

△situ weilian listened to this lively voice, and his expression gradually softened. the descendant placed the flowers.

△situ weilian slowly squatted down, looked at the name on the tombstone, and finally spoke in a low voice.

situ weilian: i'm sorry that i couldn't fulfill my promise to you. you must have left very disappointed.

△in front of the tombstone, only the flowers were shaking gently.

3.

△ sister zhang came out of the concert hall and grabbed mi lan.

sister zhang: the concert is about to start, where are you going?

△ mi lan couldn't help but take a few steps back, stretched out her hand to feel the falling rain, and smiled.

mi lan: sister zhang, i won't play in the concert hall today. i want to go to another place.

△ mi lan suddenly turned around and trotted.

4.

△ mi lan ran to a square, where there was an old piano, which was placed in the corner for tourists to use when the square was attracting customers.

△ mi lan suddenly walked over, sat down and started playing the piano.

△ the first song she played was the first song she learned when she was in the choir.

△ the spring rain gradually fell in the sound of the piano.

△ the crowd that had gathered to listen to the piano began to slowly disperse, until the whole square was filled with only the rustling sound of rain and the piano sound like a heaven and earth music.

△ in the rain, a man holding an umbrella slowly appeared on the square. the whole world seemed to have only one listener, but only this one listener.

△the sound of the piano gradually became softer.

△mi lan looked up at the man standing beside her, who stretched out his hand to shield her from the rain. it was shen zhiheng, whom she had not seen for a long, long time.

△mi lan stood up in disbelief, and slowly turned to look at shen zhiheng.

mi lan: you are… mr. shen.

△shen zhiheng held a pot of bright red camellia in his hand. he just looked at the much more mature mi lan tenderly. then he answered softly.

shen zhiheng: yes, i am. i'm back.

shen zhiheng: (os) mi lan, i crossed mountains and seas just to accompany you to listen to this spring rain.

△the rain hit the piano keys, as if it had become a melody again.

△the sky and the earth are getting farther away, just like the rising sun.

△the spring rain is falling down.

△the budding red camellia finally bloomed. the rain fell on the flowers, on the leaves, and in every corner of this world.

[jo-harrington]

Unsolved (Eddie Munson x Reader)

Pairing: Kas(?)Eddie MunsonxSupernatural!Reader

Summary: It’s their job to meddle with the unknown, and it’s your job to fix it.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/Themes: Supernatural experiences, unseen demonic entity, angst, fluff towards the end possible? Hurt/Comfort, Open-Ended Ending (ask me if I’ll come back to this in a year)

Note: OK this idea has been in my head for a while, but I had no motivation or vehicle to write it so thank you @bettyfrommars @allthingsjoeq and @somnambulic-thing for your Stranger Prompts event. Because I got to fuck around with this idea. No intention to make it longer than this but maybe someday; it was fun regardless.

So for your enjoyment, please enjoy my take on Prompt #13: You're switching stations on your radio when you pick up the signal of someone on a Walkie Talkie. They say they're in trouble and give their location.

You can find more on my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

Nighttime. Darkness.

"There is it, you ready?"

The spirit box oscillates through channels.

"Can you hear us? Kas?"

Garbled speech, the sound of wings, and then the shrill crescendo of a guitar.

"Of course they're up to no good, they're cultists."

The flashlights flicker, then die, and someone screams.

"Join us on the next part of our ongoing investigation into the question: are ghosts real?"

Hawkins, Indiana - October 2018

Your boots crunch on gravel and dead leaves as you step out of your car and take in your surroundings.

You’re in the middle of a country road, surrounded by a forest; you passed a vast cornfield just a few minutes ago, and you know instinctually that there’s another farm ahead. It's as unassuming as most of the midwest is.

You know better though.

You've been called here.

Not by phone or letter, but in the way dark calls to dark. Now that you’re here though, you yearn for a chance to taste it. To possess it.

You spend most of your days alone and in silence, as bleak of an existence as you'd ever heard, but it's safe and it's yours. Painfully lonely, hermit by chance, not necessarily by choice, but you know it’s for the best. Better lay low until something greater than you rips through the fabric of reality to demand your action, as it did the other day.

Your television had turned on of its own volition and you watched two idiotic and painfully mortal boys fuck with something beyond their understanding, as they disturbed something that was better left alone.

Hawkins.

You'd knew of it, heard of it. Knew to leave it alone.

Something had happened here, something forgotten. Forbidden. There were phantom scars in the earth itself, but the wounds that left those scars didn't exist. They never existed. It was almost like nothing ever happened, like someone turned back the clock to prevent said nothing from ever happening in the first place.

Idiots.

There were rules to those kinds of things. Even you didn’t know them all and you were most likely to die long before you could.

Fucking with time was a delicate practice, and if one wasn't careful, some things would inevitably get left behind. Like a child's chalk that got left between cracks in the sidewalk after an afternoon of play. Little remnants of times forgotten—times abandoned—meals left uneaten on tables, houses built on the graves of people who'd never even existed.

Vans left abandoned on the sides of roads by someone that seemingly never owned a van, and plates that had never been registered with the state of Indiana.

You'd watched the boys play with their little instruments, fuck with powers they didn't understand, and wake something that was meant to be dormant. As the episode ended with them leaving their broken toys behind and your television screen went dark, you felt the call to action.

The need to go and fix what had been disturbed.

The need to pull whatever darkness that bled through the curtain of reality into this world fully.

Just like you’d been pulled through once upon a time.

You’d been chosen for this for a reason.

What would await you this time?

"Alright," you mutter to your master, its presence simmering beneath the frequency of this reality to ensure you didn’t fail. "I'm here. Let's get this over with."

You don't have far to walk before you see the van, but suddenly your surroundings transition from the bright peak of afternoon to the hazy darkness of dusk.

It’s disturbing but these things happen the easiest under cover of night. So you’re grateful for whatever wicked curse hangs over these woods.

The mortal boys on the television arrived to their destination at night, so you'd only seen the vague idea of a van through their green glowing infrared recording, but in person it is much more unsettling.

It sits forgotten amongst a thicket of trees and aside from the places where Ryan and Shane disturbed it, nature has decided the hunkering beast of a vehicle belongs to it. Rust eats away at vulnerable corners, moss and leaves and a thick coating of pollen layer the body, and overgrown roots wind around the wind around the tires, rendering it inert.

A thick branch has pierced the windshield, and as you pace the perimeter of the van, you see it's impaled the drivers seat too.

You're about to reach out to touch it, almost compelled to, when your boot crunches on something.

Your eyes slide in their sockets languidly, down, until they hone in on the object of intrusion.

A radio.

"Spirit box," you whisper into the dead air.

You don't deny yourself the morbid curiosity; that's why you're there, right? To put an end to this so the disturbance is eliminated for good? So no one fucks with it again and makes it worse? You'd have to start in one way or another; it might as well be this way.

The plastic case is cracked from the boys desperate getaway, but as you fiddle with buttons and knobs, the LED screen turns on, and there is a startling crackle of static that shaves a year off your life.

“Shit,” you curse. You’re usually not this jumpy. But there is a heavy anticipation hanging around you.

Another button is pressed and the device begins its rapid-paced oscillation through one radio frequency to the next. You catch faint snippets of commercials and shock jocks and jingles, but nothing discernible.

"Is there anyone there?" you say aloud, parroting what you'd heard on the television, and you waited.

"Hey," comes the warped speech over the din of the channels flipping. You flinch and curse once more. You resolve not to show such weakness again. "Didn't...t'scare...you."

"You didn't scare me." It's true. Just startled. "There are far scarier things out there."

Your master is one of them.

"Monsters…here too.”

“I’m sure,” you mutter. "And where is that?"

No answer.

"Where are you?" you clarify.

"Upside." There's a pause and the spirit box warbles and crackles. "Down."

You think back to the Unsolved episode, the interviews, flashes of images as they explored around Hawkins, the spray painted side of a church: Cult of Kas. Lord of the uʍop ǝpᴉsd∩.

There is a brief triumphant feeling inside of you that you'd found the right spirit, the right moment. This will be over soon. There is a reason your master prefers you over the others.

"Are you Kas?" you continue, fueled by your hubris. "Kas? Do you know who that is?"

There's no answer, and that confidence disappears.

A name. Your master hisses right below your conscious thought. It's in a name.

You feel a sense of brief annoyance thrum through you now, either your master's annoyance with you, or yours with it. It's cloying, and you can feel it permeate from you like a death rattle as you continue your task.

"What's your name?"

There's a beat.

You wait.

It needs to work this time, otherwise you'll--

"Eddie."

Eddie?

"Eddie...Munson."

Just like the supposed owner of the van? The man that Ryan and Shane interviewed before their excursion to this cursed place. Surely not the 50-something tow truck driver that said vans weren’t his thing in the 80’s, that he only ever wanted a motorcycle.

There's an instinctual hitch in your brow as you contemplate the implications of an Eddie Munson here...and an Eddie Munson there.

Then again, you were someone somewhere at some point. Now you were here and you were somewhere else. And the you that you had been and the you that you were now coexisted beautifully.

That was your master's vision after all and, you assume, is the reason you've been led to Hawkins. History repeats itself. Like calls to like.

Suddenly there's a crackling, roaring crash that transcends every oscillating channel. It is the only broadcast now.

"Help, please help me." Eddie's plea is steady and clear. "It's here. It found me."

And you don't hesitate. Because those same words came from your mouth once, before you were saved.

The spirit box is forgotten but still clenched in your hand as you reach out and touch the branch that broke through the windshield, and from there, the cold metal of the van itself.

And you see.

A man and a monster, a rift, a creature. A bat, a bat, and a bite.

You see everything that never happened, happen. Everything done, then undone. You see the rift being created and this remnant—man and van alike—left over in a nether space that tied the two worlds together.

There’s a screech of a guitar over the spirit box now, different than the choppy messages or the fearful pleas that have come through already. It's a broadcast that steadily increases in speed and volume.

A rapid crescendo of fingers pounding on frets and plucking at strings. You can feel an ache in your teeth as if you were gritting yours together, and maybe you are as you try to hold on to an entire world that both existed in its own right and never existed at all.

Hold onto it. Open a door to it.

The van begins to burn.

The cold metal starts to glow--orange and hot like the flame of a candle--beneath your touch and slowly the glow spreads until the entire van is engulfed.

You hold on until you simply no longer can; where your control ends, your master's begins, and your visceral need to save this poor soul now becomes curiosity. What does this Eddie Munson that's about to emerge from the void look like? His name might not have been Kas...but was he a monster?

If he wasn't already, he'd be one soon enough.

The form of the van breaks and embers begin to flake off; the shape of this portal changes from a hulking thing to something much more refined. Legs and arms and wings.

Your heart stops in your chest with anticipation for a moment.

Would you have some glorious nightmare to ferry through a brave new world after all?

But soon the wings seem to burn away leaving nothing but the glowing form of a man and you try to stifle your disappointment.

Nothing fun ever happens to you.

This is the moment, you feel it linger and simmer just beneath the surface of reality. Your master and Eddie coming to a decision together, whether they realize it or not. It is a sight to behold and one you can barely remember when it happened to you, when you were given the choice to accept this fate or die.

You feel your hand instinctually crush the spirit box as the burning glow dissipates, the final connection to this displaced realm severed as a decision is made. As this being finally comes into being once again, as his hands continue to move up and down the strings of a guitar that is no longer strapped to him and would never be ever again.

He falls to his knees once the final bit of fire burn out, and once he realizes that he's alive, he pats his hands down his arms and legs and torso. He lifts his shirt and inspects swaths of skin, fingers scratching at, what you're sure are, phantom wounds.

"You're alright," you tell him and he startles as he notices you. "You're alright."

"What happened?" he asks rapidly. "O-one second I was, and then...Henderson..."

He frantically observes your surroundings, the trees, the leaves. It doesn’t seem like he knows what’s happened to him.

Interesting, you'd never seen that happen before. Even you had been painfully aware of your…departure. Arrival. Whatever it had been.

"Henderson! Dustin!" he yells as he tries to get to his feet, but his body is weak from being stuck in that perpetual time loop--an eternity that he's had to experience in the span of possibly a few minutes--and he falls to his knees again.

You hold your hands out to show that you mean him no harm and you close the distance. He is grateful to accept the help from you as he rests his weary form against yours, but he continues to asks questions.

"Where'd they go? Where are my friends? The bats? Vecna? Where are they? Where am I?"

"You're safe," you assure him. "For now, that's all that matters."

You try to keep him calm, try to answer his questions.

Fuck, but is he chatty though. This is the most you’ve interacted with another living being in a long time, the most you’d spoken in years.

You briefly consider killing him if he doesn't stop with his frantic whining and explanation of a Chrissy and a Hellfire and a Henderson. But then his hand clutches yours and there's a pause to your fragile patience and his frantic worry; there's a warmth that singes the lifelines as your palm rests against his.

No, he belongs here. With you? Possibly. For what, purpose? You cant be sure quite yet. All will be revealed in time.

The disturbance is resolved. But something still lingers, unsolved. Your master looms for reasons unknown, and the anticipation is unsettling.

You feel the shuddering breath shake through his form as he panics, finally feeling the external presence, but you calm him.

You school your face into the gentlest expression you can and he clutches your hand tightly, clinging to the comforting warmth.

"Eddie Munson." You try to smile and his eyes soften. "Welcome to the future."

Tagging @deathbecomesthem because this definitely falls in line with their Estate Sale fic, so if you enjoyed this, please go check that out as well.

[wszczebrzyszynie]

proszę infodump us about graveyard appropriate flora in 19th century Poland

Oh woah turns out a Lot of people want to know this. It does make me quite happy... i'll try to keep it interesting and not go off-topic much, but i have to say i do have a fascination for both history and death related subjects, so forgive me any slip ups. It's also important to mention that: 1) i mostly talk here about catholic cemeteries, and not Jewish ones, although many of these things may overlap; things like these were, especially in the latter half of the century, falling under the country's law, and not church law (even though those two often cooperated), 2) this is mostly about Congress Poland (russian partition of Poland). Austria, Prussia and russia all had different laws, obviously, that could affect what I'm talking about here, even if not by much. I'd rather be clean on this one and not assume things about other occupants 3) translating this to english was absolute hell. Sorry if some parts are hard to decipher and feel free to ask for a clarification.

Plants on cemeteries were used for both decorative and hygienic purposes ("trees planted in rows, in equal distance from each other (...) clean the cemetery air, because their roots and leaves absorb decomposition and carbonic acid, and emit the ground's moisture into the air. The best types of trees for cemeteries are poplars, birches, willows and aspens" (it's not in the text, but acacia was also pretty popular) Oględziny i grzebanie ciał zmarłych ze stanowiska higieny publicznej, 1873); it makes sense, considering they were build with walking space in mind, a bit like a park, but further away from the town* and with different sets of social norms, if i can call it that. It should also make sense then, that garden, eatable plants were not allowed to be planted on the cemetery, and could only be planted 5 years after the cemetery closed down (and even then, they could only be planted if they didn't require much digging); it was obviously considered non hygienic (same with water; a cemetery was allowed to have a well, as long as the water from it wasn't meant for drinking).

Most common and liked cemetery plants were the various trees i mentioned before (+ conifers as a whole), roses, jasmine, elderflowers, all kinds of flowers and overall scented plants, often planted on graves themselves. It was also important to mention that cemeteries were built with airflow in mind, so while the trees were recommended, there couldn't be too many of them (unless built as a "barrier" between the town and the cemetery, so that the cemetery air wouldn't flow towards the town). Airflow is also why hill sides were considered a good spot for cemeteries, but only if the wind flew from the town or village towards the cemetery, and not the other way around. The only fruit trees allowed on cemeteries were morus trees, which is directly tied to silk production. Policya lekarska : o grzebaniu ciał zmarłych, 1846

*well not exactly; in the beginning, polish catholics really didn't like the idea of walking over 1000 steps away from the town they're living in to the cemetery (1000 steps was the distance required to build a cemetery. Up to this point, the most common kind of cemetery was the one on the church ground, meaning somewhere in the middle of the town. It was also fully under the church law), but it's not like they had much choice? 19th century brought an insane population growth, so cemeteries had to grow as well, and they couldn't exactly... get bigger in the town centre. Also they thought it would be way better for hygienic reasons to have them as far away as possible. This attitude started changing somewhere in the 1820s, but it would take a while until it fully set in, and that's only because a new set of laws rolled around

I actually live nearby an old cemetery. It used to be an asylum cemetery specifically, built in 1860s, and it functioned for 80 years. Today it's considered a small forest/bike path, but you can still see the relicts of the old cemetery, specifically in the plants that grow there and the paths that still exist; there's a lot of white pines, sawaras, common ivy and periwinkles (cemetary plants popular even today), as well as (invasive) plants brought all the way from the US that used to be a part of then cemetary-park complex. That being said i also live in lower Silesia, which was a part of Germany before world war II, so very much not Congress Poland, but i thought I'll share, because i genuinely love that place and it's history. Cemeteries are interesting 👍

[protemporescitor]

"But she ded tho" (a.k.a. the dumbest argument against Clerith) - A rant

To expand on my previous post, in which I posited the crazy, far-fetched theory that in a fantasy setting mayhap death is not the relationship brick wall that it would be in a more grounded, realistic one*, I just want to bring up a few points to further buttress this off-the-wall notion.

"Cloud can't be with Aerith. She's dead!"

We've all heard it a thousand times. It is the argument most commonly levelled against Clerith. It is also the worst (and laziest) one.

It's often delivered in a declamatory and glib fashion, as though it were some sort of obvious conversation ender. Q.E.D. End of debate. The ultimate gotcha. "Checkmate, Clerith fans!" the haters think to themselves, chortling and patting themselves on their backs for this profound insight. (Insert tasteless and juvenile comments about Aerith being "shish kebab-ed" by Sephiroth as desired.)

And all I can think is "That's it? That's your best argument? That's some weak tea, man."

Despite its myriad flaws, this idea continues to radiate throughout the fandom a good quarter century after the original title's release, as though it had never once been challenged. It is a feeble and untenable position, a house built on sand, and one that deserves to be thoroughly demolished. With Rebirth on the horizon, and all the shipping wars nonsense rising from the grave once more as a result, it is high time, if you'll forgive the expression, that we laid this cliché to rest once and for all.

(*Note: Even in a more "realistic" setting lacking any kind of fictional afterlife, this would still be a gross oversimplification of the story's themes of loss, regret, and yearning, as well as entirely ignoring the idea of love transcending death, but we'll set those concerns aside for the time being.)

Lastly, before we begin: This is not an anti-Zerith / CloTi screed. Those pairings both have an undeniable canonical basis. My aim here is simply to demonstrate that the notion that Cloud and Aerith are forever separated by death is rendered invalid by virtue of the type of setting that their story takes place in. (Something that, frankly, one would reasonably assume to be perfectly obvious. Alas, such is not the case. And so I find myself yet again pointing out the glaringly obvious.)

Now, without further ado, let's begin:

Part 1. Before (the Compilation) Crisis

In the beginning, there was the year 1997, and Squaresoft had just released their latest title. And lo, it was good. We spent days and weeks following our favorite polygon people around their embattled little globe. We fought, laughed, cried, and struggled up until the Meteor Crisis reached its crescendo, and the credits rolled. Gosh, what an ending! But what did it all mean? How did things REALLY turn out? Did we get a happy ending at all?

According to some, Cloud lived happily ever after with his childhood sweetheart, Tifa. According to others, he continued to roam the earth in search of his Promised Land to be reunited with his tragic lost love, Aerith. Yuffie swiped everyone's materia (again). Cid finally went to the moon. Red XIII opened a haberdashery in Costa del Sol, or something. No-one really knows for sure.

And so, the fandom began to spread to every corner of the internet in search of answers. Thus began the age of dissension. Opinions clashed across fanzines, blogs, and fanfic country alike. Wild fan theories abounded pertaining to special codes, methods, and blood rituals capable of bringing back our erstwhile flower girl. The fan-made media bubble surrounding the game turned into a lawless land of misinformation and vicious disagreement. None were spared.

A brief digression on why said rumours persisted for as long as they did (CAUTION: Massive spoilers for Chrono Trigger).

One side proposed a simple solution. A way to cut the proverbial Gordian Knot of our fandom. It was quite obvious, really. Just staring everyone in the face. The flower girl was dead, and that was that. Thus, there was only one possible conclusion to our narrative. Cloud's feelings on the matter were, of course, irrelevant. With Aerith out of the picture, the only logical choice left to him was to settle down with Tifa, and that was that. Never mind the themes of doomed, tragic love and the possibility, strongly hinted at throughout the game and outright confirmed during its ending, of existence after death.

Overall, direct evidence for said afterlife was scant, but not entirely absent from the story. As an example, at one point during her childhood, Aerith speaks to Elmyra, trying to comfort her, saying that the spirit of her husband wanted to come visit her, confirming that an afterlife presence did indeed exist. But for some, this simply wasn't evidence enough. And so the war raged on. Which brings us to…

Part 2. Advent Children: The smoking gun

Remember back when a certain portion of the fan base insisted that Gaia erased all the humans at the end of the story, on the flimsy basis that we don't see any during the game's brief post-credit scene? Well, that little theory was neatly undone by subsequent releases in the Compilation, showing regular ol' humans still roaming around Gaia in all their everyday human-ness. Hence, it is rarely brought up these days. Would that the pernicious notion of "but she ded tho" could follow in its footsteps, given that the same film roundly contradicts it in every way possible.

For starters, the film inexplicably bring two characters, Rufus and Tseng, hitherto assumed to be dead, back to life, probably in an effort by Square to shoehorn as many recognizable members of the cast into their animated feature as they could. But that's not all. Next we have three characters that everyone agreed were deader than doornails ALSO making appearances, first in flashbacks, and then directly influencing the world of the living. Zack speaks to and encourages Cloud during his struggle. Aerith reaches out to him (quite literally) from beyond the grave and assists him in defeating Bahamut. And of course Sephiroth pops back into existence just in time for his contractually-obligated boss fight near the end of the film. All three demonstrate quite clearly and definitively that death is not the impenetrable barrier to continuing interactions between the living and the dead in the world of Final Fantasy VII, as a certain segment of the fan base would have everyone believe it is.

To be blunt, I don't know what level of dense you'd have to be to keep up this so-called "argument" in light of this information. Advent Children reiterates what most of us already knew, that our story takes place in a fantasy setting* with a confirmed afterlife existence.

(*You'd think that the name of the series would clue people in.)

The notion that death represents, within the context of said setting, the ultimate end was already softly contradicted by the original game's narrative, and then (because that was apparently too subtle for some people) flat-out annihilated by the existence and events of Advent Children. It should have long since ended this nonsense. But somehow, it didn't. These revelations, obvious though they are, remain ignored for some reason. And so, the cycle of willful ignorance continues.

But we're not done yet. We now move on to more tangential, but still relevant arguments against this line of "reasoning".

Part 3. Stop Hitting Yourself: Why "but she ded tho" is insulting to everyone

And I do mean everyone. Let's examine this, shall we?

It's insulting to Cloud.

To suggest that he loses interest in Aerith the moment she sinks beneath the waters, or that he is obligated to move on simply because she is no longer among the living, with no mourning period, no time to work through his guilt and grief, is to portray him as shallow and uncaring, something that goes against virtually all the characterization that he's been given throughout the story. The line of thinking apparently goes "Well, she's gone. That sucks. She was cute, too. Better move on to the next available piece of meat."

Sounds pretty gross when you write the quiet part out loud, doesn't it?

It's insulting to Aerith.

"Didn't even toss the b@#h a Phoenix Down, just dumped'er in the water LAWL"

I'm sure you've all come across comments like that at some point, usually originating from some errant redditor or blogger. Thinking themselves fine fellows and enlightened, above-it-all gadflies, they provide us at length with this and other prime specimens of 14 year-old internet edgelord "humour" that carries about as much edge as a perfect sphere. Remarks like these serve little purpose beyond confirming my suspicion that our fandom is indeed plagued with illiterates who can't tell the difference between the terms "revive" and "resurrect", and insist on conflating game mechanics with storytelling. And you wonder why some people are confounded by words like "flammable" and "inflammable".

(All right, I'll put the salt down. For now.)

"The party's designated white mage dies, oh no, that's so sad, boo-hoo, life goes on," I hear you say.

But boiling Aerith's role down to one of merely that of a temporary party member who kicks the bucket halfway through the story, never to be heard from again, both cheapens her purpose within the larger narrative and denies the clear effect that she continues to exert, directly and indirectly, on it and the other characters after her passing.

Though Aerith may have departed the world of the living, the story makes it abundantly clear that her influence on it has not ended. There are hints here and there that she still tries to assist her friends from the afterlife. As an example, when the party rediscovers Cloud in Mideel after assuming that he might be lost for good, a villager sums it up best with the following remark: "That boy must have one hell of a guardian angel."

It's only mentioned as a vague hint in the original story, but it is clear that some beneficent force is acting on Cloud and Tifa's behalf, aiding them in their survival and uniting them in the Lifestream in order to help Cloud recover his memories. Later supplemental material confirms that to have been Aerith's doing. If that's not enough to convince you, though, the original game's ending leaves little room for ambiguity as to Aerith's continuing influence. When Holy sputters and fails, she coaxes the Lifestream itself to intervene, burning away the calamitous meteorite, helping her friends put an end to the planetary crisis long after her own demise. I suppose the lesson here for silver-haired godhead wannabe villains is this: Strike her down, and she shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

So the idea that Aerith's participation in the story immediately comes grinding to a halt upon her death is both puerile and easily demonstrated to be false. But even if that were the case, downplaying her lingering influence on Cloud and the other characters in this manner would still be ignoring the creators' intent. Whether one interprets Cloud and Aerith's relationship as romantic or merely platonic, it is clear that her death, the loss of one of his closest allies, is something that wounds him deeply, and scars him forever. Two years on, he still pines for her company and desires her forgiveness for his perceived failures. She clearly occupies a special place in his heart, and her memory and legacy live on within him, spurring him on as he wanders the planet, searching for some way to meet her again, defying the impossible. (Which, as we all know, isn't going to happen. This is, after all, Final Gritty Reality we're talking about here.)

Ah, but all of this is a moot point, you say? Even if he did wish to be with her, preferring the company of the last Cetra over that of his childhood friend… well, too bad. That's no longer an option. We can spout all of this verbiage about "soul pain" this and "star-crossed lovers" that, but at the end of the day, Aerith is still dead, and that's that. At least, that's what ardent CloTi fans will insist, no matter what. So, what is Tifa to Cloud, then, by their own logic?

Which brings us to perhaps our most salient, and most overlooked point, at least as far as CloTi shippers are concerned. If all that wasn't enough for you, you may want to consider that it's deeply insulting to Tifa, as well. Grievously so, in fact. Quite possibly more so than any other character in this whole equation. And the reason why should be plain as day if you stop to think about it for a fraction of a second.

Here's the thing… if you can't articulate why you think Cloud would prefer to be with Tifa in spite of Aerith being alive, then you are essentially declaring her the "winner" by default on no other merits than the fact that she's still sucking down air. Stating "but she ded bro" means relegating Tifa to the role of a consolation prize. I don't think I could ever hurl such a staggering insult towards her as her biggest fans keep doing, without even realizing they're doing it.

Ask yourselves, is that really what you want for your supposed favourite character? To frame her as being doomed to eternally play second fiddle to her fallen friend? Cloud's "plan B"? The "side piece"? Someone who only stands a chance if her rival in love is literally six feet under? I'm sure she'd be thrilled by the high regard in which her own fans seem to hold her. (Hey, you said it, not me. It's not my fault if you don't take the time to actually consider the ramifications of what rolls off your keyboard. But by all means, keep insulting your own favorite character just to put down a ship you don't like.)

In closing, if we unearth the subtext and reframe it to highlight what people are, in essence, saying, it's this: "It's a good thing that she-who-shall-not-be-named bit the dust, because otherwise our beloved Best Girl Tifa (tm) wouldn't stand a chance."

It's a simple enough question: Why do you think that Cloud and Tifa belong together? What, in your mind, makes them a good fit for each other?

"Well, the competish is dead." ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Not exactly a ringing endorsement for your best girl, now is it?

Part 4. "Heads, I Win. Tails, You Lose": A brief word on hypocrisy

In fandom, it's often the loudest and most obnoxious voices who tend to drown out the more reasonable ones, those of fans who are just minding their own business and grooving on the thing that they like. Which, unfortunately, renders this next part a necessary component of the greater argument that I'm trying to make. Multishippers and sane, reasonable CloTi and Zerith fans may consider themselves exempted from the following harangue.

The rest of y'all, buckle up.

The too-oft repeated refrain of "but she ded tho" entails a twofold hypocrisy. The first part is:

Case of Tifa: Fan hypocrisy regarding death.

Strident anti-Clerith fans, with their usual level of maturity, will often bring up Aerith's demise in a gleeful, mocking tone that can best be summed up as "ding dong, the witch is dead!" And if the shoe were on the other foot? If their Best Girl Tifa (tm) were the one pushing up daisies instead of Miz Gainsborough? Would they be quite so cavalier in their attitudes?

Who wants to bet that these fans wouldn't be making this "argument" so loudly if it was their ship that was in question? Consider this scenario: Suppose that the remake trilogy does the unthinkable and has Tifa die in Aerith's place. What then? Would they accept that "but she ded tho" is, at best, a double-edged sword, one that applies equally to their own favourite ship were their fortunes to be reversed?

Something tells me that's not the case.

But if you think that's hypocritical, you ain't seen nothing yet. This first point pales in comparison to…

The Zerith Exemption: Fan hypocrisy regarding the afterlife.

You know what my favourite thing about this whole debacle is? When people inform me that because they are separated by death, Cloud and Aerith have no hope of ever being together again. They will then unironically pivot to shipping Zack and Aerith, two characters who are together in the MOTHERFUCKING AFTERLIFE.

It's wild. How do you even compress that much cognitive dissonance into one skull? We're talking about mind-melting, Olympic medal-worthy levels of mental gymnastics here.

Now, before someone accuses me of being morose, I'm not suggesting that Cloud hop off the nearest cliff just to be with his beloved (Aerith would not approve of him throwing his life away, for one), just that when he reaches the end of his natural life (which may not be too long, given the cells eating away at his body), he can finally be reunited with her in the afterlife.

Many ardent CloTi shippers see themselves as bound by law to uphold Zerith as a shield against the dreaded Clerith plague. But to proclaim, implicitly or explicitly, that the afterlife encompasses one but not the other is not an idea that can be taken seriously. It remains an utterly bizarre blind spot, one that beggars belief.

On a related note, there is the infamous misconception that is…

Part 5. The ZaCloud Fallacy

While this is not directly related to my main point, I nonetheless find myself compelled to address this issue. There is a long-standing confusion that bedevils our fandom, one that has its roots in the Shipping Wars (tm). I am, of course, referring to the ZaCloud Fallacy.

We owe this particular misapprehension to Crisis Core, a prequel/gaiden game that was released ten years after the original FFVII. Already, its existence can mess up the timeline, so to speak, as, strangely, people tend to treat it as a sequel rather than a prequel, and as though it were adding new and vital building blocks to the world of FFVII instead of merely distorting the original story while retreading it with a far less interesting cast of characters. It also retcons major elements of the original story that it shouldn't have (such as the events taking place in Nibelheim five years prior to the main narrative), lazily steals Clerith scenes only to rehash them with Zack and Aerith, and forces players to endure, at length, crimes against literature, courtesy of Genesis.

It's an odd prequel, to say the least, given how heavily it relies on the original story for context. Sequentially, it may take place before FFVII, but it can only be fully appreciated with the original in mind; it cannot be treated as a stand-alone story. The worst thing about Crisis Core existing is that playing it first can outright ruin people's perception of the original narrative by spoiling several major plot elements and even lessening them in the process. Crisis Core's writers are especially guilty of cheapening dramatic moments like Zack's last stand by transforming it from a quiet, tragic, harrowing scene about sacrifice to an utterly over-the-top and emotionally overwrought trainwreck. It all merely serves to add to the confusion, especially for gamers who started with this title instead of the original.

But if that were not enough, Crisis Core's reckless meddling with the story combined with the acrimonious and all-consuming nature of the shipping wars has resulted in one of the most nonsensical misconceptions in the entire fandom. During Crisis Core's ending, Zack implores Cloud to carry on his legacy, thus giving rise to the erroneous assumption that Cloud's behaviour in disc 1 is merely that of him "being Zack". Clerith-hating fans, in particular, pounced on this idea as a way to put a safe distance between him and Aerith, characterizing their interactions, whether platonic or romantic, as merely a case of Cloud utilizing Zack's memories and personality around her (Never mind that Zack and Cloud's personalities are as different as night and day).

It is a fundamental and willful misreading of the story, a gross oversimplification of a more complex and granular truth in service of a fan-originated meta-narrative, one that has been assembled in order to reach the conclusion that Cloud and Aerith's relationship is null and void, and that therefore the romance between him and Tifa remains unchallenged. (Never mind that the story is intended as more than just some playground tug-of-war romance). To maintain this lie is to do violence to the story by destroying Cloud's character arc and reducing him to a virtual non-entity until the very end of the game.

Having already been rebuked in regards to this pervasive delusion, certain fans have tried to hedge their bets by suggesting a second, more advanced version of this idea. ZaCloud Fallacy 2.0, if you will, which states that Cloud is only in Zack Mode (tm) when he's around Aerith. I don't even know what to say about that sort of nonsense. To paraphrase Charles Babbage, I am not able rightly to apprehend the kind of confusion of ideas that could provoke such an assertion.

I'd go into this in more detail, but YouTube creator LinkOnTheBrink has already covered this topic extensively in their superlative video essay "How Shipping Can Ruin a Narrative".

It may seem like I'm trashing Zack or Zerith here, but I'm really not. That was never my intent. So let me be clear about this: I like Zack. I just hate Crisis Core and what it's done to this fandom. If you prefer CloTi and Zerith to everything else, I don't much mind. Ultimately, this isn't about shipping wars nonsense, but protecting the narrative from such nonsense.

And that leads us to…

Part 6. I Against I: Where the fandom went wrong

We all know that the infamous FFVII Shipping Wars (tm) are as stupid as they are inescapable. Anyone who's spent any time at all within this fandom has inevitably run afoul of them and their detritus at some point, whether they've chosen to participate in them or abstain from the whole debacle. But there's a reason why this acrimonious dispute has raged on for as long as it has. Much like Blade Runner fans would argue until they were blue in the face about whether or not Deckard was a replicant, fans of this story have been squabbling about CloTi versus Clerith for ages for similar reasons. (Zerith got roped in as a "political wedge", I would argue, as much as a pairing in its own right.)

It's more than just a war over shipping, it's a war over canonization, over character motivation and psychology. Of how we ultimately interpret the story and its characters. Given the vagueness of the story's ending, one can't help but wonder and speculate as to how everyone ended up afterwards. (Advent Children and Dirge of Cerberus may have offered some answers, but they still largely sidestep these questions in a noncommittal, to-be-continued manner.)

The problem is that, for many fans, it isn't possible to simply say "It's my preference" and be done with the matter. Unlike most rarepairs and bananas pairings like Cait x Jenova, CloTi and Clerith remain hotly contested because they go beyond mere shipping, or even aesthetic preference, or which characters one most identifies with; they lie at the core of how we perceive the story and its inhabitants. In that sense, I don't consider it to be an entirely frivolous debate, just an unsolvable one.

So, what's the answer?

There's this long-standing piece of received wisdom about JRPGs vs. WRPGs, where the latter involves more freedom at the expense of focused storytelling, and vice versa. This idea might hold true to some extent, but it is not some iron law that must be obeyed without question. For a game like FFVII, choices that radically affect the narrative structure would be considered an aberration and not the norm. And yet, it might represent the only way out of this quagmire that doesn't involve throwing half the fandom under the bus in the process.

For me, Mass Effect and similar titles (e.g., Quest for Glory) have already presented an obvious solution: Let the players choose. (There is already some precedent in the form of the Gold Saucer scene, although it ultimately doesn't change the outcome of the story all that much.) It may not be a perfect solution, but I'd argue that it's far better than leaving one side out in the cold. At least this way, everyone gets something.

"Ah, but this is not feasible," I hear you respond. "Not for an Eastern-style RPG, at least. Only one of these pairings can be correct, and one must, above all, respect the creator's vision."

Yeah, look where that got us.

Part 7. As You Like It: Ship whatever you please (just stop this nonsense)

I realize that this little essay of mine has been digressive, rudimentary, rambling, extemporaneous, and scattershot. So let me try to reach some kind of meaningful conclusion here.

Much of this anti-Clerith rhetoric we've seen over the years seems to stem from a place of insecurity, whether it's murmuring "but she ded tho", claiming that Cloud was only ever Zack in disc 1, inventing a fictional sex scene underneath the Highwind from whole cloth, and so on… The thing is, there is no need for it. Clerith and CloTi both exist canonically. Even the game manual says as much, describing Cloud, Tifa, and Aerith's relationship as a love triangle. In other words, the love triangle is what's canon, and the rest is by and large up for interpretation. (Zerith also canonically exists, and we've known this since the OG.)

The true reason why this whole disagreement has gone on for eternity, I suspect, has less to do with any debate over canonicity alone than it does the sheer enmity and pettiness that it has continued to spark for so long. It has metastasized over the years, going from being a mere squabble over which pair is canon to an exercise in holding the other side in contempt. That endless cycle of disrespect and reprisals is undoubtedly where it all went wrong in the first place. (If I had a nickel for every time someone commented "but she ded tho" or "wHy iS zAcK bLoNd iN tHiS pIc?" when someone posts a piece of Clerith fan art, I'd have a pretty nice collection of coins by now.)

Obviously, we should all try to just click off when we encounter content that we dislike, but it's not always easy, especially when something we harbour a strong aversion to is so deeply enmeshed within something that we do enjoy. And so, our fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. Before you ask, yes, I'm as guilty of that as anyone else.

Still, I firmly believe that the occasional olive branch can go a long way. So let me simply say that I have the utmost respect for Tifa and Zack. They are worthy characters in their own right. So create and share all the CloTi/Zerith fan works your little hearts desire. Hire a fleet of skywriters to declare Zerith your favourite couple. Throw a giant CloTi parade through the middle of Times Square. We don't mind. Honestly.

As stated above, whether it's CloTi, Clerith, or Zerith, you can stop fretting over which one is canon; they all are. The other three permutations (Zakkura, Zifa, AerTi) don't get much in the way of canon acknowledgement, but they probably should at this point.

In the end, this is about saving the narrative from the shipping wars, as much as anything else. To say that you prefer CloTi or something else to Clerith is fine. To assert that Clerith doesn't exist in any form, however, is where I begin to take exception.

Ultimately, I say ship what you like. All I ask is that you retire this sort of narrative-wasting nonsense. It's time we threw it into the garbage can of gaming history where it belongs. As for questions of motives, character interpretation, canonization, and so forth… if we cannot reach an accord, then let us at least try for a more amicable disagreement.

As for my fellow Clerith supporters, the next time you see the withered old canard that is "but she ded tho" being bandied about in the wild, feel free to laugh and treat it with the derision and contempt that it so richly deserves.

[hunterbunter3000]

imagine 141 meeting sweethearts family and them being just as weird as her😂

LMAOOO G O D IT WOULD BE SO FUNNY

(Dude I'm gonna info dump so damn hard I'm sorry)

Her family is literally crack personified. They are HEAVILY, EXTREMELY AND HARSHLY based on The Amazing World of Gumball, because that was my favorite cartoon when i was growing up and i adored how crazy the family was 💀HUGE ASS FUCKING FAMILY INCOMING Her dad practically married himself in woman form (but shes more chill and introverted than him- they're both chaotic as hell), and then her siblings (eight older brothers; two are adopted, two older sisters, middle siblings who are triplets ( sister, brother and ftm brother) three younger brothers and an adopted younger sister (BASICALLY AN ALL BOY FAMILY AND SOME GIRLS SPRINKLED IN 💀)

There's the oldest brother, Who's name I have no idea yet I just call him T. He's 42 years old and is a fucking unit. He has a family with a wife and three kids. (No idea how he looks either)

The second oldest brother idk his name either is 41 years old and is also a fucking unit. He's single and is an engineer

The third oldest brother is 39 years old. Don't know what to name him lol Also another unit but has a bionic leg. He's a single father and has a daughter.

The fourth oldest brother is also 39 years old. He's tall as shit but more skinny. He has a girlfriend and a boyfriend and is a mad scientist. (Legally? Probably not. Insanely smart and makes weapons? PROBABLY YES)

The fifth oldest brother is 37 years old, his name is Grizz. He's built like his dad (big and burly with a gut) and has his personality. He's a firefighter

And then the sixth older brother, he's 36 years old (no idea what to name him) he's a CEO of a company. He has a wife and five kids

They're all absolute units like good lord

There are two adopted older brothers. One of them, who is also 36 years old, was a son to a family friend. His family died and they took him in. He's a chef. The other one, his name is Sammy, he's 35 years old and is now a musician.

The two older sisters, aka: The Domino twins, the animator and the police officer. Idk their names dammit-- but they're both 35 years old. The police officer has an eye patch and grayed early, while the animator has a scar over her other eye and black hair. (Hence why people call them Domino)

And then the triplets, all 28 years old. The sister is a hairstylist and a cosplayer, the brother is a game designer named Ezekiel, and the other brother who is trans (ftm) is a voice actor and a professional gamer. (GUESS WHAT- DONT KNOW THEIR NAMES LMAO)

And then a younger brother, who's 18 years old (last year in high school BABBYYYY) And then the younger twins who are 10 years old and then the adopted sister who is four.

(If yall are curious about them don't be afraid to ask!)

One of her aunts on the dad's side practically lives in prison because of the unlucky luck that runs in the family, the other one is the most normal one and she's a nurse, and her uncle on the mom's side that's literally a revolutionary war (to a war NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD OF) hero with HIS crazy ass family... NOT TO MENTION THE GRANDPARENTS AND GREAT GRANDPARENTS (ON BOTH FUCKIN SIDES) one was in the Italian mob and has connections that shouldn't be connections, and the other one owns a tiger, a lion and a raccoon that was the replacement for the bear when the tiger and the lion ate it. (I'll let yall decide who's who), and then one has a fortune but forgot where it's buried, and then the other one is a musician! (As I said, I'll let you decide who's who)

they invited her team(yes, Keegan as well), Los Vaqueros, and Krueger plus Graves to have like a welcome back cookout at their big country home

And the chaos IMMEDIATELY started when they got there.

The younger twins forgot that they set up a trap on the house, so when Sweetheart opened the door, she got hit in the face with a pan, fell on the ground, and then whip cream came flying out, hitting Soap in the face.

Sweet's mom: MY BABY ARE YOU OKAY???

Grizz: WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED

Police sister, to Soap: Are you okay??? Can you breathe???

Sammy, shaking Sweetheart: SWEETHEART??? SWEETHEART ARE YA GOOD??

Sweetheart, out of it: MOmMy I LoOk PreTTy?

Sammy: SHE'S DISGRUNTLED

Zeke: THAT'S THE WRONG WORD FOR THIS SITUATION YOU IDIOT

(Sammy's a bit stupid)

After that happened, Zeke led Soap to a bathroom, feeling around for any more traps. The younger twins went into a time out and Sweetheart has an ice pack for her head.

They all started talking, Sweet's mom REALLY like the boys (Especially Alejandro and Price) and Sweet's Dad really like Ghost and Roach. Grizz and VA brother like Gaz, and the adopted sister really likes Soap and Keegan. Police sister likes König's vibes and hairdresser and Sammy fuck with Krueger and Graves. All in all they like Sweetheart's co-workers and accepts them

Sweet's mom to all of them: Y'know she's single

Sweetheart: M A

And then Granny Jo Jo and Grandpa Hare, grandparents on the dad's side, came to visit and Soap and Ghost just gravitated to them.

Grandpa Hare: So yer from Manchester, eh?

Ghost: Yes sir

Grandpa Hare: I used tah live in Manchester

Ghost, a bit interested: Oh wow--

Grandpa Hare: I buried many businesses an' people there. That's why m'banned from a couple of cities.

Ghost:

Omg and then the younger twins meet Keegan:

Twin #1: Hello sir!

Twin #2: How are you?

Keegan, a bit nervous: ...I'm good, thank you. How about yourselves?

Twin #2: Good, sir? By the way--

Twin #1 and #2: What's your body count?

Keegan: Ex- excuse me?

Twin #1: How many people have you bodied?

Twin #2: Do you use knives? Or assault rifles?

Twin #1: And how did you do it?

(The animator sister covers their mouths and carries them)

Animator sister: Sorry about that, Keegan. They'll go in time out again

Their muffled "no's" go on and on while Keegan just stands there 🧍‍♂️like wtf why'd they ask me that LOL (and time out is just them being in their room HA)

OMG Alejandro went to open a drawer to find spoons, and instead he found MANY restraining orders and banned letters

Sweet's mom saw his surprised face and she quickly closed the drawer

Sweet's mom: Wrong drawer! And also those were a long time ago, half of them either forgave us or went out of business!

Sweet's mom, mumbles: Except the ones out of country... they still remember the fires...

Alejandro: still remember what

(Bro I could go on and on about them LMAO I want to flesh these characters out some more too, so if you have any input SEND AN ASK!! 💗💗)

[olliewritesometimes]

An immortal companion.

The Suckening Fanfic :3!!

- Arthur & Void’s meeting

⚠️⚠️TW’s!!⚠️⚠️

- The Suckening SPOILERS!!

- blood

- mention of dead people

- deceased family

- biting

- british people……….😰😰

Britain. London to be specific. The city was quietly heading to sleep. Tourists back in their hostals for the night. Locals out wondering with their lover in arm. Walking a dog. Or going for a midnight run. Headed twards the homes in town. Arthur’s stomach screamed at him for food. Knowing he would need too feast eventually. A beautiful home on the other side of the bridge perks Arthur’s interests. He stops himself from heading inside. Instead going to the home we’re focusing on. A group of crows fly past Big Ben and down the bridge towards the country side. Large mansions scatter the fields. Deep thick forests as their privacy. And or for their secrets. A large country style home. Far off, away from the city. The furthest from London. Abandoned and wasted away by age. A home filled with happiness converted into chaos. Free from the pain the vampires gave to them, Vanya created that chaos. Arthur guided it. Opening the door to chaos. Falling in love with a murderer. Becoming the murderer. And soon enough ending his own killer.

The doors and windows all shattered the home spray painted ruined by the locals. A for sale sign in the grown out grass outside. A large sticker covering up most of the sign saying ‘Sold’.

Arthur walks twards the home. Down the abandoned street. Watching the other full homes erupt with happiness and joy. Dreading it. Dreading seeing the home his father had built. The family he had. And the home he destroyed. Saying goodbye to them would be the last thing he did tonight. The beatiful home crushed and crumbled as he walks by into the distant forest. The screams that echoed through that home loudly bang in his skull as he steps in the same path as he did once before. Following his old foot steps. Flashes of his hands covered in blood rather than ink. His clothes damp with his mothers blood. Her face looking horrified after being brutally mauled from her oldest son. Soon needing to head back to the home to drag the twins to their new home. Arthur’s eyes slowly watered up. Rememeber the twins. The horror of their faces. He wiped them away and pushes his glasses closer to his eyes. Pulling his jacket closer to himself. Hiding him in more shadow.

Eventually, getting to a empty slot of the forest. With small round rocks identifying the graves.

His brother, Mikey.

His sister, Emily.

His Mother, Danielle.

His Father, Micheal.

and one for himself. Arthur Bennett. The murderer.

He stands infront of the graves. Watching them. His young, rushed handwriting showing the initials. Some of the blood had dripped off his clothes marking the rocks. His permit handprint. Showing off what he had done.

Arthur takes his glasses off, slowly. His tears were retreating back into his eyes comes back. As he opened his mouth to begin talking. A rustle in the bushes startles him. He slowly raises his hands above his head. The bush continues to shake. Arthur annoyed replies to no one specifying. “I can hear you.” the rustling stops than hearing a “mreoww?” before seeing a fluffy creature jump out and begin rubbing on his ankle. His fancy black shoes covered in wet, damp mud. Seeing a black cat with glowing white eyes looking back up to him. The beast within grows.. bending down. Looking very calmly at the cat. Arthur sighs. “get away, cat.” he uses his mud covered shoe to push the cat. Making her fall over to her side. Still just staring at him. Rolling over to her stomach. “I don’t want to get you killed too.” he states. More angered than before. Pointing his finger towards the home. “Meowww!!” This time while she meows. Rubbing his eyes. “What a pain.” He utters to himself before watching her mouth open and shut. Her sharp teeth. Not like teeth matching his own. Regular cat teeth. He pulls back from the cat but continues to stare at her before breaking eye contact. Continuing to stare at grass that had grown over the dug up dirt from that night. Squatting down, resting his elbows on his knees. Further from the cat than before.

“Hello Mother..Emily..Mikey.. father.” He whispers saying ‘Father’ as if scared to talk to him. While looking at each individual grave. Pressing his hand on the blood stain. Minus his fathers. He respected his father. But.. cutting off his own thought he turned to his mother’s grave. “I will find her mother. I will fix this.” Placing his hand back onto the rock with his bloody hand below.

“mreow?” The cat stood up and began rubbing its head on Arthur’s knee. His eyes water again. His jacket still closed in on himself. The cat jumps on his leg. Using her claws to go up on his shoulders. Arthur screams “can’t you see I’m doing something!?” His voice shaky but tryin to keep his composure. Tears begin to fall despite that. The cat stops on his right shoulder. Sitting down and looking at him. The cats head bangs into Arthur’s ear. He can hear the cat is purring now. Practically vibrating with comfort. Arthur hasn’t felt this comfortable since he was young.

His mother’s warm embrace. His younger siblings soft and innocent hands holding his to cross the street to walk them to school. His father patting him on the shoulder.

This cat giving him the same comfort tears begin to fall. His body begins to shake. Being loved by a creature that doesn’t want to end him. A creature that comforts him. Unknowing of what he has done. The dirt beneath his feet begins to wet. His glasses falling off into the mud. Making a splat before coloring his striped pants brown. His hands go through his hair. Tears flowing out of his eyes. Just like what happened before. He bawled in the wet mud like a child. She rubs against him as he pets her more. His stomach growls louder the closer she gets to him. His hands move on their own. Grabbing the cat. Making her arms dangle. Her head tilts. And meows. Revealing her neck even more. The beast growls and grows. His mind screaming at him to feast. To finally fill the beasts needs. To free this cat from the world. Give her a reason to get far away from him.

“I need you, cat.” She begins to squirm and fight back. Revealing her teeth once more and biting his hand.

He bites her back. Digging his teeth into the cat. She stops wiggling. The comfort of the bite from both parties hypnotized them. Vampirizing the cat to cure both of their loneliness.

2 immortal companions. He released himself from the cats neck and stares at her. The cat looks loopy. Like she’s getting off of anesthesia. “Void.” He growls, his hands become more and more inky as the cat jumps off of him and sits in the mud. Still staring at him. He kneels down to apologize. But before he can speak the cat licks the bite from his hand before crawling on his neck once more. Arthur slowly stands up not to disturb her as she began purring once more. Accepting his new companion. He sighs and scratches her chin. “Apologies, cat.” His feet sinking into the mud more. Grabbing his glasses from the floor. Looking back to Void seeing she had fallen asleep in his shoulder. His mouth slowly moves upward before falling back down into his brooding glare. 

Placing his hands back into his pockets. He pulls his jacket’s collar upwards to hide Void within the shadows. He shakes his glasses to get the mud off. Before placing them on his nose. Turning his back to the graves. Placing his hand on a tree near the bush Void came out from. Glaring as he looks down at his father. “Goodnight, father.”

walking the same way, to go retrieve the twins.

⭐️sighhh I love my depressed vampires,,,,

⭐️I’m probably going to write more about him cause I love Arthur :3!!

[mask131]

Vampires before they were cool... (3)

A last post for now – maybe more shall follow.

I talked of how the vampire myth was born, and of the vampire craze that overtook Europe. But I only vaguely hinted at what the vampires were back then. So here’s a question: what was a “vampire” in the 18th century, and how did it differ from the creature literature and cinema built? This is not a complete or extensive answer, but here are some things to think about (that I am lifting from Jean Marigny’s works):

The 18th century solidified the three main traits of a vampire. 1) It is an “undead in body”: it is not a disembodied spirit, an ethereal wraith or a spiritual demon. It has a body, it is a physical entity on the material plane. 2) It leaves its grave at night, in order to suck the blood of the living, which in turn extends his unnatural life. 3) His victims become vampires too, after they die.

The idea that vampire lacks a reflection and cannot be seen in mirror was greatly exaggerated by fiction. It was not an universal trait of vampires: it was mostly present in areas where a Germanic culture dominated. There, vampires were said to lack both shadows and reflections in mirror – which was meant to symbolize how they had lost their soul.

The idea of vampires having very huge, big and pointy teeth was greatly exaggerated by the cinema – while indeed the confusion with werewolves led to the idea of vampires having fangs, not all the vampires actually had to bite their victim to drink their blood. Many vampires simply sucked or absorbed the blood directly through the skin, without using their teeth. And in many other cases, such as the “Nachzehrer”, the vampire doesn’t even touch the victim, he just absorbs its life-force from a long distance.

While the bat became THE iconic vampire-animal (especially thanks to Buffon, who named the blood-sucking Southern American bats “vampires” in 1761), traditional vampires are said to turn into all sorts of animals: they can be spiders, or even butterflies, just as they can turn themselves into straw or mist.

Garlic is not an universal remedy against vampire: the belief that garlic repels vampire comes mostly from Romania. However, the vampire of folklore was known to only be able to leave his grave at night, as he was forced to return to his tomb before the singing of the rooster. The vampire also fears holy water and running water (because water is the source and symbol of life), and other religious symbols of Christianity (like the crucifix). A wooden stake through the heart is the best way to put an end to a vampire, but sometimes it is not enough and requires additional rituals. In Russia, the stake must be carved out of aspen wood, because it was the wood in which the cross of the Christ was built; in other countries, people rather use hawthorn, supposed to be the origin of the Christ’s crown of thorns. In Dalmatia and Albania, a dagger blessed by a priest is used rather than a wooden stake. In Romania, the “execution” of a vampire is called “the great reparation” and must be performed at the first lights of dawn, and the stake must be plunged in one hit – else the vampire can resurrect. If the body doesn’t crumble into dust after having its heart pierced, one must decapitate the corpse (usually with a gravedigger’s spade) and burn it. The ashes then have to be either buried under the crossing of two roads, or scattered to the four winds.

Alright, but how do you recognize a vampire, huh? Things are even more complicated here because its region has its own variations. The most generic and recognized trait is that, when in his grave, the corpse that is the vampire doesn’t have either a rigor mortis, or any trace of rot, even several weeks after being buried. Another common trait of vampires is how hairy they are: they have bushy eyebrows, that often join together above the nose, and they have hair in the palm of their hands. Romanian vampires even have a short tail covered with fur, which grows with the heat, and which is supposed to be giving them magical powers. When there is a vampire epidemic, a ritual to know which grave is the one of the vampire went as such: a virgin teenager had to ride a horse who also had never known sex, either entirely black or entirely white. The horse had to enter the cemetery, and supposedly reacted to the grave where the vampire was to be found: a vampire tomb was also identified by how you could find little holes on the ground near it – because it was through these holes that the vampires escaped each night, turning himself into mist. It was also believed that the people born of the sexual union of a male vampire and a female human had the gift of immediately sensing and recognizing vampires: they were called in Serbia “vampiritch” or “vampirovitch”, while in Bohemia and Hungary they were called “dhampirs”.

Finally: how do you become a vampire? Good question! Technically speaking, every human being can become a vampire after death. Nobody is prevented from the risk. But some people are more likely than others to turn into blood-sucking monsters. As I said before, all those that did not received proper Christian funerals or were not buried in holy ground were more likely to become vampires. People who died by suicide or by violent death were more at risks, just like excommunicated people, witches/warlocks, and stillborn infants. Other individuals are predisposed to become a vampire rather because of traits they had when they were born: people born with one or several teeth in their mouth, people born with a “caul” (a piece of the placenta or of the amniotic membrane stuck on the face or head of the baby), people born with either very dark eyes or very bright-blue eyes ; as well as people born with red hair (which were thought to be the “hair of Judas”) or with red spots over their body. When these people came to pass away, extra-precautions were taken to make sure they did not return as a vampire: in Romania, a nail could be plunged in the corpse’s forehead, or the body was pricked with many needles ; or the body was covered with the fat of a pig killed on Saint Ignace’s Day.

It was also very common to place an item in the mouth of the defunct, to prevent the chewing of the shroud or to prevent the soul from returning inside the body: in Romania it was garlic, in Greece it was a Christian host, in Saxony it was a lemon. Sudetenland had the tradition of wrapping the dead in a sort of large stocking: the vampire could only break one stitch of it per year. In Russia, poppy seeds were rather placed in a vampire’s grave, cursing them to counting the seeds each night instead of going out into the world.

People who died excommunicated or of suicide were constantly buried at a crossroad formed by two paths. In Serbia, to protect a house from a vampire attack, a cross made of tar was painted on the doors and the windows ; while in Romania, garlic was hanged in every room, and rubbed onto the doors, windows, chimneys and keyholes. Finally, in Russia, all the roads leading to the cemetery had to be covered in either poppy seeds or briar thorns: the vampire would be forced to pick them up one by one on its way.

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 A group of Palestinian children visiting the graves of those killed in "Israel's" special genocide operation in Gaza are frightened by sudden and intense Zionist machine gunfire, causing the children to jump up in fear and run, a reaction that speaks to the horrors Palestinian children have endured during the Zionist genocide.]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

ISRAELI OCCUPATION LAUNCHES SURPRISE ATTACK ON CENTRAL GAZA ON DAY 188 OF ISRAELI GENOCIDE

On the 188th day of "Israel's" special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed several new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 63 Palestinians citizens, mostly women and children, while another 45 others have been wounded over the previous 24-hours.

Even as most Arab and Muslim-majority countries have put on hold discussions to normalize relations with the Israeli entity, Indonesia today, in coordination with the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), has reached an agreement for the normalization of relations with the Israeli occupation. The agreement comes as part of an effort to facilitate Indonesia's entry into the OECD.

In return for the normalization, the OECD asked that "Israel" not oppose Indonesia's accession into the organization, while the Israeli occupation authorities said they welcomed the breakthrough.

According to reports, Indonesia was seeking to join the OECD, which requires a consensus from all member-states, as well as normal relations between all members.

Meanwhile, Israeli occupation Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, visited on Thursday an F-15 airbase, where the occupation leader appeared to issue a threat to Iran, stating that "Israel" was ready for any potential attacks from neighboring countries, and added that the occupation would retaliate against anyone who harms the Zionist entity.

Speaking with F-15 pilots, Netanyahu said, “We are in challenging times. We are in the midst of a war in Gaza that is continuing with full force. In addition, we are continuing with ceaseless efforts to return our hostages, but we are also preparing for challenges from other fronts."

According to the Hebrew media, "Israel's" fleet of F-15 fighter jets are the "primary weapon for long-range strikes."

"We set a simple principle: Anyone who hits us, we hit them,” Netanyahu said in apparent reference to Iranian threats of retaliation for last week's bombing of the Iranian consulate in Damascus, the Syrian capital.

“We are ready to fulfill our responsibilities to Israel’s security, in defense and attack," the occupation's Prime Minister added.

As the Zionist occupation's authorities prepared for a potential Iranian strike, the occupation army today launched a surprise assault on the central Gaza Strip.

According to the Zionist media, the IOF announced that it had launched a surprise "targeted operation" against Hamas in the central Gaza Strip, storming the outskirts of the Al-Nuseirat Refugee Camp, which the occupation claims has largely gone "untouched" by Israeli forces until now.

The Zionist occupation army pummeled the Nuseirat Camp with intense airstrikes and artillery shelling at dawn before Israeli soldiers and armored vehicles moved to penetrate the Camp, where local reports say the forces with the Palestinian Resistance confronted the invading Zionist army.

The latest Israeli incursion into central Gaza comes on the heels of the decision by IOF leadership to withdraw all meneuvering ground forces from the Gaza Strip, leaving only a single brigade, the Nahal Brigade, to secure the so-called "Netzarim" corridor, which the Israeli army built to seperate the northern and southern halves of the Gaza Strip, running from Israeli colonial settlements near the border fence with Gaza to Gaza's Mediterranean coast.

According to the Zionist media, upon the opening strikes of the latest offensive, the Israeli occupation air forces bombed a residential building in the Nuseirat Camp, resulting in the deaths of at least 5 Palestinian civilians, while the Israeli media added that other residential buildings were also targeted.

IOF authorities told the Hebrew media that it continues to carry out strikes in the Camp, bombing and shelling dozens of "Hamas" targets, including supposed underground tunnel structures, while the occupation Navy launched several strikes near the Mediterranean coast in support of the ground forces penetrating central Gaza.

The Zionist entity said the operation was launched after receiving intelligence indicating "the presence of terror infrastructure and many terrorists in the area."

Intense battles raged in the early hours of Thursday morning between the invading occupation army and local Palestinian Resistance forces, who popped out from hidden tunnels, leading the Zionist air force to bomb the area where Resistance fighters emerged from.

Meanwhile, Zionist occupation forces ramped up their bombing and shelling across various sectors of the Gaza Strip, instensifying airstrikes on Gaza City, as well as the Nuseirat Camp, along with several strikes on the city of Rafah in the south of Gaza.

In one example, Israeli occupation fighter jets bombed a gathering of Palestinian civilians in the vicinity of the Eastern Cemetery, located to the east of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, resulting in the deaths of five Palestinians, who's bodies were transported to Abu Yousef al-Najjar Hospital.

At the same time, Zionist warplanes bombed residential buildings in the al-Geneina neighborhood, east of Rafah, in the south of Gaza, while two civilian were killed when occupation gunboats fired shells bombing Palestinian homes in the Beach Camp, also known as the Al-Shati Camp, west of Gaza City.

Zionist forces then bombed the aforementioned residential building in the Nuseirat Camp, which martyred five Palestinian civilians, while simultaneously, IOF fighter jets launched several firebelts targeting the Dhu al-Nourin Mosque, as well as the Moaz bin Jabal Mosque, north of the Nuseirat Camp.

As the Israeli occupation's bombing and shelling rapidly intensified, Zionist soldiers penetrated north of the Nuseirat Camp from the direction of Salah al-Din Street and the Al-Mughraqa area, while Israeli military helicopters provided machine-gun fire, and Israeli bombers destroyed a "large number of residential towers" in the city of Al-Zahra'a.

In yet another Israeli occupation airstrike, fighter jets targeted one of the Al-Salhi towers, north of Al-Nuseirat, while displaced civilians sheltering inside a UNRWA school reported shrapnel flying into classrooms and the school yard, resulting in fear and panic among the civilians.

Zionist occupation forces also bombarded agricultural lands surrounding the Sultan's palace hall in the Al-Maghazi Camp, in the central Gaza Strip.

In another criminal atrocity, Israeli occupation forces bombed the civilian vehicle belonging to the family of Hamas political leader, Ismail Haniyeh, in the Al-Shati Refugee Camp as they celebrated Eid al-Fatr on Wednesday, killing three of Haniyeh's sons, as well as wounding his daughter. Haniyeh's grandchildren were also killed in the strike, as they were inside the vehicle at the time of the assault.

Several civilian casualties were also recorded in an airstrike targeting a residential home belonging to the Al-Yaziji family on al-Nafaq Street in Gaza City, while at the same time, Zionist air forces bombed a residential home in the Al-Fukhari neighborhood, east of Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip.

Occupation fighter jets also continued bombarding agricultural lands near the southern Palestine border with Egypt, though luckily, no casualties were reported in the strike.

Shortly before publishing, reports of yet another airstrike came in, with Palestinian media reporting four civilians martyred as a result of an Israeli airstrike targeting the Feras Market area, in central Gaza City.

As a result of "Israel's" special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the infinitely rising death toll has now exceeded 33'545 Palestinians martyred, over 25'000 of which being women and children, while another 76'094 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression beginning on October 7th, 2023.

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#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[captain-mj]

Hi! You just wrote a little thing about Private Graves meeting Lt. Price on deployment and then getting hot in a supply closet. Can we get a continuation of that, but like in the current timeline? Like maybe they got separated because they are from different countries and now that they meet again, price is surprised how much Graves has changed and now he’s a COMMANDER too?!? (And maybe the team and shadows picking up the fact they have some sort of history, so rumors start FLYING!)

So Graves never betrayed them and they’re all just chilling in this one :) 

Shepherd still betrayed them though because fuck Shepherd, he doesn’t have pretty boy privilege 

Part 1

~~~~

Price wasn’t told what happened, just that one day, he and Graves worked together and the next, he was gone. One of the commanders told him that Graves hadn’t been killed, just transferred, but that didn’t help much. He doubted Graves knew what was going to happen, probably shipped out same day, but it still stung, not getting to say goodbye. 

So imagine his surprise when he saw him again. Older, a commander and still just as pretty as when he saw him last. 

They made eye contact and Graves trailed off from where he was speaking for turning towards him. 

“Captain Price, I’m assuming?” He smirked, just the smallest bit. Was he playing coy? Maybe he was pretending not to remember him in front of other people. Price played along. 

“Commander Graves.” He got out, sounding more gravelly than he meant. Graves only smiled more, clearly happy to still have that effect on him. 

Soap and Alejandro, the people Graves had been talking to, both shot him a sideways glance. 

Price ignored them and Graves went back to talking. He had a scar on his cheek he didn’t remember. Stood up straighter. He looked older and it suited him. The gear no longer hung off him, now fitting snugly. 

Especially around his ass. 

Price turned to his team, commanding them. Graves did the same with the shadows and Price felt a thrill shoot down his spine. 

Once they were working, the tension vanished, both of them going into work mode. 

Price sat in the shower that night thinking about him though. He was a professional, of course. In the time since then, he did reprimand himself and make sure a mistake like that could never happen again. He called it a mistake, was careful to never mention it to anyone. Avoided thinking too much about it, sure that Graves had moved on with some American. 

He never regretted it though. 

Graves had been a firecracker back then. Full of that stupid spark most rookies had paired with a rather unique drive to get what he wanted and how he always knew exactly what he wanted. It made sense he’d be a leader now. If anyone was built for it, Graves was. 

Now, he was just as fiery, but more controlled. A fire burning through woods, killing everything but the trees. 

Price’s hand slid down his body, remembering how Graves had slid to his knees in front of him and looked up at him. Those soft blue eyes. Graves biting his lip to keep quiet because it was too much but they couldn’t get caught. 

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Besides the obvious of they’re coworkers and this was highly inappropriate, he couldn’t really see Graves still holding a torch for him. 

Price worked in his office the next day. He heard the knock and, assuming it was one of his people, told them to come in. 

Graves closed the door behind himself and walked over. He had stripped out of most of his gear, in tactical pants and a normal shirt. Price noted that his hair was slightly damp, like he had very recently showered. 

“Captain.” Graves said formally, stepping closer to his desk. 

“Commander.” Price looked at the papers for a moment before looking up to see Graves had rounded the desk, standing right next to him now. He leaned against it, looking down at him. 

“Nice to see you again, Price.”

“Nice to see you, Graves. You disappeared.”

“Trust me, not by choice. Was suddenly moved. Wanted to wait around to say goodbye to ya but... you were on a mission. Didn’t get a chance.” Graves looked down at him. With Price still sitting down, he seemed taller. “Not mad at me, are ya?”

“No. I always knew there was a chance you’d be deployed elsewhere. Just always expected to have some warning.” Price went to stand but Graves moved closer, making it clear he didn’t want him to. It wasn’t the usual game between them, but that had been years ago. So he stayed sitting. 

“Move on? Got a nice girl at home now?”

“No. You?”

“Too busy for it.” Graves looked down at him. There was a confidence to him. An assured air that made Price’s heart skip. 

“Weren’t too busy back then.” Price teased, leaning closer. He grabbed Graves’s hips, pinning him to the desk. A spark of something passed between them and he wanted nothing more than to put Graves on his back  in front of him. Before he got a chance though, Graves grabbed his chin and made him look up at him. 

“John. I’m going to step back. You’re going to lay on the floor and take your cock out.” 

Price blinked at him. “When did you get so dominant?” It took him by surprise, but he wasn’t exactly upset about it. Graves looked undeniably attractive giving orders. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to jump my bones since you fucking got here. I see just like last time, I have to do everything myself. So get on the damn floor.” Graves started to unbutton the tactical pants and Price did as told. Graves kicked his own pants off and straddled him and Price yanked him down for a kiss. They met in the middle but Graves pressed him down, kissing back almost frantically. 

“I’ve been thinking of you ever since I saw you. You look good.” 

Graves stole his hat and put it on his head. “You’re lucky I’ve always been into older men. You do look good though.” He adjusted so he could start to sink down on his cock but Price quickly stopped him, holding his waist tight.

“Prep?”

“Did it beforehand.” Graves growled. “I knew I was either going to get lucky with you or find someone else.” 

Price yanked him down, enjoying the surprised look on Graves’s face. The blush was there again, spreading across his cheeks, a light dusting of pink. “Someone else?” There were still a perfect fit. He felt just as warm and soft, walls hugging him tight like his body didn’t want him to pull out. Jealousy gripped him tight at the idea of him leaving his office to fuck someone else. 

“Been years, John. Didn’t know if you still wanted me.” Graves rolled his hips, eyes closing as he flushed more. “Let go, so I can ride you properly.” Price loosened his grip but most certainly did not let go. 

Graves didn’t seem to care, starting to move immediately. Price pushed his hands up, grabbing at the smooth muscle of his body. He trailed down his chest and over his thighs, scratching a little to see that Graves was still very sensitive there. 

“Course I want you.” Price mumbled it, distracted by the way his hands fit around his waist. There were some scars along him now that hadn’t been there and Price traced them, caught between admiration and a protective need to ask who did it so he could put a bullet in their head. 

“Worried I got too old for ya.” Graves was teasing, but Price could hear the undercurrent of something a little more solid there. He sped up a little, hands going to Price’s chest for balance. His fingers tangling in the shirt

“You just got better with age, love. Still a fucking masterpiece.” He gripped his hips and pushed in a little deeper, loving the soft whimper that got him. He knew Graves’s body like the back of his hand still. Price pulled him down and found that sensitive spot on his shoulder, biting hard and feeling his hips start to jerk desperately. He grabbed a handful of his hair to keep him there. 

Price started to thrust up into him, grinding against his prostate each time. Graves panted against him, moving his hands to the ground so Price could continue marking him. He forced him deeper down and rolled his hips against Graves, earning a soft moan. 

Price felt Graves relax against him and started to fuck up into him, setting a rough pace.

“Missed you so much.” Graves mumbled against him.

“Still all mine, even after all these years.” Price kissed him hard, finally releasing the death grip he had on his hair. 

Graves straightened back up and took control again, desperately chasing his own orgasm. His thighs lightly squeezed Price’s hips and he bit back a groan. 

It was heavenly. Having those eyes back on him, completely undressed and his hair mussed. 

Graves came, closing his eyes and flushing slightly as his hips stuttered. Price sat up, expecting to just use his hand to finish himself off, but Graves flipped them, putting Price on top.

“Fuck me, sir. Want you to come inside me, please.” Graves looked debauched, almost depraved, legs wrapping tight around Price’s waist to keep him from pulling out. 

Price slammed into him, enjoying the way Graves clung to him as he treated him like a toy. He used his grip on his hips to force him back against each thrust, his body clenching hard each time. Despite knowing he was sensitive, Price still made sure to hit his prostate, not letting up on it. 

“Forgot how sadistic you are.” Graves gritted out, tears streaming down his face.

“You like it.” 

Graves tilted his head away instead of answering, embarrassed by the fact he most certainly did. Price came in him before he got the chance to get hard again, shoving his legs almost to his head before he did, pressing deep into him. 

After a moment, Price let Graves go and pulled out, watching him melt. 

“Stay in touch this time, yeah?” 

“Oh I’m not even letting you out of my sight anymore.”

[thestalwartheart]

the unknown craftsman

This is a another location prompt table fill that fills two prompts. One from @sweetbabyangels and one from @eleanor-is-fine, who sent me 'The British Museum' and 'a beloved place' respectively. I'm sorry this isn't set at the British Museum itself, but it was inspired by Grayson Perry's exhibition there called The Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman. Our beloved place is the MI6 Memorial Wall. Warning for grieving/mourning and (the aftermath of) a Major Character Death.

[Read on AO3]

Under a gnarled tree in a private garden—the kind of garden people rarely saw in the urban sprawl of London these days— sat a mound of earth lay recently disturbed and repacked. It sat at the edge of a neat and well-tended-to memorial wall, and for days it had been drawing a crowd of mourners. 

The mourners were not tourists or flighty visitors. They were sentinels, defenders, worker bees and secret keepers, and they did not lay flowers as most people would. Not fresh ones, at least. 

Instead, they built a frame of objects around the soil. To any outsider, it would look mad; cult-like and strange, but then the man they were remembering was strange too. He would have been—or would be, depending on one’s beliefs—delighted to see the bullets dotted on the ground around him. He would have smiled at the model planes and the innocuous-looking watches and the ripped-apart computer accessories. To his right, a jade vase shaped like a hairless cat sparkled in the sun. He’d never seen it in life. It was a gift planned for a day too late, and it was one of the giver’s deepest regrets that he never got to give it to the man now in the ground. 

One woman, who could not keep her tears in whenever she looked upon the grave, placed a bouquet of steel-wrought roses on top of the fresh dirt. They remained there through rain and shine until a new white headstone arrived, gleaming brightly. 

“He was one of the greatest inventors of our age,” explained a man called Tanner to a crowd of colleagues as the headstone hit the ground. “And no one even knows his name. But you have him to thank for the peace of this country and the lives of our agents, half of whom would be dead without the things he built them.”

Tanner looked to a man at the back of the crowd, whose blue eyes were shining. 

All the mourners raised a toast to that. They were drinking a fine single malt from a small distillery in Wales. It reminded Tanner of the sweeping green hills of Bannau Brycheiniog and of marmalade on rye. 

“To our Quartermaster,” he said. “To Q.” 

“To Q.” 

The whisky went down smooth and warm, and people began to desert the grave in hushed groups. They returned to work with memories of Q flowing from their tongues, stories of technical prowess and nerve and shared pots of tea early on weekday mornings. 

At the end, two men remained: Tanner and the blue-eyed man. 

“No chance your talent for resurrection extends to others?” asked Tanner. Alone with a friend, he slumped with fatigue and grief. 

“If it did, I wouldn’t be looking at a headstone.” 

The man poured Tanner another drink, and they stood for an age in silence. The tombstone in front of them spoke well enough of everything they wanted to say. It read, simply:

Q, the unknown craftsman 1982 - 2038.  A stalwart defender of the nation and a dear friend.

[scotianostra]

On March 7th 1671 Robert “Rob” Roy MacGregor was baptised, his actual birthdate is lost in the midst of time.

As early as 1690 he became a noted raider; and on the revival in 1693 of the proscription of the name of MacGregor, he adopted his mother’s name of Campbell as a surname. He secured leases of lands between the estates of the rival noble houses of Montrose and Argyll, and for many years was active in buying and selling cattle and also in raiding whenever opportunity offered.

In the Stuart Uprising of 1715, Rob Roy led part of the Clan Gregor in the wake of the rebel army but kept his men out of the battle of Sheriffmuir and other important engagements, although they were alert to participate in any plundering.

For the next ten years MacGregor continually preyed on the estates of the Earl of, Montrose, and although several times apprehended he always managed to escape or secure a pardon through political influence.

Many of his exploits are related by Sir Walter Scott who describes him as a large, broad-shouldered, powerfully built man of great athletic prowess, with such extraordinary length arms that when erect his wrists hung below his knees This was an exaggeration used by the old folk who used to tell the stories of him.. His red hair was very thick, and frizzled and curled short around his face.

Rob Roy MacGregor died 28th December 1734 at his house in Balquhidder, and was buried in the churchyard in that parish where his gravestone is one of the most visited in the country, although there is some debate whether he is actually buried there at all.

T e head of the Clan MacLaren, Donald MacLaren, says the grave in the kirkyard near his home is a “myth” which is part of “McGregor propaganda”. He believes Rob Roy was actually buried in an unmarked grave several miles away, at one point he attempted to have the grave dug up so the remains to be DNA tested. This goes back to an ancient feud with the MacLaren and MacGregor Clans, the latter believing Rob Roy’s clan were “incomers”. The graveyard is also the location of the Old Balquhidder Kirk, burial place of the Chiefs of the Clan MacLaren. The present Clan Chief has said;

“The MacGregors are content for the story to continue that he is buried in Balquhidder because it builds up their claim to be one of the original clans of the glen. That’s not the case, they were incomers much later on and caused a great deal of trouble.

Of course it isn’t as straight forward as this. I said earlier out eponymous “hero” died at his house at Balquhidder, and by most accounts it was a peaceful death, in his sleep-but, another story says he died of his wounds after a clan duel in the field directly south of the church. MacGregor had argued over ownership of some land with his neighbour John MacLaren of Invernenty, Rob Roy lost the fight and died of his wounds, thus ceding the lands to the MacLarens, who still own them today. If this version is indeed true would he have been buried on land sacred to the MacLarens?

Parish records do not record a funeral. A newspaper account in the Caledonian Mercury on 9th January 1735 tells of Rob Roy's death but makes no mention of a funeral. Early Victorian accounts, written a century later, refer to a funeral on New Years Day at Balquhidder.

However, Rob Roy's gravestone is much older, that is the slab covering the plot, the actual headstone and the railings are more recent. A local tradition says that Rob Roy was buried in the MacGregor burial ground on the island of Inis Cailleach on Loch Lomond.

A trail called Bealach nan Corp, or Pass of the Corpses, links Balquhidder to Loch Lomond. This route was often used to carry MacGregor dead to their original homeland, so it makes perfect sense that Rob Roy would have been taken to Loch Lomond rather than be buried here in Balquhidder where he fell. Another tradition suggests that Rob Roy was buried at Glengyle on Loch Katrine.

[kinfriday]

Savagery

It’s hard to know how to feel as I’ve been going through the history of the Viking age peoples.  

On one hand they were profoundly inclusive, traveling the world, inviting other cultures to trade, and even including some of them. People with Persian DNA have been found in graves, along with rings with Allah inscribed upon them.  

What’s more we have written firsthand accounts, some of the only surviving, of Viking funerary rites from traders, and many historians now believe that the ancient Silk Road had its western terminus in Scandanavia. 

While gender roles seemed to have been strictly enforced, women still had the ability to own property, or serve as warriors. There even seems to be evidence, though it would be easy to read too much into it, that the Vikings were comfortable with a type of non-human identity in some.  

In a vacuum all of this sounds amazing. Here we have a warrior culture, that also traded and welcomed others and had at least some degree of respect for women as they ventured across the world.  

Truly, they must be a model of 9th century progressive values and ideals.  

Not so fast...  

While, to a degree welcoming, worldly, and inclusive, our spiritual ancestors were also, at the very same time, terrible people. A bulk of the slave trading in Europe came from the Viking World. Rape, and the murder of children was an acceptable war tactic, and virtually anything could be done to a person one owned, even up to murder, with little to no consequence.  

Human sacrifice to the Gods was common and means of justice were shockingly brutal.  

None of this existed in a vacuum. The Christian kingdoms of this era were at least as bad, and in some ways worse, as were the Romans. You aren’t going to find a human society that is without its horrors, and if you read the legends, even the Gods do reprehensible things.  

As I’ve grown in my knowledge of the legends, I find it interesting that, from my perspective, Ragnarök was a preventable tragedy. Loki’s three monstrous children are bound, but the why is at best hazy, and with Fenrir it’s an outrage.  

The Gods feared the great wolf, but nothing that survives ever indicates he was a threat. Perhaps we should trust the wisdom of Woden here, perhaps he had some foresight, but all we have from the legends is fear, and it is his binding that sets up the great cascade of events that culminate in the death of the Gods themselves.  

I wonder if one of the reasons Loki went after Baldr, was a result of Woden binding Loki’s son unjustly.  

One might be surprised to see such sentiment from me, but the Gods call me to be honest, and the one thing they never claim to be in all the legends is perfect, nor do they claim to be unchangeable.  

As said, they even face death, which is an ultimate form of change, perhaps the most necessary kind.  

I say this because I realize I am not so different from the ancestors. While many might see my actions as progressive, or even virtuous as a vegan, as someone that strives to go fair trade with her clothing, chocolate and bananas etc. Striving isn’t good enough, is it?  

I’m writing this on a computer that was built with conflict minerals, it’s unavoidable. Most likely some ten year old child working his fingers to the bone mined the cobalt for my fancy electronics.  

Migrants denied any pathway to legal or easy immigration into this country are exploited to grow my food. Some of my clothing was most likely made in sweatshops.  

We like to think that we’ve come far as a society, and we have. We now keep our slave labor, our exploitation of others firmly out of sight while we pat ourselves on the back for wearing hemp and shopping at Whole Foods, judging those that came before us with a type of virtuous horror.  

And it’s not fair to them, and it won’t be fair to us when, five or ten generations down, they look at us as brutal savages either.  

I don’t think anything can make many of the actions of our ancestors right, or understandable, but I think to honor them properly we must look at them with honesty and as lessons of what not to do, how not to be, as much as how to be.  

I see this with the Gods too, and the chronicling of their savagery and past mistakes recorded in the mythology. Woden is not the same God that he was a thousand years ago, he has grown and changed. I am deeply convinced of this. What’s more, the culture that interpreted, or misinterpreted his actions is now gone, and we’re left with our, in some ways, more progressive time where we can forge new relationships with these High Ones.  

Nothing is static, nothing will ever be perfect, but in every era, every time, there were at least a handful, some known, some unknown, that bucked the trend, that sought to be better than the world they were raised in and went beyond what they were given.  

There were people who freed their slaves, fought for justice, or never kept another human being because it just felt wrong. There were noble warriors who never harmed a child or violated a woman in a village.  

They may have been few, they may have done their good deeds under a cloak of eternal anonymity, but we have the same choice.  

I can’t stop it all, but I can stop some. I can’t keep myself from benefiting 100% in the privileged position I exist in, but I can use that privilege to shout from the rooftops and intervene for those that have none.  

We are our deeds, in totality. Much is made of being a warrior in many modern heathen paths. Well, I feel my war is within, and against every systemic cruelty that exists in the world.  

It may be my Jörmungandr, it may be the end of me, but as long as I’m working to do better, and be better, than I feel I am honoring the Ancestors and the Gods.  

[birues]

wip whenever

Tagged by @galadae @lavampira and @hythlodaes tysm friends 💜💜💜💜

Not tagging anyone since it's already passed wednesday but feel free to tag me to your wips!

Summary: This fic follows an instance where, after Hydaelyn yeets Hades back to life and Tuana comes back from the past, they had to defeat Nerva Galvus who has been transformed into Amaurot blasphemy Therion. After this traumatic event, Tuana finds Hades on a ruined mausoleum of Lucius, his firstborn son.

Additional info: Tuana remembers some of Azem's memories due to Azem searing her own memories to her soul before the sundering, and the seal weaved by Hydaelyn to the shards that keeps her from remembering is broken and dissolving with the finale of SHB.

-

Tuana brushes off the gravestone gently with her almost frozen hands. This damned country... This damned place and its damned cold. 

Amidst the cold, a man who hates it as much as she does kneels to the ground. Desperately searching for pieces he could never put back. He could make this place anew, she deducts. He could wave his hand, a single snap, and even with his greatly weakened state, the matter and aether would bow to his whims. 

But there must be some cathartic release to this flounder. After all, what he does, he does for himself. Lucius’ soul has departed to the Underworld years ago. What is there, right now, is nothing but frozen bones lying beneath the ruins. 

Garleans do not hold superstitious beliefs about the graves. And to their gracious father– now who’s doing his best to not shiver– what is a body but a mask easily tossed away? 

Or so he thought. She tries not to think about what Nerva has become. Or she will most likely vomit from the dread that has not yet left her. She tries not to think about what it means– all those nightmares Zenos had. 

She tries. Tries. Tries. And fails. 

What terror must this beloved Crown Prince, now lying beneath a ruined empire, have inherited from his father? 

She moves her fingers lest they fall out. There are no hot chocolates offered with a smile to warm them up now. She clears her throat, an empty indicator. He is not unaware of her presence. Just too fixed on ignoring her. 

“I did not know Lucius’ grave was not amongst the others.” 

The man scoffs, continuing his work unperturbed. “He deserved better than to lie amongst all those– filth.” 

‘Ah. But who defiled the soil to the filth to reap the darkness?’ comes to her tongue but she holds it. It’s nothing he doesn’t know. 

“So you’ve built this place.” she continues with a practiced neutrality.  “Carried his body here.” 

He does not deign to answer.

“So you can cling to the memory of him while you were spitting your resentment to your remaining son and grandson,” she says. “How very typical.” 

The gold of his eyes flares up through the snow. “You’re the last person to accuse me of clinging to the memory.”

“Yes. Just as you wanted. Or have you forgotten your dying wish this quickly?” 

[m0thisonfire]

I would love to hear more about Caramele! What are his likes and dislikes? What's his backstory? [I am giving you permission to infodump. Go wild.]

AH OKIE OKIE- GONNA WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN WHILE I STILL HAVE MOTIVATION

I’m going to put his likes and dislikes at the end of this wall of text, and there is a lot, a lot to get down. Just think of one of those walls of texts that have the pinned up photos, on top of me still learning all the Graveborn lore. So it’s gonna be fanon and my stuff mixed with canon.

Also I started answering this and then went to check something on the lore site, and everything got deleted, so I am still suffering over that-

But to begin:

Caramele was born in a small out of the way country town simply called ‘Stone’ somewhere in the Lightbearer empire, named after the huge stone statue of an unnamed hero that watches over the village. There isn’t anything really remarkable or noteworthy about Stone except for the Blacksmith shop and the widowed Baron who lives there with his son. The only ‘remarkable’ things would be the barrows that are scattered around the town and territory, and the ancient magic that the land seemed to be ‘blessed’ or infused with.

A few of the townfolk can channel a little of the magic to grow crops and flowers, and heal their sick and injured to a very small degree. Nothing that can be used in battle or war, so isn’t really considered powerful magic outside of usefulness.

The Barrows, on the other hand, nobody goes near those unless it’s to pay respect to the dead. Stone would have been built around the time of the First Hypogean War, before Annih went AWOL and created the Hypogeans, so the gravesites belong to powerful mages and soldiers from long, long ago. And in the folklore that was passed down from generations, the barrows would have been protected by ‘Barrow Wraiths’, monsters/protectors of the crypts, created to hunt down grave-robbers and desecraters that would threaten the dead and items within. Not strictly ‘Graveborn’, but certainly not living either.

One such barrow would be nearby the shop in the woods.

Caramele’s family is very keep to themselves for many reasons, but his mom Winnifred, and himself, were always the social butterflies of the family, the ones to often go to the town and pick up orders for his dad. He enjoyed his community, despite the occasional odd look he would get from outsiders due to his albinism, but the locals were more than accepting of the Smiths’ son. Rubin Smith is much more introverted than his wife and children, a big and imposing man of few words and fewer friends, but takes pride in his work and family. Caramele also has two older siblings that spend most of their time hunting and foraging, twins named Addison and Aven. Almost everyone in the family knows how to work the forge, and even then Winnifred helped around the shop keeping it clean and organized. The twins hunted, their mother ran the house and gathered orders, and Caramele helped his father in the forge.

When Caramele would be around ten, disaster would strike.

Remember the Baron’s son I mentioned? Well, turns out, he is a not good person. A very unstable not good person. As in, the kind of unstable not good person you would never trust with Divine magic or sharp objects, which, unfortunately, Leon le Menteur had access to both. In abundance, enough so that when he grew up he went into the Heresy Inquisition in the Lightbearer Temple. Which, in itself, is a bad idea. On top of the fact he is one sadistic guy who would target anyone ‘different’. Different like Caramele.

Leon would be twelve at the time, Caramele ten, and a vicious plot would be unfolding in the Baron’s manor that no one even knew of. Under the cover of being a guest at the noble’s party, a stranger (Vedan) would be paying two grave-robbers to infiltrate the Barrow near the blacksmith’s shop, looking for a powerful spellbook he would use later on (Isabella’s book).

Long story short, the grave-robbers infiltrate the crypt and successfully grab the book, return it to the stranger, end up getting poisoned via wine to erase witnesses, and unintentionally woke up one of the Barrow Wraiths through their desecration and thievery.

The stranger would escape into the night never to return to Stone, yet there would be one life he would indirectly change forever.

While the thieves were stealing the book, Leon would have trapped Caramele in the woods nearby as an ill gotten joke before returning to the Baron’s party. And as the night got late and his family got worried, Winnifred would have gone out by herself to find him.

She found Caramele and helped him. The Barrow Wraith found both of them before they could escape.

When Caramele did eventually reach home after his mother sacrificed herself distracting the Barrow Wraith, his outlook on life would be changed drastically. He would be more reserved, friendly, yes. But he would be wary, even outright hostile to most nobles well into early adulthood, especially Leon. Nevermind the Barrows, he would live the rest of his life terrified of the dark and dead.

His family fell into silent suffering despite the seemingly indifferent yet sad demeanors. Rubin became more reclusive, barely speaking outside of his home unless it was for orders or favors for his neighbors. The twins were still lighthearted and goofy, but they would be adverse to speaking about their mother. Caramele, now spending most of his time in the forge to distract himself and becoming quite antisocial, would immediately change the subject with a pointed tone, growing as quiet as his father.

How did the boy every become a Circus Ringmaster, you may ask?

Thank his siblings for that. Noticing their little brother growing more reclusive as he aged, on his fifteenth birthday they begged their father for tickets to take him to a circus. They had hoped something new and exciting would help their brother out of his depression, and Ruben surprisingly agreed. At first, Caramele was less than enthusiastic when they arrived to the huge circus tent.

And then, once they sat down among the crowd, the show began. And for the first time in five years, Caramele would feel Wonder. Whimsy. Curiosity and genuine excitement. And he smiled, for the first time in years.

And he knew exactly what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

After the show, he searched for the Ringmaster and begged, pleaded to be mentored so he could join the circus too.

The Ringmaster at the time was planning to retire soon anyway, and was more than delighted to mentor the teen to take his place as the new leader. Since the circus traveled often and Caramele was stuck in Stone for the moment, the Ringmaster devised a way to mentor him from afar, writing down spells, tricks, and physical exercises for the boy to practice while the circus was traveling. Every year, around Caramele’s birthday, the troupe would return, and for the two weeks they were near the town, the teen was scored and directed in his abilities.

To Rubin’s relief and pride, his son began branching out, becoming more open and social like he had been before. Caramele spent more time outside the forge practicing his magic and honing his skills. The magic in the land helped him, having grown up on the blessed territory allowed Caramele to wield his magic easily, and eventually it began growing in strength the more he practiced. He trained, and he trained hard, impressing his mentor and the troupe with his dedication and growing passion. He even began performing the tricks and magic for other children and adults in the village, growing more certain in his path with every joyful smile and laugh he received.

The light he could see in others was slowly chasing away the darkness he had seen before, the darkness inside of him.

Alas, I can’t let this man be happy for long, so of course Leon does something drastic again.

At this point, Leon is well beyond obsessed with his childhood (crush) target, and once again corners Caramele in the woods. It would be a week before Caramele’s twentieth birthday, before his debut on the stage and before he took over the circus. Leon, who would be soon sent out to Ranhorn to officially be integrated into the Heresy Inquisition, was less than happy with the idea of Caramele being anywhere the Baron couldn’t keep track of him. So he threatened, pleaded, bargained, offered anything to keep Caramele in Stone until Leon could return for him.

Of course, Caramele refuses. Leon takes offense. A scuffle breaks out, and one right hook later from Caramele, Leon snaps and attacks him. Fortunately, Aven and Addison find them before more damage can be done and chases Leon off. But a shock of Divine magic rendered the nerves in Caramele’s hands shot and painful to move.

The circus arrives early, and the Ringmaster is devastated when he discovers Caramele’s condition. Not as devastated as Caramele though, fearful of being stuck in Stone forever, surrounded by Barrows and the Baron. The Ringmaster is fearful himself, and decides to take Caramele into the troupe early to attempt to help him.

The ceremony to give Caramele leadership goes on as planned, though the Ringmaster revealed there was something he had been keeping from the man until the time was right.

A book of magic in the older man’s possession that was bound to every ringmaster that took an oath to protect it, a book that held magic both damning and approved of. Runes that bent the world to the user’s will, conjuration, alteration, and destructive spells alike. On top of healing spells and illusions that would aid in keeping the circus safe.

The book would be bound to Caramele, and in turn Caramele would be both protected and the protector of his troupe, and the innocent he performed for.

Curious and intrigued, Caramele took the oath binding him to the book's magic. When he was finally given his uniform, already enchanted and imbued with runes from the Ringmaster, he could tell he was given a responsibility larger than he previously assumed. Slipping on his showman’s gloves, enchanted at the last moment due to the newest development, his nerves were soothed and even assisted, little to no pain plaguing him. A relief for his performances.

Ruben, the twins, and the newly retired Ringmaster were present for Caramele’s first performance a week later. Leon was as well, though he left in a fit of rage before the show was over. It was a success, and despite the mysterious book now in his possession, Caramele had never felt more at peace watching the happiness he brought others.

One would assume this is a happy ending. Despite it all, he got to find happiness again. Afterwards, he travels with his troupe all over Esperia, performing for folk and factions of all kind and bringing light and joy where he could.

He kept his circus in top shape, taking in the outcasts and those who had nowhere else to go. As a blacksmith, he could keep the equipment and important fastenings repaired and stable. He was used to wounds and injuries from his time in the forge and his siblings’ hunts, so he could easily stitch and fix minor wounds from accidents. He tested everything himself before shows to ensure top performance and safety for his group, and took genuine joy in training and practice with them. His dedication was admirable, his passion, undeniable. It was everything he ever wanted.

It did not last long. Tragedy number three struck, and struck hard after five years on the road.

It was a day he decided to train by himself in the woods. He wasn’t far from the tent, his troupe stationed near the house of Raine. The estate was a ways off, but Caramele had heard tales of their family. At twenty-five and traveling for years, he mellowed out towards folks and aristocrats, and even hoped that the Raines would attend.

When he heard rustling nearby, he would assume it was an animal of some sort, and be unbothered. When he heard the sound of a young girl groan in pain, he would stop what he was doing and rush to the sound.

It’s here he would first meet Silvina, near death but clinging to life. He would be filled with concern and worry for her, and would approach to help her up, return to the tent, and attempt to heal her. He would not have been able to account for the necromancer that had tracked her…

Caramele’s cause of death was a stab through the back, piercing his heart from behind and being left to bleed out by the necromancer’s surprise attack. Neither he or Silvina would be found by the troupe, and he would be assumed missing for many years to come.

Yet his resurrection causes… intrigue for many Graveborn once they discover his existence.

The necromancer did not resurrect him, no. Only Silvina. And yet, somehow, Caramele was slowly turned into a similar being as her by some unknown force. Not Quaedam, though Caramele would still be under his ‘guidance’.

When he awoke, he was met with the sight of the full moon above him. The next sight was Silvina standing over the body of the necromancer, and a dagger pointed at the newly resurrected Ringmaster. With a little convincing and a gentle hand, he manages to coax Silvina into a calm so he can figure out his situation.

A Graveborn. He was less than thrilled with that, considering his fear of the dead, but oh well. His forced optimism took the second chance as a second chance.

Afraid of returning to his troupe and overwhelmed with his situation and recent resurrection, he offered to travel with Silvina to help her get home safely. Silvina reluctantly allows him to tag along, and eventually, Caramele stands before Vedan’s castle.

On Isabella’s insistence and Silvina’s recounting, Vedan begrudgingly lets him stay with them until he gets his bearings. Of course, they eventually get used to the Ringmaster’s presence, and ‘until he gets his bearings’ turns into ‘You can’t leave, actually. Ever. The girls like you too much, so I won’t let you’.

At first, Caramele and Vedan clash. Hard. Vedan reminds Caramele too much of Leon, and Vedan doesn’t care. Because this guy is a blacksmith turned circus man. Why would someone like Vedan care about what he thinks?

… Until the day came when Vedan realized he somehow began co-parenting with Caramele. Until Caramele realizes that Vedan, in his own way, is completely different from the noble that tormented him growing up.

As time passes and Caramele gets used to being a Graveborn, Vedan integrates him into the ranks and brings him to Bantus.

And that’s usually where Caramele can be found when Vedan and the girls travel there. The man can either be found in the Count’s castle, or somewhere in Thoran’s castle, rarely anywhere else.

While most Graveborn fight and are used to break enemy ranks, Caramele is one of the more ‘essential type’ Graveborn. Not a mindless drone, yet not a fighter either. He usually works in the castle forges repairing everything and anything he can in his free time, or spends most of his time helping other Graveborn. Works in the infirmary with Niru, helps Silas with his experiments, runs papers for different officers, strategizes with Grezhul over battle plans, works in the library keeping records of different things… stays by Vedan’s side as a sort of ‘second opinion’ in the Bloody Priesthood, though he himself isn’t part of it.

His optimism eventually fades into cynical optimistic nihilism, still smiling, yet indulging in much darker humor and becoming more tolerant of the actions of Graveborn around him. Day in, day out, day in, day out… it wears on one's brain, and Caramele goes from initially horrified by those around him, to indifferent and sickeningly amused. He lives to serve, and still uses his passion to perform for his faction and bring a glimmer of joy into the ranks as best he can, though he is often sassy, sarcastic, and very stubborn on his morals and certain matters.

He gets along with the other factions, and is quite peaceful despite his demeanor. There are many things that make him unique as a Graveborn, such as him being able to remember his life as a Lightbearer and being able to walk around in the sun, dubbing him a ‘daywalker’. There are many theories about this from the medical and scientific Graveborn, from his abilities and memory, to the kind of Graveborn he and the girls are, to the fact he seemed to be one of the pactless Graveborn.

The working theory is that the oath Caramele took to bind the book to himself somehow keeps him from Quaedam’s influence and allows him to retain his humanity, though he can interact with the avatar of death just fine. A theory Shemira helped formulate was that he could walk around during the day because of the runes in his uniform. No one wants to test that theory in case Caramele does burst into flames without his unform.

Another working theory is the magic Vedan used in the ritual to turn himself into a Graveborn may have affected Isabella, Silvina, and Caramele’s Graveborn forms. The book, from the barrow in Stone, influenced Isabella’s undead form somehow. Silvina as a Lightbearer being in close contact with her sister at all times seems to have influenced her undead form as well. Caramele is not enthusiastic about this theory, because that would mean even as a child, he would have probably been cursed to this form because of the Barrow Wraith he had been in contact with.

Another reason he does not like that theory is because why the fuck was Vedan in Stone? When, where, why, and what does that mean if Vedan has a book from the gravesite Caramele knows the Barrow Wraith that killed his mother was from? Does Caramele even want to know?

He does not, he finds, because thinking on this actually tempts him to be aggressive and quite murderous. It does not help with his bottled up temper either-

For the current day and age during Afk Arena’s current events, Caramele is more temperamental, yet still subservient, beginning to actually pick fights and itch to fight the Hypogeans. He only takes orders from Vedan, Thoran or Theowyn, Grezhul, or Quaedam himself. Even then it’s begrudgingly and with an unbelievable side of sass.

As a technical Barrow Wraith, Caramele’s prone and main instinct underneath his humanity is to serve and protect his ‘barrow’. Isabella protects her book and sister, Silvina protects her sister and Vedan, Caramele takes it upon himself to protect the Arcanists Union and their home. As a Support Tank, this comes naturally to him, and the growing urge to defend as the Hypogeans grow near leaves him viotile towards intruders and enemies.

——

Likes:

Candies. As a Graveborn, Caramele insists on hard candies to keep himself focused or to zone out while fixating on something. It doesn’t matter to him he can’t really taste it, it’s sweet enough and that’s okay with him.

Coffee. Quaedam save this man, Caramele cannot get through the night without three to five cups of coffee, at least.

Sleep. He sleeps during the day, sleeps during the night. He is dead set on this schedule because it’s what he’s used to. Hence why he needs ungodly amounts of coffee if he’s forced to function at night. But sleep is, to him, temporary death, an escape.

Performing. He still loves making people smile, be it Graveborn, living factions, or Isabella, Silvina, or Daimon. His passion is still what makes him… him.

Smithing. It eases him, reminds him of home and his family. He’s damn good at it too, and takes pride in his work.

——

Dislikes:

A majority of the Graveborn. This man may be all smiles and pleasantries, but he despises the fact most of the Graveborn willingly turned themselves, and/or turned others against their will. He has exceptions, and hears out everyone’s stories. But for the most part, he’s suspicious of everybody.

His height being pointed out. Look, Caramele is only 5’3. He hates being called short. The one time Torne pointed it out, he never did again because Caramele stole his kneecaps and hid them in one of the kitchen cabinets. No one risked calling him short after that.

The dark. Caramele hates the dark. Hates the shadows, hates the things in the shadows, is terrified of the Barrow Wraith from Stone finding him again. At night, he sleeps with a candle.

Mirrors. Caramele. Cannot Stand. Mirrors. He misses how he was before, despite his albinism setting him apart from most people. He can’t stand seeing himself as a Graveborn, an undead, with ashen skin and glowing green eyes, and horns and a tail, so similar from the monster that killed his mom yet so different… he avoids mirrors whenever he can.

Eating humaniods. Caramele will not touch or eat anything considered humaniod or part of a faction. In his opinion, dead is dead, and goes out of his way to avoid eating people, choosing to eat animals instead. He does not trust a plate of meat given to him by anyone in his faction, and will not eat it.