#my sense of discipline is slaying again

[perle-in-her-boudoir]

I was with my friend at this local antique stall and he was pondering about getting a book (a niche dictionnary from the 60's) and knowing he didn't have lots of money, so I applied my anti impulse buying technique on him. And when the impulse passed, he said "Dang, this is why you are the most successful in your studies!"

Lmaooo this backhanded comment lives in my head rent free 😭😂

[unpopularwriter25]

hey there! if i already sent this ask, then sorry for sending it again! bcs last night i really am not sure if it was a dream that i sent an ask? i have my ocs information and are wondering if you could match him up with a kny hashira? tysm!

Akito Fujimoto — Hashira

Age: 22

Height: 200cm

Gender: Male || Sexuality: Gay (… very gay)

Appearance: Has red fluffy hair that falls to his waist. Half of it is put into a neat bun. He also has a black army hat, with the word “KILL” in kanji embroidered on the front and centre. The man has bangs that hide his burn scars and missing left eyeball. His mouth is exposed. He has a mechanical right arm and padding for it. The uniform’s sleeve is cut off for the right side and the other side is the usual long sleeves. He has a haori that kinda just like… drapes on his left shoulder until his upper torso.

Personality: He’s often quiet and doesn’t talk often. Fireworks and any other loud noises get him all angry and raged (which fuels him for battle, hence why he uses guns). Although, he has a certain soft spot for people he likes. Akito used to serve in the Japanese army for a while before turning to demon slaying. 

Weapons: Big. Freaking. Arm. Gun. The man uses his mechanical arm for battle, being able to exchange the gun attachment to any other bigger or smaller gun. He can also do hand to hand combat is he wanted to.

Hobbies: He enjoys playing musical instruments as well as just… chilling on the porch and drinking tea.

im not actually sure if your kny ships are still open, but tysm!

Hey hey!! Thank you for the request!! I hope you enjoy!!

I ship you with Tengen Uzui!!

Tengen’s flamboyant and lively personality contrasts with Akito’s quiet and reserved nature, creating a balanced and complementary partnership.

Both have strong protective instincts and a dedication to their comrades, enhancing their teamwork and mutual support.

Tengen’s sound-based attacks and brute strength pair well with Akito’s ranged precision and strategic thinking, making them a versatile and formidable team.

Akito’s disciplined and duty-driven nature would resonate with Tengen’s own sense of responsibility and commitment to his comrades.

Tengen’s protective nature and commitment to justice align with Akito’s motivations, creating a strong foundation for mutual respect and support.

Their shared interest in music and relaxation would foster a deeper connection and provide moments of respite from their duties.

Tengen’s appreciation for the arts would resonate with Akito’s musical interests, providing common ground for bonding.

Tengen’s sound-based attacks and brute strength would pair well with Akito’s ranged precision, allowing for coordinated and multifaceted battle strategies.

Akito's precision and adaptability in combat would complement Tengen’s versatile and powerful attacks, creating a well-rounded combat team.

Akito's reserved nature would be balanced by Tengen’s outgoing personality, creating a dynamic where Tengen could help Akito open up.

Tengen’s outgoing nature would complement Akito’s quiet demeanor, while his compassion could help soothe Akito’s rage and bring out his soft side.

Tengen, with his own combat background, would appreciate and respect Akito’s military experience, fostering mutual understanding and camaraderie.

His experience and strategic skills complement Akito’s disciplined military approach, making them a well-rounded team.

His imposing presence and unique weaponry would pair well with Tengen’s physical strength, creating a formidable duo.

Tengen’s physical prowess and combat style would complement Akito’s mechanized weaponry, allowing for versatile combat strategies.

Akito's striking appearance and unique style would complement Tengen’s flamboyance, making them a visually compelling pair.

[blackjackkent]

Wyll steps forward, crouches down to rest a hand in respect against the dead dragon's massive skull.

As his hand draws close, a sudden flare of white light flickers in the dragon's empty eye socket - then bursts outward like an explosion.

WHAM. The light bursts across Wyll's body, through his head, wrenching him off the ground and onto his back, floating contorted in midair.

Dimly he's aware of Hector screaming his name in alarm, but he can see nothing, feel nothing, he is conscious only of the tremendous presence flooding his mind.

Narrator: The dragon's spirit floods your mind and memory in a great torrent of power. He is with you, he is within you, he *is* you. The next words that spill from your mouth are not yours, but the wyrm's.

"I AM ANSUR. HEART OF THE GATE. BUTCHERED IN FLESH, RISEN IN SPIRIT."

Gods, it hurts... it hurts... He struggles for all the training his father gave him, the soldier's discipline and the leader's awareness and battles for control of his own mind.

Bite back the words that aren't yours.

Narrator: Ansur binds you despite your best efforts - yet thought flows effortlessly between you.

Narrator: The spirit pauses, and you feel the Astral Prism stir. Ansur senses the Emperor's presence within it.

ANSWER ME, FAESSI, the great dragon growls in his mind. WHY HAVE YOU COME?

The pain in his wrenched arms and back is overwhelming but he manages to grip on to the pieces of a response and draw them together into a coherent whole. My father sent me. Duke Ulder Ravengard. We need your help...

Narrator: A deep sigh resonates within you. The torrent stills - only disturbed by the dragon's next words.

VRAK. MY WORDS AREN'T MEANT FOR YOU, the dragon growls. THEY'RE MEANT FOR HIM.

The pain eases, the terrible power gripping him shifting as if to reduce the pressure on his spine. But he is not released, nor does he understand what's going on. At first he thinks the dragon somehow means Hector - but he suspects they may be locked in a moment all their own, and that Hector and the others have no knowledge of what is occurring here at all.

No... the dragon means someone else.

Narrator: The Emperor stirs in the Astral Prism... then in you. Calm, curious, and detached.

Dimly Wyll is aware of the Emperor's presence drifting into being at his side, wreathed in an undulating gold light, a counterpoint to Ansur's blue energy.

The dragon's voice seems to smile coldly. BALDURAN, it says. YOUR PRESENCE HAS STIRRED ME, AS IT EVER DID. I AM AWAKENED.

Ansur, the Emperor answers, its tone unreadable. It's been too long.

(A/N: For those wondering why I am not doing my usual flipping-a-shit about this reveal, I direct you to this post, my greatest victory in the field of deep cut reference spotting, where I worked this out about a month in advance. However, if I had not, I would ABSOLUTELY be losing my mind right now; this is huge.)

Wyll's body writhes with an undirected, desperate squirm; had he control of his face, it would show bewilderment, astonishment.

He called you Balduran? he thinks, and even such a simple thought takes such tremendous effort to formulate under the combined weight of the two personalities clashing in his head.

A name I once answered to, the Emperor answers. Its attention is fully focused on the dragon and very little upon Wyll; it answers almost carelessly. A name I did not expect to hear again, least of all from the mouth of an old friend.

FRIEND, YES, rumbles the dragon. AND MORE. UNTIL YOU KILLED ME. HAVE YOU COME TO DANCE ON MY BONES, BALDURAN? WAS SLAYING ME NOT SATISFACTION ENOUGH?

Wyll can see the Emperor's tentacles twitch out of the corner of his eyes. Satisfaction? the mind flayer answers. No. You left me no choice.

YOU HAD EVERY CHOICE! the dragon thunders. YOU WERE BECOMING ILLITHID. I OFFERED YOU MERCIFUL DEATH. YOU CHOSE TO FIGHT. AND NOW YOU BRING YOUR THRALL BEFORE ME. HOW FAR HAS THE GREAT BALDURAN FALLEN?

It's a good question, and one Wyll would be a lot more interested in the answer to if his brain didn't feel like it was being boiled from the inside out. But he struggles against the pain and the overwhelming forces clashing through his body, and focuses on his own pride, his own person, the will of his father and himself that he means to enact here or die trying.

I am no thrall, Ansur, he cries out mentally, with all the force he can muster. I've come for your aid!

Narrator: Stillness. Ansur's consciousness hovers just above yours, searching, seeing.

Dear Ansur... the Emperor begins, and there's a strange weight to its tone that is puzzling, but there's no time to work it out.

ENOUGH! the dragon roars, with such force that Wyll feels his skull might split apart. I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING, BALDURAN! AND YOU REPAID ME IN SLAUGHTER. IT IS TIME I RETURN THE FAVOR!

Power begins to surge around the great corpse, infusing it with more of that pale blue light.

I AM THE HEART OF THE GATE! Ansur bellows like a thunderclap. I AM THE ONE WHO ROARS! LET MY BONES RISE AND THE STORMS GATHER. WITNESS, BALDURAN - THE FINAL TEMPEST HAS COME! THIS TIME YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE IT!

Wyll's body collapses to the ground. He hears Hector shouting again, feels friendly hands on his shoulders, helping him to his feet. But as he staggers up, his weight slumped into Hector's side, he looks up and sees that the dragon's corpse is moving.

"Oh gods..." Hector whispers. "What happened?"

Wyll pulls his feet under himself desperately, shoving aside the exhaustion and pulling his rapier from its sheath. "Nothing according to plan, that's for sure," he rasps. "And it's that damned illithid's fault."

[fair-dinkum-mechanic]

I'm going to try and put this into words again but I always fail because it's so overwhelming and makes no sense to try and intellectualise such an innate feeling of dread that has been with me since I was a small child.

If anyone has an input on this (bc it's been a thing latent in my brain ever since I can remember) please dm me. I need to know what this is bc I believe it's where a significant chunk of my mental illness lies.

So ever since I was a young kid I NEVER felt I fit in. At first I thought I was just weird in general, but then I started to realise I didn't fit in with "masculine" things. I remember even was I was 2-6 years old adults commenting that I wasn't like the other boys, I was interested in reading and making my own little worlds and not running around or kicking a ball or anything like that. Now I know most queer men experience this in childhood, but what I mean extends further than that I feel. I truly felt like I was defective. Something was deeply, deeply wrong with me for not enjoying the things i was supposed to enjoy. From a VERY early age I was friends with girls. Some boys sure but I always thought the girls were nicer, cooler, something to aspire to. But I didn't grow out of that. I never saw myself as a "male" I just kinda... existed? But of course masculine things were FORCED on me every day and the anxiety I used to get going into school, or going home, or picking out clothes to wear, was terrifying. I remember being called a poof by my family in a joking way but I could see that deep down they were terrified that I was gay. It was not an acceptable thing to be in my family, it was explicitly stated by all members several times. But I never, ever related to anything masculine. I am spiritually estranged from my dad and my brother, where I can't even stand to speak to them because they were both so aggressively value and prioritise masculine views and ways. I would have "crushes" on girls but all that was, was me imagining cuddling with them or hugging them or going on cute dates and if I ever imagined it getting sexual, or even a kiss that was too passionate I was repulsed. So clearly, I was gay from a young age but didn't know it.

But now in my life, almost at 30, I still don't relate to masculinity. I don't know what's wrong with me. So many gay men, most of them I see actually, have been able to embrace it. Especially as someone who is older, and mostly a "top" there's a certain role I'm expected to fulfil, in order to be worthy of a relationship or anything like that. I did go to the gym every secondd day for a few years, and even then I wasn't lifting hard or monitoring my gains or doing ANYTHING like that because I can't think of anything worse, but that's what these men do. And on the other end of the spectrum, I'm not a feminine guy either. I'm put off by long nails and long hair on men (sexually, honestly do whatever you want with your body and slay), but like I don't find interest in makeup or fashion or any of those traditionally "feminine" things. Though I do see more merit in those than the opposite.

But I still have this internal view of what I need to be to be worthy of living in this world. I'm a man. I'm not trans, I've had that debate years ago in myself and found that out. But I'm not a man. But living as one there are certain things I need to be, certain ways I'm expected to behave, ways I'm supposed to look and things I'm supposed to want. Sure I may align with very few of them but I don't even HOLD myself like other men I see. I can't grow a beard like every other man I see. Like every man I see plastered over social media and commercials and in movies and in music. I actually hate and am deeply unsettled by masculinity. Deeply. But I feel like because I'm not that I'm destined to die alone, and I put that as a personal failure on my part. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough? Maybe I'm too weak? No self discipline? And I can't help but believe that this lack of masculinity in looks, in behaviour, in drive, is why other men are offput by me. Why I'm so disposable. Not in an incel way bc I don't blame anyone else in the end I blame myself. I don't have trouble hooking up, bc that's the most masculine thing about me. But I don't want that. I've done that. I want... peace. I want comfort. I want love and light and warmth and I want to feel like I'm worthy of that but I don't. I don't feel worthy of that. Because I'm wrong. There's something wrong with me. I'm broken and that's why I'm feeling so alone.

[solarscholarsofmagick]

10 Things that EVERYONE Needs to Know Before Starting the Craft

1. Wicca and Witchcraft are Not the Same Thing

This is a pet-peeve of mine when people use those words interchangeably. So, what’s the difference? To put it simply, Wicca is a religion, while witchcraft is a practice. It’s like saying that prayer and Christianity are the same thing. Wicca is a relatively new invention, being created in the late 1950’s by Gerald Gardner after he spent a lot of time in Asia and became enthralled with their spirituality, which he merged with various occult practices that he came across in his travels. Witchcraft, on the other hand, is defined, at least by this author, as the act of manipulating the energy around you to achieve a goal. You can be either or you can be both, but they are not mutually exclusive.

2. Witchcraft Does Not Need to Kill Your Bank Account

If you follow many big-name witch influencers, more than likely, you will get caught up in the aesthetic of hundreds of beautiful crystals, perfect altars, sculpted candles, and much more elaborate and expensive things. Now, I want to make it clear, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with that, but it is not always feasible to have (or afford) everything required to fit that aesthetic. Rough, unpolished crystals will work just as good as the one you saw that was professionally polished and carved into the shape of a skull. You can get candles at thrift shops, not just at the website that sells specifically anointed candles for every specific intention. Remember, it is not the tool that makes the witch, but the witch that makes the tool!

3. Know the Difference Between a Coven and A Cult

While it is not necessary, there are definitely some benefits that come with finding a coven that welcomes you with open arems. So, first off, what is a coven?

A coven is a group of like-minded witches that help each other out magickally and hold a special bond or connection. They will often perform rituals together. Please keep in mind that there is a difference between a coven and a cult.

A coven is rewarding, full of (usually) great people and potential friends, while a cult is dangerous, toxic, and filled with people who often prey on the vulnerable or unaware.

Here are some potential warning signs of a cult:

They encourage you to cut off ties with your friends and family.

They try their best to make you dependent on them.

They pressure you into engaging in sexual/criminal/drug activities.

You feel as if it is dangerous to leave.

The “leader” equates themselves to a deity or is a “my word is law” type.

You feel as if you are walking on eggshells around them.

There is some “divine” goal that you must behave a very specific way in order to reach.

Those who manage to escape are demonized and/or are made into examples.

If you suspect that you or a loved one are in a dangerous situation, please contact the appropriate authorities.

4. Witchcraft Can Become Mundane

Pop culture has a bad habit of sensationalizing witchcraft. As cool as it looks, witchcraft isn’t all lightning fingers and demon-slaying. You most likely won’t become a soldier of a magickal war, facing down an ancient evil that was recently released. Sorry, I didn’t mean to burst your bubble!

That being said, witchcraft is extremely rewarding and can be as fun as you make it!

Just like with any other art, it requires discipline! It requires study, practice, and essential tasks (or as they are often fondly called, witchy chores). Some of these “chores” include cleansing, charging, decorating, meditation, and more. Unfortunately, as we all know, these tasks may feel tedious, but they are often very necessary. Again, it is as fun as you make it, and you will be less likely to burn out/hate performing the tasks if you view them as the essential tasks they are rather than unnecessary chores.

5. Learn As Much of the Basics That You Can

As much as we want to immediately jump into more flashy things such as astral projection and elaborate spells or hexes, you must learn the basics first. Why? Because, without a strong grasp of the basics, your magickal work can be unstable and reap results that you may not have intended, including ones that cause harm to you or those around you. To quote a cliche, you must learn to crawl before you can walk.

Here are some basics that I recommend you begin with:

Visualization

Meditation

The history of witchcraft

The elements of a spell

Color/stone/common herb correspondences

Grounding

Different types of the craft

6. Elitism Exists and it’s Bullsh*t

Unfortunately, no matter what community you are in, there will always be a few bad apples, but I will be referring specifically to elitists. Elitists in the witchcraft community tend to preach that their way is the only true way to be a witch, that you must have the most expensive of tools, or that witches who come from a family of witches are better than those who do not. If there is one thing that I want you to take from this article, it’s that, no matter what anyone says, you will NEVER be any less of a witch because of your bloodline, ethnicity, skin color, religion, spiritual practice, or socio-economic status!

7. You Don’t Need to Choose Between Religion and the Craft

One of the most common reasons of being apprehensive towards starting your journey through the craft that I see is a fear of retaliation within your own religion. For example, a lot of Christian witches will initially be afraid of going to hell for their practices. As someone who grew up in the Bible Belt of the Southern United States (poor Awen still lives there), I can definitely relate to this feeling. However, I, as well as several other religious witches, can say that you can have both. You do not need to drop one to have the other. In my eyes, your relationship with your god(s) is between them and you and is nobody else’s business.

To make things a little easier, however, I recommend sliding into the craft slowly. Dip your toe in the proverbial water. Try starting by engaging in activities that aren’t necessarily tied to witchcraft such as meditating, grounding, growing plants, or even just collecting pretty rocks. I also recommend reaching out to practicing witches within your faith for advice. It also may be a good idea to truly research religions of interest and make sure that your religion is a good match for you. It is okay to realize that the religion you were raised to be in, like being raised to be in a particular political party, does not have to be your religion. If it is and it causes you and others around you no harm, then I am truly happy for you and support you.

8. Learn to Listen to Your Intuition/”Gut”

We tend to have a 6th sense for danger or the presence of another being. You may recognize this feeling when you can feel that someone is watching you. Our instincts are built into us to keep us alive. Personally, following my gut has saved my life more than once. In one particular incident, my gut told me to stop at a crosswalk despite not seeing any nearby cars and the sign telling me to walk. Seconds later, a truck sped by, running the red light at full speed.

If you feel that a spell has taken a turn towards the unwanted, find a stopping point and seal it away. Feel as if a deity is calling you? Take the time to research them and their calling cards. However, please take the time to learn the difference between a negative gut feeling and general nervousness, as it does feel different.

9. Learn the Difference Between Good and Bad Resources

Misinformaion and toxic ideologies can be dangerous when it comes to witchcraft. You can read extensively about the difference between the two in my previous post about it here.

10. It’s Okay If the Craft is Not for You

If you decide to try out the craft and later feel as if it isn’t clicking… that’s okay. The initial decision to explore is not one for life. Just like how certain sports, hobbies, music, et cetera are not for everybody, witchcraft is not for everybody. Anyone who decides to judge you for that is wrong and not worth your time.

Please consider supporting us by viewing the original post on our website, here!

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Assignment

“I just got my first Dragonslaying mission! I asked Mingfei if you can come with me, and he said yes!”

“What? You what?!” Celeste’s voice was tense and Tigre interpreted this as excitement. 

“Isn’t it great?”

“Hold on... hold...” She was moving over the phone. Then she whispered. “Mingfei? Since when were you on a first name basis with the Student Union president?” 

Light was streaming in through the wall of windows providing ample illumination to the many rows of canvasses and easels.

Celeste was in studio of Cassell College where she practiced painting. Her works were sold in galleries around the world under a male pseudonym and all proceeds went into a trust fund for her own personal foundation to alleviate the poverty in her country. 

On her canvass she painted the aftermath of hundreds of shredded papers lined with red ink like blood. She was almost finished, but she stepped out of the studio to avoid disturbing others. “When do you leave?”

“Tonight, so you need to pack. I invited Porsche and Ruby already.”

Celeste mouth opened. All three of her sisters on a dragonslaying mission. She stared at the phone stunned. What if something happened to all three of them? Who would inherit their land? She chewed her lip. “I... Did they already accept?”

“Yeah... they didn’t call you?”

Celeste pursed her lips. Then she faked a smile. “Yes. They did, I was just testing you. So... what time are we all meeting?”

“10 pm at the helipad. Oh... and don’t worry about it being dangerous. Mingfei... erm... President Lu says we’ll only play a small role.”

Celeste let out a breath. “That doesn’t sound too bad. It makes sense given the fact that you haven’t even completed Battlefield training yet. Anyway, I’m going to hurry and go prepare. Bye.”

She hung up without waiting for him.

“Celeste did you really have to barge in here like a tyrant? I understand you’re mad but we all came here to slay dragons.”

“No...” Celeste corrected Porsche as she walked through the door of their shared dorm. “We came here to forge our own way forward. Slaying dragons could be a way to do it, but only if we all live!” She tilted her head, her eyes snapping.

Porsche was filling her suitcase neatly and ignoring her sister’s attitude. “There’s no downside to this. If we come back, we are easily Lionheart leaders and we will get credits for the whole year. No one will ignore us again and people will finally stop asking us about giving our lives away to some man, instead, we’ll have the upper hand.”

Ruby was silent and Celeste sighed. “We need to decide who’s going to be the designated driver here though. If things go south, then...”

“Don’t worry. Lu Mingfei has survived encounters with Dragon Kings three times already on S level missions. This is actually classified as A level. So it’s well within his ability, which is probably why he’s letting us go.” She snapped her suitcase shut.

“We should have a plan B. Who survives if the rest of us don’t?” Celeste was adamant, but silence met her request.

“Let’s draw lots.” Ruby suggested. She walked over to a small table where there was a sandalwood box. Inside were three sticks of a differing color. Red, Blue and White. Whichever stick fell into the hook at the bottom was the chosen one. “Call your colors. I pick red.”

“Blue.” said Celeste.

“I’m not playing, it’s between you two.” Porsche didn’t even look up. 

Within hours the large jet carrying the team was flying through the night air above the United States and Lu Mingfei found himself in an unenviable position as a lead to a gaggle of Freshman. Fortunately, these appeared to be all disciplined people. The seats face each other. Mingfei sat across from Tigre and Celeste while Porsche and Ruby played games on their phones.

Celeste offered Tigre a box of juice and he happily accepted it.

"So, please tell us about the mission.”

“Oh... I... sure.” He picked up the folder from Toyama and opened it. The first thing he saw was a photo of Tigre in his hospital bed. This was taken right after Tigre’s arrival at Cassell College. The photo was attached to even more information. An illegal fighting ring was established on the US-Mexico border. Chu Zihang was sent to investigate. It was his idea to infiltrate the ring directly through a sponsor. But Chu Zihang himself ended up captured. The only person who escaped was Tigre.

There was a large investigation into his past but little came up. The young man seemed to have no past at all and no memory of it. But they did find that the money used to fund the ring was related to border cartels. If Tigre had family, they were likely dead.

Mingfei hesitated a moment, glancing at Tigre who was watching him eagerly. He didn’t want to tell him any of this if he didn’t have to. “So... apparently, there may be dragons in the desert of the Southwest. It’s not 100% but we’re pretty sure.” 

He held out a different photo. “This was taken about five years ago by a rancher. The man claimed that he saw something called a Chupacabra and posted it online. Cassell immediately took it down because they recognized it as a dragon species of canine, but ... they never found it.”

“Then there’s this.” He held out another piece of paper. A long list of names. “These are all people who took a certain route that came to be called “La Ruta de la Muerte.” Or The Death Route. It’s said that no one who takes that route ever completes their journey. Walking through a desert is always perilous, but this area has a 100% death rate. That’s not natural. Cassell has quarantined the area already in the name of research.”

“These are... ... at least 200 names!” Celeste’s eyes widened. “How can so many people disappear without anyone knowing?”

“I guess they just don’t care?” Mingfei shrugged, unfamiliar with the situation down South. “Anyway, Toyama got an important clue that this might be related to Tigre’s captivity. That’s why he was invited.”

Tigre nodded gravely. 

Celeste glanced at him. “Are you sure?” She asked. 

“It wasn’t my decision.” Mingfei said.

Tigre suddenly slumped against the window and Celeste was quick to catch him. 

Mingfei gasped in alarm. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. I put sedatives in his juice.” She said resting him more comfortably against the headrest.

“But... why?” Mingfei looked at her. What sort of person poisons their roommate?

“He talks like a dragon at night.” Celeste whispers. “I’ve caught him more than once, saying dragon words into his pillow. I don’t want him to start babbling and blow up the plane!”

Mingfei froze.

“Look, I know you want to make this seem like a light matter, but Dragonslaying is never a light matter.” She smiled, but her eyes were serious. “You probably need to keep confidentiality and I understand, but I have an obligation to keep my sisters safe. I know you’re not telling us the whole story.”

Mingfei’s eyes lowered. “I’m hoping you won’t need the whole story...”

[ladymaigrey]

Enneagram and DD/Defenders – Part 2 – Matt the Reformer

Find all the posts in https://ladymaigrey.tumblr.com/tagged/enneagram (or go to my blog and look for “enneagram” tag)

gif courtesy of @dead-fandom-support-group​ (see her other enneagram gifs here)

TL:DR – The Reformers are perfectionistic and idealistic, with strong drives to “do good” and little patience for any perceived failure. Quick to anger and guilt-prone. Certain, stalwart and arrogant on the outside, they question themselves on the inside: are they actually “good”? are they sure they are right?

When under stress, they can become narrow-minded, self-centred and dramatic (movement towards Type 4 - Individualist).

For balance, they need to learn how to relax and let-go a bit - let the world spin on its own for a little while (acquire some characteristics from Type 7 - Enthusiast).

Matt: in addition to fitting Type 1 description (and often going towards Type 4), also has some characteristics from Type 2 – Helper, particularly the tendency to put the needs of other’s before one’s own, to the point of martyrdom.

The Reformer - in general

The Reformer has a strong value system about what is right and wrong and is quick to judge themselves and others in accordance to these norms. They are perfectionistic, but practical. They struggle to tolerate ambiguity or subjectivity, preferring objective facts and categories. They like to plan, organise, control, impose order over chaos.

The Reformers are their own harshest critics. They can be quick to anger if they see themselves or others falling short of their ideals. Yet anger often causes guilt, if they believe that a truly “good” person should not get angry. Therefore, anger is often suppressed out of conscious awareness. Still, it tends to come out in expressions of righteous indignation, sarcasm and guilt.

They are quick to argue, moralise or instruct – because they Know How Things Are Supposed To Be. Yet, internally, they are often worried that they are wrong, that they are not Good. Although they may question themselves on the inside, outwardly they will struggle to shift from their position because admitting they are wrong is too threatening to their idealised self-image.

The Reformers are over-responsible. At extreme, they can get burned out with carrying their unrealistic “shoulds” and “musts”. They struggle to relax and have fun.

According to Wagner (1980, p. 60) “They identify with St. George slaying the dragon, crusading to make the world a better place to live in.”

Research participants identified (or identifying) as Type 1, also tended to have high Conscientiousness (Big-5) scores and high Sensing (S), Thinking (T) and Judging (J) scores in MMPI test.

Matt the Reformer 

Judging on the basic outline and, particularly, that St George quote, Type 1 fits Matt well.

His definition of “doing good” is to defend the little guy against injustices and stand up to the unjust strong and teach them a lesson. He is perfectionistic, highly conscientious and disciplined when it comes to his goals - a legacy of his Dad’s insistence on academic diligence, Stick’s drilling, and his internal drive to protect and see justice done.

He is very certain of his direction on the outside, defending his position with a bull-headed obstinacy to rival the Punisher, but he questions himself on the inside. He is often plagued by worries that he is not, in fact, “good” or “just” at all – worries that he most likely internalised from his childhood, from those who admonished “Be careful of the Murdock boys, they have the Devil in them.” Therefore, he feels like he must forever prove his goodness to himself.  He is over-responsible to a ridiculous degree, taking it as a personal goal to prevent all injustice he “can” (i.e. that he is within an earshot of, and his earshot is looooong). Whenever he “fails” - guilt and rage follow. Rage (and violence), in turn, feed into his guilt and self-doubts about being “good”. Sometimes it seems that he is more guilt-ridden than an old farmhouse is ridden with termites.

For all of Type 1s’ practicality and need to control, when it comes to pursuit of goals and facing threats, they tend to make decisions instinctually, based on the product of their perceptions and gut-response. Matt Murdock is an allegorical embodiment of this concept. He responds to what his senses tell him – responds immediately and, often, drastically, without pausing for thought or communication with significant others. For type 1s (and other “gut” types 8 and 9), this often stems from the belief that “life is a battle, and their weaknesses must be tested” (Zuercher, 1992, as quoted in Hook et al., 2020), and THIS IS THE MOST MATT-DESCRIPTIVE STATEMENT I’ve ever read in a peer-reviewed psych article!

In addition to Type 1 characteristics, Matt shares some Type 2 characteristics (in Enneagram parlance, that would make him a Type 1 with a Type 2 wing). Specifically, Matt seems to take pride in denying his own physical and safety needs in order to meet the needs of others, as per his self-imposed responsibilities. This type of martyrdom is more characteristic of Type 2s (Helpers). At the same time, the occasional over-the-top drama that goes with that martyrdom is characteristic of Type 4 (Individualists).

Although, to be fair, it is always difficult to judge psychological state purely from behaviour. So, it is debatable whether his tendency to put his needs last is driven more by his Type 1 perfectionism (i.e. his internal need to do “good” overpowers his other basic needs), or his Type 2 martyrdom beliefs (i.e. the belief that his suffering is immaterial, and even required, in the face of the suffering of others, and that he only matters when he helps others). As @ceterisparibus116 and I discussed sometimes ago, it seems that martyrdom tendencies tend to raise their head when he has faced some kind of “failure” or setback - when he is feeling low regarding his life and identity. At such times, it is perhaps a heightened need for self-sacrifice – to prove his goodness and worthiness through meeting the needs of others to the detriment of his own - that may contribute to some of his more painful (and draMattic) physical excesses.

Then again, human psychology is a mudbath and it is never clear which rising bubble is driven by which underlying motivation.

(As an aside, I do think that the DD-fandom (myself included) has embraced the Type 2 martyr!Matt more than the canon actually suggests. He is often written in fics as forgetting or forgoing his basic needs (including food, sleep and medical care) in order to constantly give of himself to others. I wonder if, on some level, it reflects the real-life tendency to react to Type 2s – the “humble” Helpers – in a more positive or warmer way than the “arrogant” Type 1 do-gooders.)

Anyway.

When faced with crisis and failures, Matt does tend to move towards Type 4 (Individualist), as suggested by the Enneagram theory. He becomes dramatic in his sense of uniqueness and messiahnism; also – self-isolating, liable to be impulsive and making self-destructive decisions. His thinking narrows down myopically to the sole pursuit and defence of his goals. Although his goals as Daredevil revolve around “saving” others, being Daredevil is a large part (if not the whole) of what defines his life’s meaning to him. Therefore, his narrow focus at these times of high stress, and his prioritisation of Daredevil’s goals above the feelings and goals of significant others, is suggestive of a strong core of defensiveness/self-protectiveness. The righteousness of his aims is, in part, a psychological mask; it is a demand for others to excuse his poor relational behaviour on the basis of the specialness of the burden he chooses to bear.

That is not to imply that, when Matt stands up for his identity and his goals to his friends, it should only be regarded as a sign of self-centredness or depression! Telling those, who persistently refuse to accept someone’s truth, that ‘this is who I am’ – as he does to Foggy in Seasons 1 and 2 – can be a sign of positive self-regard and self-esteem. Similarly, when Matt gravitates towards the Type 4 Elektra and attempts to embrace some of her ideals of putting personal wants before duty, it is driven by a healthy impulse to balance the obsessive nature of his goals. Or, at the very least, to share the burden.

Matt is also capable of behaviors that, according to the Enneagram, balance some of the unhealthy extremes of his Type 1 characteristics. Although he is serious and driven most of the time, he is also capable of relaxing and having fun (which is a type 7 characteristic – the balance archetype for Type 1s). Although Matt is perfectionistic, it isn’t driven just by guilt and fear - he also wants to reach his targets (e.g. excelling in law school) for the sense of achievement it gives him (which is a Type 3 trait). He practices some mental and emotional self-care, leaning into the benefits of meditation which, at least in theory, should allow him to switch off from his over-thinking and judging, and simply be touch with his internal sensations without reactivity.

Finally, I think the fact that Matt doesn’t totally disavow his anger but, instead, finds a productive release for it while punching crime in the face, is overall a healthy(-ish) impulse. His anger has a specific role in his goals. Therefore, he has, at least partially, solved the dilemma that plagues Type 1s, i.e. that their anger means they can’t truly be “good”. Only partially though, as he certainly still has plenty of self-doubts and internal guilt trips (see the “why did God put the Devil in me” conversation with Father Lantom in Season 1).

Wagner (1980) advises that, in order to achieve psychological balance and free themselves from the overwhelming perfection of their world-altering goals, Type 1s need to learn that,

“The universe is not perfect, yet, but it is unfolding as it should. Be patient, God isn’t finished with me, yet.” (p. 113) 

To me, this advice seems similar to the idea of the Tapestry that Father Lantom spoke of to Matt (see conversation between Matt and Sister Maggie in S3e13). Enneagram, being theistic in its origin, makes many allusions to the perfection of the Process by which the world works and of the Divine Thought guiding it. This axiom states that all moments and all creatures within this process are perfect in themselves and in their place. Perceptions of imperfection come from the Ego, which is of the mind, not of the Divine original essence. Serenity – the lost virtue of Type 1s – comes from trusting the perfection of the process and the Divine Love guiding it.

By the end of Season 3, Matt appears to have made some steps towards accepting this premise. At least - intellectually. Maybe.

References

Wagner, J.P. (1980). A descriptive, reliability, and validity study of the Enneagram personality typology (Doctoral Dissertation). Retrieved from https://ecommons.luc.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=3108&context=luc_diss

Zuercher, S. (1992). Enneagram spirituality: From compulsion to contemplation. Ave Maria Press.

[thedyingmoon]

Hi there. I hope you can write for me a one shot for Vergil where reader is injured or really sick but she tries to be tough and hides it from him because she afraid he will hate her for her weakness. Please add fluff in the end for this lovely man. Thank you

( Okay, we're gonna do it this time! You can't stop me, Tumblr!😤😤😤 )

Hello for the 3rd time, anon ( I've been trying to send this twice in a row now because Tumblr kept messing up the vid. So, I'm sorry, no vid this time😢😢😢 )! I hope you like this Vergil oneshot I wrote for you, especially the fluff at the end.😊😊😊

***

***

You wanted so much to complain for being left out of the battle. But, then again, he chose to be left out with you, and you didn't even know why.

It all started when you were attacked by a nasty horde the last time you were commissioned for an extermination. The task was simple: take out some species of Empusa that were roaming about a certain location in Red Grave.

Yes, a simple task. And with a high paycheck to boot.

So, naturally, Vergil allowed you to take the mission on your own.

See, he believed in you and your capabilities as a Devil Hunter. You just didn't expect, heck, any of you didn't, that the nasty, low - ranked Demons would come at you as a horde.

Slices after slices of your dual blades, you hacked at the disgusting things that came at you non stop. You were able to take down as many as you could, until their Queen lunged at you and almost killed you. It was a good thing that Vergil came along just in the nick of time to finish it off.

Yes, he believed in you and your capabilities as a Devil Hunter. Things,... just didn't flow according to plan. Yes, you were able to finish the mission but, it was Vergil who ultimately ended it. Yes, you were able to take the majority of the horde down but, it was Vergil who slayed the Queen.

Yes, you survived what was supposedly a very easy mission for a strong and very competent Devil Hunter such as yourself but, it was all because of Vergil.

Once again, you were reminded of how weak you were as a human compared to the others, to Dante, to Trish, to Lady, to Nero,...

... especially him.

You were so weak compared to him. And now, after the dreadful mission, you felt the self - loathing eat at your senses. You wanted to prove to him so much that you're worthy of standing on the same ground as him. You longed to show him that you're capable of fighting these creatures of the Underworld on your own.

You needed, so much, to prove to him,...

... that his decision of choosing you as his partner and lover was not wrong. You needed to show him that you were not a mistake.

But, now, you felt so terrible. You couldn't even look him in the eye as he escorted you silently back home. You couldn't find the strength to turn him away when he cleaned and dressed your wounds. You didn't dare to utter a single word when he helped you ease your discomfort by thoughtfully giving you ample time to just lay around in bed.

You couldn't say no to him when he told you to relax and take it easy for the rest of the following days.

That was until, three days later, all of you were commissioned to take out another horde. This time, of magic - wielding Demons who were terrorizing a remote village in the south.

Naturally, Dante, and the others were raring to go.

Naturally, you, despite all of your injuries, wanted to go. Yes, you really did.

However, Vergil,... said, no. Just like that. He said, no.

You wanted so much to complain for being left out of the battle. But, then again, he chose to be left out with you, and you didn't even know why.

And it made you lose your temper.

"Vergil, why?" You quietly asked him as he closed the door of your shared bedroom.

As expected, he didn't answer your question.

And this,... finally made you infuriated.

"It's because I'm weak, isn't it?"

You caught the stoic man's attention with those words. His head snapped up, his cold eyes staring at you with all the intensity you haven't felt in him ever before.

"Tell me, Vergil! It's because I'm weak, isn't it?!"

"I didn't say,... you're weak,..." The man answered through gritted teeth, his voice dangerously low.

This side of Vergil would normally send anyone either panicking, or going pale in nervousness. But, you couldn't care less.

You wanted to show to him that you're strong! You wanted to prove to him that you're worthy of fighting alongside him!

You wanted to show to him that you're not a weakling who needed protection!

"I can fight!" You pushed on. "These wounds are nothing! I' am strong enough to handle those things!"

"You are not,..." Vergil quietly argued. He did look like he was about to burst any time sooner.

"I'm not?!" You screamed, stood from the edge of the bed, and looked up at the man who was looking at you like you were some child who needed to be disciplined. "Then, tell me: I'm weak and pathetic, am I?"

"No."

"I'm useless, am I?"

"(Y/N), listen to me - "

"AND YOU HATE ME FOR IT, DON'T YOU?!"

The man grabbed your shoulders, the sheer intensity in his hold finally frightening the wits out of you. Still, you stood your ground and tried to remove his hands but, to no avail. He gently led you back towards the bed and made you sit.

Did he honestly expect that this would calm you down?! This - !

All of a sudden, your rage vanished in an instant, only to be replaced by confusion when Vergil kneeled before you.

"Vergil?"

Again, he didn't answer. Instead, he reached out a hand towards you,...

... and softly laid his open palm against your abdomen.

His huge hand stayed there for a few good minutes until his other palm followed.

The man remained silent as he forlornly looked at your abdomen beneath his strong, yet gentle, palms until he moved them, running them on your waist until they reached the small of your back. He went even closer towards you and laid his lips against the part where his palms were.

And this made you realize something.

The discomfort you've been feeling,...

And he realized it,...

... even before you did.

And you were so caught up in your desire to hide your pain just to prove something to him.

Something,...

... that shouldn't be proven in the first place.

He knew, and he never spoke about it.

Touching his cheeks with both hands and making him look at you, you said, "Vergil, I'm - "

"Sshh, no need." He replied as he stood up once more, lifted you from the edge of the bed bridal style, and sat on the bed, himself, positioning you on his lap without even a hint of difficulty.

Damn, this man really is strong,...

Not taking his arms off you, he kissed the top of your head and spoke, "I know, (Y/N). I know you're strong. I know you're capable. I believed in you. You know that, didn't you?"

"Y - yes,..." You stuttered, emotions now taking over your chest at his gentle words and caresses.

"And, please, don't say you're weak, and pathetic, and useless. And don't ever say I hate you. You could be the opposite of strong and reliable, and I would still love you. I just," Vergil kissed your forehead once more as his hand travelled back to your abdomen. " ... don't want to lose my family."

You nodded as you placed your palm on top of Vergil's. "I'm sorry,..."

"It's alright. Nothing to apologize for."

"I love you, Vergil."

And with another kiss, this time, on your lips, he answered,

"I love you more."

***

💙💙💙

***

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 2: Sway

It was a strange feeling, being able to shift one’s skin like Esredes could. One moment it was soft, and the next, the texture of leather. One moment, he could have a tail, or horns, or wings- and in the next have no sensations of them at all. But his affliction was not the only way Esredes shapeshifted, even if he wasn’t aware of it. He had learned the process in a different way, ever since he was eight years old. The world was interesting as an eight year old- so small, so centered, so simple. All he knew was his home, his parents, and some fellow highborn children. His brother hadn’t even been born yet. He knew a few things- he liked his mother’s cooking, he liked the board games he played for fun, and he felt warm and safe in the blanket of affection provided to him. But Esredes was of course, not created as a creature of simple harmony. There were natural disruptions bound to manifest in the child, and it came in the form of that fateful day he had blown up at another kid for insulting him and thrown a punch. Oh, he had never seen his parents that furious at him. It was a new level of sensation for him, and he didn’t like it. But there was no cutting off what was an inevitability- the feeling came again and again, and with it, something began to change in that blanket. His parents no longer looked and spoke to him in quite the same way, and while his mind could not fully comprehend the change, it felt it, and it did not like it. That child had learned the necessity of shapeshifting, but not how to do it. Not yet. That would be taught to him by two different individuals later, as they both stared him down inside his room as a teenager. “You’ve been out of control for too long,” one said. “And I know you think that we’ll give up like your parents did, but we have a different method. We are here to teach you proper responsibility, and you’re going to learn it the easy or hard way.” Ah yes, responsibility. That entity that had entered his spirit once it had been fully broken down from all those years of resistance, and merged itself with his very soul. It opened the child’s eyes, suddenly, begrudingly, things made more sense to him. For he was not created without a way to manage his own disruption of harmony. And finally, even though he had been testing out his affliction in secret for years now, he learned to truly shapeshift. It was a beautiful thing. When you took on another form, people reacted to you so much differently. His parents were no longer mad at him all the time, peers slowly came back to him after having shut him out. Even though part of his mind quietly protested to his new form, he never wanted to change back. This was… manageable. Everything would be fine if he just stayed like this. But one form was not enough, and Esredes did not learn this until he joined the Temple Knights proper. There was no form that he could take that would prevent enemies on the battlefield from targeting him, but there was one to learn for his behavior otherwise. A knight must be good and true, disciplined, unhesitant. He must conduct himself with honor, and be there for those who cannot be there for themselves… It was such a perfect form to maintain once he perfected it. Others looked up to and respected him, considered him a shining example. Oh, if only it hadn’t been forcefully destroyed. Without it, Esredes had no reliable backup. There was nothing to do but to refuse to take much of any form, to stare at the floor inside his tent and avoid any sort of social contact with the heretics outside. He couldn’t hide from them. They knew exactly who he was. And yet, he ended up changing again anyhow. This time it was not just peoples’ reactions to him at stake, it was his very life. If he exposed too much of his true self, so ugly and unpleasant, surely they would slay the beast. Esredes could not take the form like that of a gentle animal, cute and harmless, something that would easily ward off any thoughts of finishing the job, so he settled for the next best thing: withdrawn and obedient. It was imperfect, something transparent, something they could see right through, and yet it did the job. He was too quiet for anyone to talk to, any of those feelings of hatred and urge to murder within them surely had to be stopped from progressing. So he remained like this for a long time, until it fell away and rotted naturally like the remains of his previous self over the months of adjustment. And that blackened heart infused itself with a new and rising form of hatred. He took the mantle of that which he formerly hated when it finally harmonized with that which was rotting away, and went on to maintain it, except at night when he could not sleep. When a new opportunity for a heretic presented itself, he used it to his advantage. Tell me all about the hatred in your heart, young one. They’ve wronged me too, they’ve wronged all of us. Come with me, and I will train you into the warrior to bring about its destruction. And Esredes would earn their trust through that mutual understanding of suffering and hatred, he would go on to joke about Ishgardians in morbid manners, as if to forget for a moment the rest. That blackened heart came over the mood, unable to stop itself from festering and pulsating out into the mind. But not all who crossed his path were of that temperament. There were the recruitees who still held love for Ishgard. Believe me, I understand. It used to be my home too, and try as I may, I can never forget that. Don’t worry, we’re not as they claim. We’re here to end the fighting, end the suffering. We’re here to save Ishgard from itself, because we must be better than them and exercise restraint. It’s okay to believe in her, it’s okay to feel for your home. After all, he laid awake at night sometimes over that ability to feel. Then the next day he descended down to that door in the cavern, taking a dagger and laying eyes upon the next Inquisitor to come into his grasp. And when it was over, he came right back out to talk to one of his fellow harriers who still cared for Ishgard to open up about how much it hurt to be branded a traitor. Each day, in and out, he took mental note of who responded to which form the best, and he shifted between them with ease. So many people relied on him for proper presentation, and if he were to let something slip, the consequences were inconvenient at best and devastating at worse. The end of the war brought with it several new forms. Every day Esredes left his little home and walked out into the streets of Ishgard, which watched his every move with eyes waiting to destroy him, as if nothing was wrong, as if he was allowed to be there. Each day, he talked to his fellow Ishgardians, pretending he was just like them, that he ever could just be like them. He was but another ordinary man on the street, a friendly man who conducted himself responsibly, a harmless and casual presence in a tavern. He was the composed and serious assistant who held his tongue. And most of all, he was the perfect, shining, agreeable example of someone striving for the new age, someone who believed in fighting back against the deniers with public pressure, letting no more die, and wanted the same thing as everyone else. The proof that heretics should be allowed back, the example that turned all of his people into mirror copies of him in the minds of those he managed to grasp and take hold of. Every day, he had to focus, he had to appeal, for if he lost form for even a second, they would immediately turn away from the beast and run, and he would put himself ever closer to the edge. Just as long as he didn’t think about the list in his desk, it would all be fine. All must hold together until he once again entered the spaces of his own people, and go back to the morbid jokes and the violent remarks, the careful management of the shadows his group cast and their ability to hide in them, the desire to purge the wicked that was overwhelming some days. Tell me about your hatred. He repeated to the next potential recruitee to come his way in the city. Let me give you a safe space to be at home with it, to be understood, to let it out and talk all about how you want to burn this place down and send the Tribunal crumbling down into the abyss below. Whether it meant being the perfect, understanding advocate for salvation and goodness, or the man who could not let go of his own hatred who truly understood others’ darkness, he would play the part, he would take the form. All those goals to complete, all those images to keep up. All must proceed perfectly according to agenda. At the end of each day, Esredes came home and collapsed onto his bed, withdrawing into his own mind. No one was around to see him, no one would know what he saw at the end of the day. Each action, word, and version of his beliefs swirled around inside him like a chaotic storm. That dead and buried loyalist. The hatred crawling all around in his veins. The rational mind that could exhaust itself by rising above it… oh, and even that warm feeling, that nice warm feeling when his fellow Ishgardians reciprocated him that came immediately before the guilt which always accompanied it, and the unpleasant memories that ensured it would always be temporary. Esredes closed his eyes, for he could not see into the center of the storm. He did not know what laid there waiting for him, if someone were to ever strip him down to just the center. But perhaps some things were just not meant to be deciphered. Esredes knew one thing at this moment, and it was that there would be a tomorrow. And he would shift to his out and about form, and go about his day, for he had ambitions to rise to and people to persuade.

[heir-of-talon]

So I have commissioned these busts of the characters. I will post a bust of the person whose POV the chapter is written in ❤ Some may be spoilery but hey! It's just fanfiction 😉

HEIR OF TALON 2

Warnings: explicit/underage/violence

Summary:

After slaying Elder Wyrm and becoming CEO of Talon Ember works very hard. Slowly changes are creeping in, that threaten her relationships with Garret and Riley, her sense of self and her sanity.

Life at the top

Ember

I woke up with a yelp. The bed sheets and my shirt were rumpled and soaked through with sweat. I reached for a glass of water on the night stand and drank trying to wash away tightness in my throat tasting salt of my tears mingling with contents of the glass. It was just another nightmare I tried to calm myself, but at this point I had little doubt that these were true. As was ensuing weeks of captivity, when Gerard found more and more horrid ways to torment Ember after he learned, that she could heal quickly from injuries that would have killed anybody else. His lord and his men, formed a group around her, torturing her and slowly learning her secrets... Bloodlettings so they could bathe in her blood and become resistant to harm and disease. She has suffered it all without even feeling tempted to shift, because there inside her... a spire, only remaining reality of her happiness, of their destiny. No, she could still salvage him, she would endure and once he was out of her body she would shift and fly them both away to safety, to another world if need be, there was nothing she would not do for him, her little Dante. Her love though betrayed so cruelly have found new anchor and she would preserve.

And then... birth of their child, ten men with swords and kludges awaiting, hitting her, bleeding her and Gerard... he tossed his son into flames right after he nearly ripped him from her body amid her agonizing cries.

Hatred. All consuming, all destroying all mighty. She shifted and ripped them apart limb for limb, the men, the women, the children, anyone within the vicinity of the estate. She had nothing left for humans, the vile, cruel, mindless creatures...

These dreams always filled me with grief and despair. But I was not her. Or was I? Sometimes I was not sure anymore. I would better get up, it was going to be another long day.

Vipers were resisting my changes to the organisation and demanded to be allowed to form their own organization apart from Talon, my bare ass! I tossed my shirt aside and hurried to bathroom where I laid down in the bathtub and turned the water on. As warm water crept higher and higher covering my body I relaxed and garish details of the nightmare started to fade. My thoughts were sharp and clear again. No way I was going to relinquish control of Vipers, I will sooner get them all killed. But how do you do this exactly? The only way is to get them to kill one another and then maybe set the last one up to a surprise date with the Order? This would require some serious diversion though, to make sure they accept the orders and don't figure out the game too soon... Hmm maybe later, as the last instance, for now I would rather regain their obedience. Hot water have filled the tub to the brim and I ceased to think giving up to the utter delight of being submerged in relaxing warmth.

***

"Autumn and Cobalt are here to see you ma'am" my assistant's Rose voice sounded through intercom. "Let them in" I grunted, not at all happy. After momentary relief in the bath I have developed a nasty headache and painkillers did not really work on dragons. I was not sure if dragons should have headaches, I have not been sick one hour of my entire life before I have become CEO of Talon.

"Hello Firebrand, you look positively awful, what the hell happened to you?" Riley strode to my office and unceremoniously sat on a chair in front of my enormous desk pulling another chair closer and indicating for Autumn to sit next to him. This irritated me, I was the CEO, this was my office and he come without notice and behaved as he owned everything here. "I had a hard night" I said slowly "so this better be important" I gave them a tight smile.

"It's about my egg" Autumn said. "It's in hatchery now, and I don't want my baby to hatch there. I want him to be born free, not to spend his childhood in an isolated facility being drilled by Talon like we did." She talked calmly and was obviously at ease, while her ridiculous request literally made me seething inside. I waited till she was finished and replied. "How do you imagine to hatch a dragon egg and then rear a hatchling, unable to shift for two years and to stay reliably shifted for another ten in the middle of human society?" I asked calmly. "How are you going to feed it until it can shift? How are you going to avoid it being seen?". Autumn stared at me surprised by coldness in my voice.

"Easy Firebrand, this is why we came here. To find alternative solutions for these... challenges" Riley's voice was calm but he was now watching me with slightly narrowed eyes and I could hear him thinking hard. But I could not let Autumn take that egg away. These four eggs was all the organization had left. We've sustained substantial loses when the laboratory exploded, every dragon counted for survival of our race. "We were thinking about it for quite a while actually. There's four eggs that need to be reared. There probably won't be any new for some time now, as Talon's members will no longer be forced to mate and dragons breed extremely rarely on their own volition, being immortal, territorial and such. So we just need to provide these four hatchlings with a place to be in two years. It should not be that difficult..." "Oh you've got it all figured out, don't you!?" I cut him off. I was furious at his shortsighted sentimentality. "And who is going to provide these hatchlings with education and training? Their mothers, who's never set their foot outside of the breeding facility?!" Autumn looked as if I've hit her, but I didn't care. These hatchlings were important for the organization, now that the vessel program was abandoned. If they were raised outside of the organization will any of them wish to serve it? Will they even be suitable for our purposes? "What are you talking about?" Riley was furious now. "They will be instructed and influenced by our entire community. Just because you won't have total control over every moment of their lives, doesn't mean they will not turn out just fine". He took stunned Autumn by her hand and rose to his feet. "Come, we've must have caught ma'am CEO on a bad day." And then to me. "Do not think that you've heard the last of it Firebrand. This is important, this is the freedom we've been fighting for all this time. And I will not relent, just because you get to be the boss now!" He left with scared Autumn in tow leaving me to my headache and grim thoughts.

I pressed intercom button. "Rose? I am taking off the rest of the day. Tell the Archivist to schedule new date for meeting with Vipers" "Yes, ma'am." I dragged myself out of the office and staggered when the heat and sunshine of the day outside hit me. I could not remember being out in a middle of a day. Ruling Talon was consuming all my time and energy and throughout last few months I begun to see the point of the control and discipline within the organization, as dealing with Riley's rouges, Jade and other free spirits was clearly the most annoying part of my new situation. I could not remember the drive home. To a vast top floor apartment furnished by Rose to impress an empress as she has phrased it. I had no time to interfere and only added piles of discarded clothes to the setting. And these were cleared every day by a maid. So I entered my lavish suite kicked off my ballerinas, flopped on white leather sofa and closed my eyes.

***

I woke up with a start that made it clear, that my headache was still there. It was evening and someone was knocking on my door. I insisted on no Gilas in the building I lived in, just as I insisted on living among normal, if wealthy people, rather than in a fancy all Talon apartment complex few blocks from the HQ. Now I was suddenly reluctant to open the doors. "Ember?! Are you in there?" Garret. I sighed and dragged myself to the doors. "Hello commander" I tried to smile. "Come in and fix this shitty day". He did not smile just stepped over the threshold taking in my surely messy hair, crumpled suit and tired face. "What is wrong?" He asked dropping his duffel bag at the doors and pulling me into strong embrace. I closed my eyes breathing him in and feeling my headache and confusion melting away. But after a way too brief moment he pushed himself away to arms length and looked into my eyes. "What is going on Ember? You look so tired. And you missed the meeting today, the Archivist would not tell us anything, but Rose told me you went home feeling unwell so I come to check up on you."He said. "Wait a minute. What meeting?!" I felt an ugly suspicion rising. "Meeting with Vipers." He looked surprised and worried that I would ask. "The Archivist spoke in your name and got them in line, no worries. They are allowed to leave the organization under a long list of conditions, that shortly sums up to not killing, assaulting or terrorizing anyone ever and attending monthly meetings with their rehabilitation supervisors, new units consisting of one Talon employee and one Order's employee. Of course the agreement is only valid after you've approved it. From the looks on their faces no one is leaving for some time." He smiled to his thoughts.

I had plans for Vipers and this was not exactly what I would have gone for. I should be furious about Archivist bypassing me like that. But somehow it did not matter much. No, when Garret was here I was just relieved and thankful that things were taken care of. Suddenly I could breath freely and I thought that if only I could stay in his arms long enough I would heal and become whole again, the way I was before leaving Talon and the violent time that followed. I leaned in to kiss him and he answered crushing me to his chest. Then he lifted his head again and asked "Have you eaten?" Seemingly abandoning the topic of my bad looks. "No, I slept since noon. " Suddenly I could feel how hungry I was but at the same time I did not want to release him. "How about we order some tapas and eat here?" I pointed to the couch. He peered down at me and truly smiled for the first time since he saw me and I had a hard time trying to stay focused. There was my Garret, this intoxicating mixture of desire and disbelief in his gray eyes. "Give me a second to change, make yourself at home commander. Maybe order food, I want wine boiled chorizo, meat balls with tomato sauce and bacon wrapped dates big pile of each."

I winked at him and rushed to my bedroom and beyond to the walk in closet the size of an average apartment on Manhattan, as the real estate agent described it. There I quickly shed my office clothes and changed into oversized multicolor sweatpants and a knitted crop top. I turned and felt sudden apprehension about going back to the living room. My headache was on its way back and I just wanted to run as far away from Garret as possible, I sat on a chaise long in the middle of the closet. The boy was a nuisance putting it mildly, making me reckless and weak. The thoughts popped in and out of my head along with a passing stab of migraine until I heard his voice coming from somewhere close.

"Ember?" I exited the closet and found him standing at the doorstep to my bedroom. He quickly stepped outside, when he saw me, and I rushed to grab his hand. He sent me that worried look again. "Are you all right?" "Yes, was just changing." He looked me over doubtfully. "Food is here." He said. "Wow, that was fast." I chuckled slightly confused.

We ate talking about things we've been doing since we've last seen each other almost a month before. Garret got in touch with Order's Academy and tried to persuade them to provide much needed reinforcements sooner, than they meant it was possible. More and more survivors of Night of Fang and Fire surfaced all around the world and it was difficult to maintain his position as their leader. I sat buried neck-deep in documentation on Talon, that the Archivist deemed best suited to give me insight and understanding of Talon. I was also struggling to establish satisfactory level of authority. In other words both our lives sucked badly and we could not see the end of it. Afterwards I turned on some music and we went to the couch. Garret sat down in one corner and I nestled between his legs leaning sideways against his chest. I wanted to touch him, kiss him talk some more.

***

"Ember, better go to bed it's past eleven." Garret was shaking my arm lightly. Have I fallen asleep? Again!? "Don't leave me!" I blurted. "Stay with me Garret". He shifted under me. "My leg is sleeping. " He said and tried to stretch. "Let's go to bed then." I rose and he followed collecting his bag from the floor by the doors. I pointed him to guest bathroom and hurried to my own to brush my teeth. Then I slipped into the closet to change into shorts and oversized t-shirt with Toothless serving as pajamas. As soon as I slipped them on I rushed out and waited for Garret in the hall. He come out soon wearing only black boxer shorts, he was lean and tan, his hair bleached by the sun.

I felt my stomach twist with longing and dread, at the sight of him. I wanted him so much, yet I did not feel fit for passionate lovemaking. I was tired and haunted, Talon required things of me, that I doubted, he would accept. Going on like this was a torment for both of us, but we could not see any alternatives right now and I would not accept ending the relationship either. Garret was the only ray of sun in my existence, he loved me and I needed him, completely and desperately. Around him I was myself, battered and wan but myself, when he was gone I did not know who I was anymore.

I strode to him and hugged him tightly, which he returned with a purr. Then I caught his eyes and said solemnly "Garret I love you and I want to be close, but I have not been feeling well lately... And I know, that we don't see each other much, but I can't go all the way tonight. Actually I... might not want to do anything tonight" I felt lame, but he brushed hair off my temple, his expression soft. "It's okay. We are not obliged to do anything Ember. Let's get you to bed." He lifted me up and carried me to my bed, that was neatly made with fresh linens. He put me on the floor and lifted the comforter for me to crawl in. I laid down obediently and patted the pillow next to me. Garret slid under the covers beside me and the warmth of his body engulfed me as he put his arm around me and turned the bed lamp off. In the relative darkness of my bedroom with Garret so close all worries and problems seemed insubstantial, only his heartbeat was real, only the scent of his body and the warmth of his skin mattered. For the first time in weeks I fell into deep dreamless sleep.

[pretty-thoughts-and-a-pen]

The One They Feared

CW: Captivity, manhandling, beating, degradation, electrocution, torture, blood

There was a point of time when Jacques le Fevre was just an ordinary young man, studying under the Legion of Sorcerers that protected the town with their variety of specialized disciplines of magic. Perhaps not entirely ordinary, as the Legion was terribly demanding when it came to qualifying candidates to study the art. Only the quickest thinkers, the most disciplined workers, and the fittest physically were allowed to train under the Heads of the Legion, and the rest were kept firmly in the dark about any and all knowledge of magic.

It was certainly unfair, and as the number of Sorcerers who enjoyed immense power became a smaller and smaller elite group, the large population of common folk became suspicious, resentful, but unfortunately, entirely dependent on the sorcerers, who also acted as warriors, to protect them from greater threats. It wasn’t entirely clear what terrifying monsters lived in the hills and the forests that ringed their humble town, but the stories that were breathlessly relayed by survivors, did not make anyone much eager to find out.

It was the first thing Jacques's mother had told him, the day he would leave to live in the institute at the heart of town, from where the Sorcerers operated. The day before he was to become part of a new family. Don’t go searching for those evil creatures, she had told him urgently while gripping his shoulders like a vice, and pray they do not find you.

It wasn’t his intention. From the moment he turned eighteen, Jacques had one goal – not to hunt and slay dangerous beasts or gain more power for himself, but to defend the people of his neighbourhood. His mother, his little sister, all his childhood friends and neighbours, they were essentially helpless and only protected from threats – human or supernatural – by the mercy of a corrupt legion. For corrupt it was, that much Jacques was sure of. It left a sour taste in his mouth that he would have to work under them, learn from them if he was to acquire the power he needed.

Still, it had worked out fairly well. He had been fine. He had studied his textbooks cover to cover, he had followed every workout regimen and listened to everything his superiors said. He’d cut his curly brown hair short, just because one of the Heads also his teacher, a man who went only by the name of Azure, had asked him to. It had still been fine. It was just a waiting game, of studying, studying, studying, and trying, trying, trying, until the special day would come when he would conjure his first spell. Everyone specialized in a different form of magic – element manipulation, matter transformation, mental abilities – and there was no way of knowing which power would be yours unless you kept trying them all. And still it had been fine. Oh, it had all been just fine, while Jacques had been waiting for his ability to emerge. Watching his fellow students awaken their fire, and ice, and telepathic powers, and waiting for his own special day.

Everything went wrong when that very day came.

***

Jacques screamed as another blast of electricity arced through his body. It was his special day, and he was spending it wrapped in chains being dragged down a long corridor, further and further away from the institute he had only begrudgingly accepted.

He would do anything to go back now.

The chains looked like they were made of simple bronze, just circled around him to keep his arms pinned to his sides and his legs pressed together too. An onlooker wouldn’t have known that they were infused with a charm that made them as cold as ice, though nowhere near as brittle. The links dug into his skin, so cold they burned, and the chill settled right in his bones and rendered his body limp. The sorceress behind it, Noelle, had been part of his batch of students. He had even known her a little. Quiet, sensitive and friendly, she had never crossed him in the corridors without smiling at him. Today, she had scrambled away from him in fear and horror, and had happily aided his former teachers by enchanting the chains they had then bound him with, telekinetically and as tightly as they possibly could.

The corridor he was being dragged down only got darker and darker, the air he struggled to breathe became musty and damp, suffocating him further. On top of that, the man that dragged him along offered no chance to stand upright. He had one hand gripping the collar of Jacques's shirt, the other holding the free end of his chain. This man, Frederick Gallahan, was one of the few sorcerers Jacques had admired. Cool and confident, with a low, playful tone of voice, not to mention tall and handsome, it had always been easy to be around him.

But there was a reason no one messed with Frederick, ever. He had incredible mastery over his power, and that power, much to Jacques’s dismay, was electricity manipulation.

Frederick didn’t need anyone’s help in detaining the prisoner. A few jolts of electricity conjured directly onto Jacques’s skin had effectively subdued him. Now, he pulled his entire weight behind him alone while taking him to a room that, apparently, had been set up with magical defences especially for him.

All Jacques could do was focus on getting enough air in his lungs and dig in his heels from time to time for some sort of delay. Ironically the one thing that could’ve saved him in this scenario, his own magic ability, was what had landed him here in the first place.

Not that he could use it now, anyway.

Frederick stopped in front of the door at the end, and opening it, he tossed Jacques inside, where he landed on his front. His hands, bundled up against his stomach, were wrapped in leather gloves, which still did nothing to reduce the pain when he crushed them under him. That wasn’t even the worst part. The gloves were a measure to keep his power in check, as most Sorcerers, especially new ones, channelled their magic through their fingers. The material pressed onto his hands, so tight it felt like a second skin, was a restraint that rendered him more helpless than the chains ever could have.

The room itself was nothing to write home about. Home. The place Jacques was willing to risk everything for, was one he didn’t even know if he would ever see it again. Now, he was sitting in a square room that looked like it belonged in an abandoned warehouse and not in an inhabited building. The walls were exposed brick, there was no furniture, unless the cuffs attached to the back wall could be counted, and a layer of dust coated the floor Jacques was sprawled on.

Leaving the door wide open, Frederick stalked closer to him. His face was set in stone, cold and betraying nothing except the complete lack of pity. Jacques couldn’t believe he had once looked up to the man, in a figurative sense at least. Literally looking up at him from his position at the man’s feet, all he could do was frantically slither backwards with his every step forward, trying to keep distance between them. Cuts formed in his skin where the jagged edge of the chain pierced it. Consumed by pain, fear and hatred, he put all he felt into one glare at the Sorcerer.

Frederick only sneered.

“Don’t pretend like this isn’t your own fault.” He quickened his pace a little and kicked into Jacques’s stomach. A small shock rippled through the point where his foot connected, and Jacques curled in on himself. “Good thing we got you as early as we did. This town doesn’t need a monster...”

“I’m not a monster!” Anguish coated every word as it ripped out of Jacques’s throat. He closed his eyes and desperately urged himself to believe his own words. He would never agree with what they all said. Never, never. He was a good person. All he wanted was to protect his family and friends, to stand up to any Sorcerer who would misuse their power on the weak, to be the exception in a corrupt legion of magic users. Just because his power...

A particularly powerful jolt of electricity burned through his aching muscles. His body thrashed and struggled to be free, more screams bounced off uncaring walls, only to fall on deaf ears. He shook his head, turned his eyes away from his captor and onto a point on the ceiling. He had to collect his thoughts. He had to remember not to give in, not to agree...

“Soul manipulation.” As soon as Frederick said this, Jacques winced. There it was. The phrase that he wished to never hear again, the one that had branded him a monster. “That power’s extinct, and you want to know why?” Frederick’s voice had become venomous with anger, he seemed to be spitting out the words like they burned his tongue. “Every Sorcerer who was found to possess it was executed.”

Chills, worse than the ones caused by the chain, ran up Jacques’s spine. Frederick knelt in front of him and grabbed his chin, pulling him up in an uncomfortable stretch so he could look him dead in the eye. Jacques tried hard not to panic at the feeling of his fingers directly on his skin. Even when he was not summoning electricity, his hand seemed to crackle with the power anyway, as if thousands of volts flowed always just beneath the surface.

“The soul,” Frederick continued. Jacques hung onto every word, he didn’t need to give the sorcerer any more reason to be angry and shock him, “is the most sacred part of our being. It’s tied to everything, to our body, to our mind. What you can do? It’s a power like no other. One snap of your fingers,” he dropped Jacques’s head, let it bounce painfully off the floor, to snap his fingers, “and you could make someone’s body fill with pain. You could delete their perception of reality. You could crumple up their physical form and wipe them out of existence, and it would not be pretty. What does that make you? Nothing but a torture machine. A monster.”

“I’m not,” Jacques’s voice was fading now, but he repeated the only thread of hope he refused to let go of, “a monster.”

“You need to be subdued. It’s my duty to protect my fellow people from your kind. Those ordinary folk, why do you think they’ve become fearful of us? The Sorcerers that protect them? Because of the likes of you, with dangerous, unholy powers that nothing can stop them from using.”

Pure, unfiltered rage filled Jacques’s body and, for a moment, every sensation of pain got erased from his mind. “Maybe they’re scared because you and your Legion, can make decisions for them and force them to accept everything you do. Because you hoard your power and everyone is dependent on you, your mercy, to stay safe from what exists outside the borders.” He was gasping now, all his breath was being used up in getting the words out. He didn’t stop. “You’re going to chain me in here when I’ve done nothing wrong, and you’ll get away with it, because no one can stop you. Maybe that’s what’s scary – that the people whose mercy we rely on have none left at all.”

As soon as the last words left his mouth Jacques regretted them. He waited for punishment, a shock stronger than any of the others. He waited for fury and yelling and to get beaten within an inch of his life. What he got was utter silence, and then, a new pair of feet entered his line of sight.

Frederick had stood up on the arrival of the second person. He was quiet, he didn’t even seem as if he was going to react to Jacques’s outburst. Summoning all his strength, Jacques managed to roll over onto his back so he could see the new guy’s face. Immediately, what little breath he had been managing got lodged in his throat. His eyes blew wide open.

The man standing above him was as tall as Frederick, more muscular, and with nowhere near as much charm. His steely blue eyes couldn’t even fake warmth, the sharp lines of his face and pin straight posture of his body, clad in a black coat, gave the impression of him being carved from rock. If Frederick was respected for his power and skill, then this man was revered. Mysterious, feared and also a man of few words, his was possibly the most unique case in the Legion. People marvelled over him, called him talented, dangerous, one of a kind, and yet hardly any of them seemed to know what his power was.

No one Jacques had ever talked to even seemed to know his name. Azure. They only ever called him that.

Azure didn’t condescend to kneeling before his captive. He didn’t show the mercy of staying where was, either. Instead, he stepped with one foot onto Jacques’s head and pressed down. The sharp edge of the boot's heel dug into an already aching temple. A yelp and pained moans spilled out of him, and trying to move his head out from underneath only caused a break in his skin and a light trickle of blood down his cheek. He strained to look up through his eyelashes, and saw that Azure had an arm on his bent knee, and was resting half his weight on the boy’s head.

“Interesting.” Jacques was shocked to hear his voice, he hadn’t expected to be graced with being talked to. “Such pretty thoughts from a monster.”

Jacques gritted his teeth. One more time, he would say his truth, before his own despair about his power consumed him and made him believe their words. “I’m no-"

“Of course!” Azure cut him off. “Forgive me.” His tone was anything but apologetic, rather, it was mocking. Then he did something Jacques was pretty sure he had never seen the enigmatic Head do.

Azure smiled.

“Would you prefer the word abomination?”

[takesomet]

The Princess (m/f nsfw)

‘Mwahahahahahaha’ he cackled ‘ Finally Princess, I have you right where you belong and no meddling Hero will stop me this time.’

The Princess thrashed in her chains. This was the fifth time the Villain had kidnapped her this year. She would really have to discipline her Royal Guard after she was rescued. No matter, the Hero would rescue her, he always did.

‘You evil Villain! You know the Hero will be here soon to rescue me. Give up already!’ She thrashed about again in her chains. Her arms bound above her head and her feet in a set of stocks. The Villain had removed her royal dress to leave her in just her silk bra and panties.

‘Not today Princess!’ he replied ‘This time you are mine forever!’

Meanwhile

The Hero had been told that the Princess had been kidnapped (again), and had leapt into action. Mounting his horse he was speeding off in the direction of the Villains lair, Doom Castle.

Back at the castle

‘Now Princess, I understand you are upset by my methods, but you can be free if you just confess one tiny thing.’ he said

‘And what’s that?’

‘Oh, just your eternal and undying love for me.’ he grinned.

‘You foul fiend never!’ came her defiant response.

The Villain paused and said with a wry smile,

‘I was hoping you would say that.’

He moved closer to her bound body, she attempted to move away but to no avail. He motioned towards her bare feet. They were pampered and perfect, soft and plump.

‘Tell me Princess, are you…’ he paused for effect ‘...ticklish?’

No, not the tickle torture, anything but that! Her mind raced, why did he tickle her everytime he captured her. She couldn’t stand it. Still she had to be brave, the Hero would be here soon.

Meanwhile

The Hero could see Castle Doom, a fiendish palace of evil surrounded by think vines. Inside the castle were deadly traps and monsters to slay. This wouldn’t be easy but it would be no match for someone as noble as him. He swung his sword at the first vine.

Back at the Castle

With slow menace he moved his fingers towards her feet. She looked on in horror as his nails moved closer and closer. His finger grazed the softness of her sole. It took all she had not to burst in fits of giggles. She had to hold on. He lazily dragged his finger up and down her right foot, zig zagging around her sole. She held her composure, she had to resist.

‘Cootchie cootchie coo Princess’ he whispered.

That did it. She burst into a fit of laughter, unable to hold back anymore. The Villain smiled as he ran his fingers all over her soles. Her feet danced in ticklish agony as they tried to escape his cruel fingers.

‘Tickle tickle, it looks like we have a very ticklish little Princess’

She tried to escape but the chains were too strong and his tickles too teasing. Sapping away her strength. She had no choice but to laugh.

The Villain increased his assault on her beautiful soft soles, a lifetime of pampering and royal service has ensured that her feet were pristine and sensitive. He began to wiggle his evil nails between her toes. He heard her cackle. Her resistance already beginning to fade. He scratched at her soles and watched her feet dance for his pleasure. She was all his. All he wanted in his hands. He focussed on his task. Letting her laughter wash over his senses.

‘Mercy hahahehehehehe hahahhehe oh goodness mercy hahahhehe’ The Princess pleaded, her cries lighting a fire in her torturer’s soul. He moved in and took her toes in his mouth. Warm and wet the Princess was caught off guard. She howled in laughter and tried to move her toes out of his cruel mouth. She failed.

Meanwhile

The final vine had been slain. The doors to the castle lay ahead of him. Finding his breath he moved forward. The vines had grown since his last visit. They had proven a tough challenge. The door was unlocked. As he opened it he heard the ‘Twang’ of a bow, he ducked as the arrow whistled past his head. Drawing his sword he prepared for combat.

Back at the Castle

The Villain had moved himself behind the bound damsel. Standing directly behind her he brought his hands up to her exposed and vulnerable armpits. He heard her hold her breath as she awaited the onslaught. Sensing this he waited. He wiggled his fingers centimetres over her flesh. She began to shake, he leaned in closer and whispered in her ear

‘I’m going to tickle you Princess, right there in your armpits. I hear it’s a bad spot. Are you ready for the tickles?’ He coo’d.

He kept up the suspense. Moving ever closer to tickling her. She began to thrash her head from side to side. It was too much.

‘JUST GET ON WITH IT ALREADY!’ she screamed.

‘With pleasure.’ came the reply.

He buried his fingers into her tender pits and began to scratch and tease the soft flesh. He reaction was instantaneous. Deep belly laughs as the sensations overpowered her resistance. He wriggled his fingers and felt her body try and escape. Bringing her close again he whispered in her ear.

‘Tickle tickle little Princess, it sounds like it’s unbearable. What a shame. Are you just too ticklish there? You know you can make all this stop, all this torture, all you have to do is confess your love for me.’ He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Through the cackles and the laughter a spark of defiance arose.

‘NEVER!’ she screamed .

‘Very well princess, you leave me no choice.’ He raked her armpits faster and she throw her head back in ticklish despair.

Meanwhile

With a heroic flourish he despatched the last of the attacking goblins. His final blow separating the goblins head from his neck. During its final moments it seemed to try to tell him something. Probably plead for mercy.

‘Back to the Pit foul demon!’ he roared as the newly vacated head rolled onto the floor. That was a good one, he thought, pity no one had been around to hear it. He made a mental note to say it again when he recounted his adventures to Dungeon Crawlers Monthly (A free dungeon walkthrough inside every issue!)

He moved on, as mist began to rise, he realised he was heading into the Maze of Horror.

In the Villain's Lair

‘You foul demon!’ she said, whilst gasping for breath. ’Does your evil know no bounds?’

‘No actually.’ Came his response as he moved his hands down to his ribs. ‘Ready for the next round?’

‘ No no no no no ahahahahrheheheeeheheheheh!’ she cried in desperation as his hands began to explore her ribs. Poking and scratching, making sure to count every single one. She was so exhausted she could barely move at this point. Only laugh and cackle as the torture was applied to her body.

He began to laugh himself as he realised that she was completely at his mercy, unable to resist his teases. He moved his hands round to poke and wiggle his fingers over her navel. She squealed again as a new area was tortured. He was having so much fun.

‘Tickle tickle Princess, cootchie cootchie coo! Someone has a ticklish belly! All you have to do if confess.’ She was too weak to even respond.

He let her catch her breath. Pulling out his dagger he quickly cut away at her bra and her breasts fell free. He moved round to admire her.

‘HOW DARE YOU! I AM A PRINCESS YOU HORRIBLE VILLAIN!’ She yelled at him, trying to conceal the fact she was blushing deeply.

He bowed low.

‘ I am truly sorry Princess. What a tragic accident to have befallen you. You are quite the state. Let’s see if we can clean you up a bit.’

Moving over to a table in the corner of the room he opened a drawer. From it he produced two soft goose feathers. The Princesses eyes widened. She began to plead, beg, swear, anything but that.

He couldn’t hear her, even if he wanted to. He was transfixed on his prey. Moving closer he brought the feathers up to her tender breasts. He stroked and caressed them with the feathers softness. She screamed. He was in heaven.

He let the feathers dance around her tender skin as she thrashed in vain to escape their kiss. He moved to her nipples and took great delight in watching them stiffen as the feathers teased them. Sawing them gently back and forth the Princess ceased to be coherent as babbled and laughed in tortured agony.

Meanwhile

The Hero rolled out of the way of another incoming boulder. The rocks smashing around him as he made it to the exit of the Maze. There had been some new traps installed since his last adventure here. Rescuing the Princess and stealing… acquiring the Villains gold crown. It had been a profitable adventure.

‘Jehovah begins with an I…’ he muttered under his breath as he dusted away the rubble from his robes and armour.

His last test lay before him. The Never Ending Staircase straight to Villains Lair. An incredible, if not confusing, feat of engineering.

He took the first step. The loot better be worth it.

In the Villain's Lair

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she let out a deep moan. The torture on her nipples was proving too much. She ached and laughed as the Villain showed his skill. He asked her to confess, against herself she refused.

She truly was a gift.

Unsheathing his dagger once more he knelt in front her and cut away her panties and pulled them away. He inspected them.

‘Soaked’ he remarked. The Princess blushed a deep red.

He turned a lever. The cushioned seat she was sat on shifted leaving a hole right in the middle, still supporting the back of her butt and thighs but exposing her sex. Her pussy dripped and pouted in full view of the Villain. He waved the goose feather in front of her.

‘Last chance.’ He threatened.

She hesitated. It had all been too much. But she was a Princess, she couldn’t let him win. She shook her head.

He wasted no time. He moved the feather towards the lips of the pussy and started to caress them. He heard her moan and giggle in need. He dragged the feather up and down as her juices begin to drip. Parting her lips with one hand he moved the feather to tease her clit. It was aching and throbbing for attention he was happy to provide. Her moans depend.

‘Tickle tickle little Princess.’ He said.

Faster now the feather fluttered against her most sensitive spot. Up and down, teasing and tickling her to maddess. She felt it build within her. He could sense it too. Faster still he moved the feather as he watch her pussy pulsate. She began to snatch her breathe when…

... he stopped

‘Oh please please please don’t stop. PLEASE DON’T STOP.’ she begged.

‘You know what to do’ came his reply. As he began to tickle her feet.

‘AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHEHEHEHEHAHAAHHEEHEHEHEHEHEHH PLEASSEEEE HAHAHHEHEHEHEH I LOVE YOU HAHAHAHHEHEHE I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.’

He stopped tickling her and moved close. Looking at her deep brown eyes he spoke again.

‘Do you mean it? He asked.

Through the tears and her flushed cheeks she looked at him. A big beaming smile came over her face.

‘Of course I do you silly goose.’ she said and kissed him passionately. He kissed her long and deep.

7 strokes later she screamed his name.

…

The Hero burst through the door.

‘Back to the Pit foul Demon’ he yelled as he dived into a combat roll. He really liked that line. His sword drawn he looked around…

… an empty room.

Completely cleaned out except for a note on the table. Picking it up it read:

I’m sorry Hero

But your Princess is in another castle.

It had been handwritten. He screamed in frustration as threw the note away and made for the door. He stopped. Picking up the note he studied the handwriting.

Funny, he thought, the Villain has very neat handwriting for one so evil. It was dainty, feminine.

Like it had been written by a Princess…

Epilogue

It had been the second kidnapping that he realised that it had been a little too easy to catch the Princess. Always going to the forbidden forest by herself. The fourth time she walked up to the front door and handed herself over.

They made a plan. He would leave a life of villainy and she would renounce her throne. The Hero arrived and rescued her cutting the plan short.

The fifth time they ran away together. A little cottage by the sea called The Castle.

And you bet they lived happily ever after.

[haillenarte]

full steam ahead;

Here is a translation of the dialogue between Ran’jit, Minfilia, and Thancred in “Full Steam Ahead,” the level 77 Shadowbringers main story quest.

First, a preface: This translation is not a word-for-word translation, though it is slightly more loyal to the Japanese script than the official localization. As always, the Japanese text is enclosed for you to make your own comparisons and judge my decisions if need be. I have some more comments about where I departed from the original text at the bottom of the post.

FULL STEAM AHEAD 廃都ナバスアレン "the sealed city of nabaath areng”

ランジート : ……無様よな、反逆者ども。 我が主に従っていたなら、かように地を這うこともなかった。 ランジート : おお……ミンフィリア……哀れな娘よ……。 お前はそのまま待て、すぐに鼠どもを始末してくれよう。

TRANSLATION RAN’JIT: I pity you, apostates. Had you surrendered to my liege when you were given the chance, you would have no need to squirm through the darkness and the earth like rats. RAN’JIT: And you, Minfilia... my wretched daughter. You shall wait there as I exterminate these pests.

LOCALIZATION Ran'jit: Had you only sworn fealty to Lord Vauthry, you would have no cause to skulk about like frightened animals. Ran'jit: You will remain as you are, while I dispatch these villains.

ミンフィリア : だめ……だめです、そんなこと……！ ランジート : 何故だ。 かつて我は、拾うたびにお前を育て、ともに戦場に立ち、 何百何千もの罪喰いを屠った……。 ランジート : されど世は変わらず、お前は幾度も、幾度も死に続けた！ ランジート : この薄汚い鼠どもはッ！ 哀れなお前に、なおも戦うことを迫り、 混迷の世に招き入れようとしている！ ランジート : 惑わされてはならぬ……ならぬぞ……！ お前を苦しみから永久に解き放てるのは、 我が主、ヴァウスリーのみッ！ 

TRANSLATION MINFILIA: No... No, you can’t! You can’t... RAN’JIT: Why not? Have you forgotten who I am? It was I who found you. I who raised you, time and time again. I who stood on the battlefield beside you, slaying hundreds and thousands of sin eaters by your side! RAN’JIT: But we accomplished nothing. The world never changed. And I watched you die, over and over and over again!  RAN’JIT: What would these filthy vermin bring you?! They encourage you to fight only because they would lead you down a path of chaos we have already tread! RAN’JIT: Do not be deceived, child! Only Lord Vauthry has the power to save us from this endless cycle of torment!

LOCALIZATION Minfilia: No! I won't...! I won't let you! Ran'jit: You forget to whom you speak! Who armed you? Trained you? Fought and killed a thousand sin eaters with you!? Ran'jit: And when you were inevitably cut down and lay lifeless in my arms─who sought out your successor to carry on the futile struggle again and again!? Ran'jit: We seek to bring peace to what is left of this shattered land, while these mad fools would only bring further chaos down upon us! Ran'jit: Do not be deceived, child! Only by Lord Vauthry's hand will this dying world know a sliver of salvation!

ミンフィリア : ……いいえ、私はそんな風に救ってもらいたいわけじゃない。 ミンフィリア : 今だって、痛くて、つらくて、とても苦しい……。 それでもこれは、ここまで旅してこられた証です……！ ミンフィリア : みなさんからかけてもらった言葉を、覚えています。 一緒に見た風景を、覚えています……。 ミンフィリア : その思い出があるからこそ、苦しいのだとしても…… なかったことになんて、絶対にできません……！ ミンフィリア : 伝えたいんです。 大好きだと……ありがとうと……。 私のこの、命ぜんぶで。 ミンフィリア : だから、あなたの手は取りません。 そこを……通してくださいッ！

TRANSLATION MINFILIA: ...But I... I never asked to be saved. MINFILIA: I know that fighting hurts. Living hurts. It hurts, and we suffer, through the bitterness and the tears... But that very pain is proof of how far we’ve come. MINFILIA: The things that everyone said to me... I remember them. The things that everyone showed me... I remember them. MINFILIA: Even if having these memories hurts me, I can’t just go back to my cell and pretend that nothing happened. MINFILIA: ...I want to be able to say things like “I love you” and “thank you” because that’s what it means to be alive. MINFILIA: So I can’t take your hand anymore. I won’t accept what you offer me. Please, stand aside and let us pass!

LOCALIZATION Minfilia: I don't know about the world...but I never asked to be saved. Minfilia: However much it hurts, and however hard it gets, it's my life, and I want to live it on my own terms! Minfilia: And those “mad fools” you want me to abandon? The ones I've traveled with, fought with, and may one day die with─they feel the same. Minfilia: So no, I will not be deceived! No matter what you say, I refuse to believe it's all for nothing! Minfilia: They're everything to me. All I have and all I need. And I would gladly do anything for them. Minfilia: Let us pass, or kill me. I'm not leaving here without them.

ランジート : 愚かな……！ 反逆者どもに染められおって、仕置きが必要か……！

TRANSLATION RAN’JIT: Foolish girl...! Very well — you must be disciplined. If you would stain your hands with rebellion, then you have earned your father’s ire!

LOCALIZATION Ran'jit: How dare you! Very well─if you would cast your lot with villains, then you shall share their fate!

サンクレッド : ……お前が伝えようとしてくれた気持ちは、 痛いほど、よくわかってる……。 言葉で示せず、すまなかった。 サンクレッド : 行けッ、こいつは俺が食い止める！ ミンフィリア : でも……っ！ サンクレッド : だから誰のためでもない、お前の望みをぶつけてくるんだ。 サンクレッド : 俺は…… お前のわがままくらい、いくつだって受け止めてやる……！

TRANSLATION THANCRED: ...I heard what you said. And I understand how you feel. I know it so well that it hurts... I’m sorry I never said it myself. THANCRED: Go! I’ll deal with him! MINFILIA: But — THANCRED: You’re doing this for yourself, right? And not for anyone else. THANCRED: I... If it’s for you, I’ll do anything.

LOCALIZATION Thancred: I heard what you said. And I'm sorry for all the things I've left unspoken. Thancred: You have to go. Now! Minfilia: Thancred, no─ Thancred: Go! Do what you came here to do. Thancred: I'll not have you waste that newfound resolve on me.

サンクレッド : そいつを頼んだ！ 必ず、「ミンフィリア」のもとまで届けてやってくれ。 

TRANSLATION THANCRED: I’ll leave her in your hands. Take her to Minfilia!

LOCALIZATION Thancred: I leave her in your hands. Hurry!

サンクレッド : 行かせはしない。 妹と娘、ふたりの家族への想いだ……打ち破れると思うなよッ！ ランジート : 笑止ッ……！ 貴様のような未熟者が、あれの父など名乗るではないわ！

TRANSLATION THANCRED: You’re not getting past me, old man. My sister, or your daughter... which do you think she’d rather be? RAN’JIT: Don’t make me laugh, boy... A brat like you couldn’t possibly call himself her kin!

LOCALIZATION Thancred: Not another step! Your fight is with me. Ran'jit: You think yourself her protector!? Hah! As if a whelp like you could be a better father to her than me!

(After the battle...)

ランジート : ……あの娘は、苦難の星のもとに生まれたのだ。苦しむぞ……これからも……。 サンクレッド : 護っていくさ。……あいつが、それを望むかぎり。

TRANSLATION RAN’JIT: That girl... she was born under a calamitous star. She must be shielded from her misfortune... I must... THANCRED: You don’t understand. You can only protect her as long as she wants to be protected.

LOCALIZATION Ran'jit: You would have her suffer and die. I would spare her that fate! Thancred: That is not for you or anyone else to decide─ever again.

サンクレッド : ……でも、一度くらいはちゃんと叶えたいだろ。 俺は、お前の、「お兄さん」なんだから。 サンクレッド : ミンフィリア…………

TRANSLATION THANCRED: ...Still, I wanted to do it right, just once. Because I’m your big brother...  THANCRED: Minfilia...

LOCALIZATION Thancred: One last time, with a little help. I'm so proud to have been a part of your life... Thancred: Oh, Minfilia...

TRANSLATOR’S NOTES

I wound up “rewriting” the script a lot more than I intended to, mostly for emotional impact, but for fairness’s sake, let me note where I really changed things up.

MINFILIA: Even if having these memories hurts me, I can’t just go back to my cell and pretend that nothing happened. To be fair, Minfilia does not mention going back to her cell in Eulmore here. However, I threw it in because her speech about pain being inevitable in life doesn’t really sound like she’s even talking to Ran’jit otherwise. The gist of their argument, obviously, is that he wants to insulate her from all of life’s suffering by throwing her in a cage, but she is trying to tell him that she can accept that pain.

MINFILIA: ...I want to be able to say things like “I love you” and “thank you” because that’s what it means to be alive. This isn’t a significant change in my opinion, but I had to reword the nuance of the original text very slightly or else it wouldn’t make a lot of sense. What Minfilia says in Japanese is something closer to “I want to convey it... [things like] I love you, and thank you, and everything in this life of mine,” but I went with “what it means to be alive” since that’s a much more familiar turn of phrase in English literature and pop culture.

RAN’JIT: Very well — you must be disciplined. If you would stain your hands with rebellion, then you have earned your father’s ire! There’s nothing actually wrong with the localization’s decision to render this as “cast your lot with villains.” I actually might have done the same thing if not for the fact that I try not to repeat the localization unless it’s necessary. What he says literally is “if you would allow yourself to be stained by the rebels,” but I didn’t like the sexual connotations of words like “tainted,” “besmirched,” and “corrupted,” so I avoided all that by turning “rebels” into “rebellion” instead. This isn’t really important enough to be explained, but I just wanted to defend myself against anyone who might think that I misread this sentence. I know it says “rebels” — it was just unpleasant to keep it that way!

THANCRED: If it’s for you, I’ll do anything. Definitely the most aggressive rewrite on my part here, but I think it’s defensible (and would have hurt me a lot more than “I'll not have you waste that newfound resolve on me”). Thancred’s Japanese line, in a really clunky literal way, is “If it’s for your selfishness, I can accept a great number [of burdens/blows]” — but obviously, no one talks like that in English, so I felt it made the most sense to straight up render it “If it’s for you, I’ll do anything.”

THANCRED: You’re not getting past me, old man. My sister, or your daughter... which do you think she’d rather be? Thancred doesn’t call Ran’jit an old man in Japanese here, but I thought the aggressive banter between “old man” and “boy” was charming, so I threw it in. The second line is also a pretty liberal reinterpretation on my part: the Japanese is something like “Sister and daughter, two feelings of family, don’t think you can break it so easily!” — but, again, this is weird as hell in English, so I made it more of a taunting statement on Thancred’s part.

RAN’JIT: That girl... she was born under a calamitous star. She must be shielded from her misfortune... I must... THANCRED: You don’t understand. You can only protect her as long as she wants to be protected. This is, again, a reinterpretation on my part. Ran’jit says something roughly like “That girl was born under a calamitous star, she has always been suffering, even now,” and Thancred replies, “Then I’ll protect her. As long as she wants me to, that is.” I think the English script wanted this exchange to be more about giving Minfilia the ability to decide her own fate, but I thought this take on it gave more weight to Ran’jit’s madness — the reason he’s so hellbent on “protecting” her is because he still thinks of Minfilia as his daughter, the one that was born under a bad sign, and he still needs to protect her, because he’s still her father. The localization probably changed this because they didn’t want Ran’jit spouting random mumbo-jumbo about stars, but I think there’s actually something very sad about Ran’jit suddenly going on about his daughter’s astrological sign, do you know what I mean? He doesn’t at all understand that she’s long gone. There’s certainly power in “That is not for you or anyone else to decide─ever again,” though.

THANCRED: ...Still, I wanted to do it right, just once. Because I’m your big brother... THANCRED: Minfilia...  I don’t know if I successfully carried this thought over from the previous sentence correctly, and maybe this was already obvious in English, I'm not sure — but what Thancred says in Japanese is “I wanted to make it happen just once,” where when he says “make it happen” he means essentially, “I wanted to see my dream come true.” Basically, his “dream” is that he wanted to protect Minfilia like a real big brother — both the Minfilia from the First, yes, but also the Minfilia from the Source, whom he feels he failed to protect. Yes... This dork really just wanted to have that big damn hero moment where he gets to protect his little sister from the bad guys that are after her... I also cried...

[lordsofmedrengard]

🔪

It should be noted that the descriptions etc are from Sal’din’s POW, and subject to bias. He’s pretty good at being neutral in appraising things, but he has quite a lot of pride in his Legion, and this shines through in some of the descriptions. I tried to convey that a small measure of nobility still lives in him, as well.

Per Aestra’s idea, some goofiness from Khromys. I’ve tried to keep her true to canon Dark Eldar as well as how she’s RP’d, so she’s perhaps a bit too open to working with her lesser and finding common ground with them, which may be her undoing.

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

The Xenos assault had come without warning, darkening the skies with skimmers and flyers. Less paranoid precautions could not have held them back; as it was even the siege-craft of the Iron Warriors was being pushed to the very limit.

Located just beyond the Maelstrom, Despot III was an unassuming rock barely capable of sustaining its own atmosphere. It’s only value lay in anonymity – it was a convenient and isolated place to store supplies necessary for the invasions of Imperial space. It had no real industrial capability of its own, and if not for the scheduled inspection, would have been largely absent of Iron Warriors.

As it was, even Sal’din’s veterans were being pushed back, one fortification at a time. Somehow the Eldar Xenos had increased their physical speed and dexterity beyond even that enjoyed by most Legionnaires; each squad leader had reported an unorthodox aggression and sadism as well. Their alien savagery was more than enough to overcome the Legion auxilia, though grounded in piracy as it was it could not compete with the individual hatred of an Iron Warrior.

It was not enough to defeat, or even contain them. The truth of it made him clench his fingers; the threatening whirr of servo-motors causing indentured soldiers to glance at him warily, before their overseers managed to force some semblance of discipline back into their worthless minds.

As he was considering ordering a withdrawal to the inner defences, a nearby foe-skimmer came apart under anti-air fury. Straining his eyes, he could just about pick out a slender figure made broader by bladed armour and expansive furs leaping from the wreck an instant before it kissed the rockcrete. As the flames provided better light, he saw the alien war-queen in her terrible glory, if but for a moment.

The Iron Warriors had quite rightly been famed as a Legion lacking in the unsightly desire to beautify armour into art; even so the beauty of her armour was startling. Obsidian tresses tied into a topknot framed a handsome face of pure alabaster, with sharp cheeks, a noble nose and pointed jaw. In her hands were death given shape, in the form of a bone or tooth carved into a curved sword and a curious device that looked like nothing so much as a lightning claw made out of miscoloured glass.

While her leap could only be described as regal, the landing was inelegant. She came in at a bad angle, and, fumbling with a syringe in her off-hand, managed to leap from the ground into a wall with a thud audible even over the sound of the exploding Xenos skimmers in the air. The conscripts hesitated, brutal training overcome by the comedy of life.

This was their undoing.

As the alien peeled herself of the wall and set her nose straight, a storm of poison-shards savaged the barricade, killing all but the Warsmith and the handful of bodyguards that were not needed to stiffen the spines elsewhere. In truth, such a deluge was highly wasteful, for the poison would have done away with the conscripts in little time. As it was, most had been reduced to tatters of gore, bubbling unpleasantly.

Worse, a single Iron Warrior had been reduced to kneeling, gurgling feebly as he slunk lower still. Shards were stuck in the armour of his helmets, breastplate and left arm, and others had managed to penetrate the armour seals and the eye lenses.

Seizing the initiative, a pair of sky-chariots landed behind the alien leader, disembarking two small squadrons of horned Xenos armed with great klaives. Belatedly, the nine Commorrites activated hidden generators, clouding their shapes with shadows. With an elegant gesture and a haughty sneer, the lady of war commanded her servants to kill, and Sal’din rose. With him rose four of the finest Iron Warriors left to the Legion, and the stink of ozone was the herald of Terminator support to come.

As the Xenos drew nearer to the barricade, explosives hidden under-ground tore through them, paying little heed to their shifting forms, slaying none but leaving three with vulnerable injuries. Of these, one was slain by combi-flamer, another by a volley of bolts aimed by two of the veterans. Then the aliens were among them, and brutal confusion reigned. Distracted as he was by two of the aliens working in tandem, instincts honed over millennia allowed him to take heed of the death of two of his warriors, even as Eldar technology interfered with Astartes auto-senses.

There, the Eldar warlord’s voice. The remaining xenos pulled away with startling speed, and Sal’din saw why: twenty Cataphractii had teleported to the battle, and though their heavy plate should have left them vulnerable to Eldar attack the narrow confines of the Iron Warriors battlements gave them the advantage.

He gestured to them to stand down. Then, he stepped forward to confront the enemy.

“Who would be so bold as to enter my kingdom uninvited? This-“

The alien’s laughter and mocking gestures interrupted him, as she mimicked the movements of some great, musclebound ape-creature while moaning, slack-jawed.

Sal’din allowed himself a moment to feel burning rage. Then, he composed himself. When he spoke again, his voice could have been confused with that of a low-quality servitor.

“Identify yourself at once, pitiful Xenos whore. Despot III belongs to the IV Legions Astartes, and-“ with a smooth motion, he paused to shoot the remaining wounded klaive-wielder, which finally brought her undivided attention, “-and you are trespassing. Identify yourself, and I will allow you a quick death. Defy me further, and I shall break you – mind, body and soul. Only then will I allow the Dark Prince to consume you.”

The alien’s eyes had narrowed. By now, bright red Legion blood stained her. When she spoke, defiling the human languages with her unworthy tongue, the words were somewhat hesitant and marked by a strange accent.

“That one was a favourite of mine, and of my daughter. I believe I shall decline your most gracious offer; however, as it would appear that I am gaining the upper hand in this combat, skirmish or… struggle?”, she glanced at one of her remaining guards, who nodded, almost too quick for the eye to catch. She nodded back, another lightning movement of the chin, and then turned back.

“As I said: I am but a few minor delights away from achieving victory, and my heart desires your death to be one of them,” she smiled, alien musculature and burning hatred in her eyes making a mockery of the expression, and struck a majestic pose: “I am Aestra Khromys, Queen of Splinters and Archon of the Kabal of the Obsidian Rose – and I challenge you to a duel. Consider yourself fortunate, grotesque, for few Mon’keigh are so fortunate as to die by my hands, to the edge of my huskblade”.

Sal’din hesitated, nodded, and waved his Legionnaires off. He had barely had time to take a step forward before she was upon him, quicksilver speed and grace combining with Xeno technosorcery to give her movements akin to liquid shadow.

Her blade was everywhere, weaving a web around him, and it was all he could do to hold her away, occasionally striking at her with his volkite charger in an attempt to hold off the strange-looking lightning claw.

Often, her blows would slide through his guard, and only his experience allowed him to slide them across his warplate instead of suffering a mortal wound. She’d shriek in frustration at this delaying tactic, this denied gratification, this insult, but she was driving him back – a baffling experience for any Warsmith, made worse by her inhuman nature.

What strikes and lunges he managed to counter with were easily dodged; at one point she mockingly kissed his power sword before twirling away with a grimace, lips badly burned. Scarcely had he taken this development in, then she was upon him again, pushing him back. His body began to burn from the exertion, Astartes physiology and Legion combat drugs being pushed past their limits. She was a whirlwind, her attacks were everywhere and often came from strange angles.

The world had narrowed to nothing; only the duelling pair existed. Dimly, he was aware of one of the Xenos transport-gunners slicing a Terminator apart with a beam that hurt his peripheral vision, and of battle being joined – but such trifles were not enough to distract from the humiliating dominance of the Xenos scum. Adding insult to injury, Aestra twirled away with flawless grace, slicing away the leg of a Terminator while stabbing at the armour seals of another with her glove – the action seemed to give her new strength, for she gave a terrible, shrill laughter, and when she returned Sal’din was disarmed in a handful of savage sword-blows, priceless paragon blade flying away to stick quivering in a rockcrete wall.

Time seemed to slow, as she prepared a series of killing thrusts. Had she not picked her target poorly, this would have been the end of Sal’din – she started by impaling her blade in the Warsmith’s bionic leg, where it became stuck. Both combatants froze, for a moment, eyes meeting, as if unsure what to make of this new development. Hesitantly, she began to smile. A desperate surge of hatred gave Sal’din the speed he needed to kick out, tearing the alien sword out of her hands. A piston-like movement from Sal’din’s servo-arm smashed her across the face, reducing her fine features to a splintered ruin.

As she recoiled, strained laughter began bubbling its way out of her throat. “Well done, Mon-keigh! It is most rare for one of rarefied skill such as myself to experience such a wondrous physicality, the grinding of bone, the heat of a shattered eye! For your reward, I shall not only allow this world to remain in grotesque hands, I shall grant you the gift of life. You are most welcome, Monkeigh.”

There was a stunned silence as the surviving Iron Warriors took this in. Striking with serpent-like speed, Aestra lunged forward with her claws, only for her ruined depth perception to foul the blow.

A storm of bolt shells made sure she did not strike another one.

[jenovahh]

KYKM - 4 Months, 12 Days

Admittedly bored, Zenos watches as the rain pours down outside, safe and dry in the cozy comfort of your quaint cottage. The sound of the rain hitting the roof is somehow not nearly as soothing as the noise you make behind him. The ting of metal as you work on your smithing skills or the swirling of liquid as you concoct a new potion.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go do something else? I’ll be at it for awhile.” your voice drifts to his ears, barely audible over your work yet somehow the clearest sound he can hear. 

“As I had told you when we returned, I have nothing to better to do at the moment.” it had somehow become his default answer whenever you questioned him, and he surprised to a degree you simply accepted it. Perhaps part of you accepted that his business was his own and respected his privacy, but the other part was you struggled to believe someone would want to be around you so much.

“I know...I just feel bad for having you stuck here while I work on these provisions for the Namazu...”

Turning to face you he sighs, moving to sit on the couch available in the room. Any retainers and suppliers had already been dismissed for the day, leaving just you and he in your home. “If that is so Warrior, entertain me.”

You look somewhat startled by his suggestion, your face a deep red giving away where your thoughts had wandered. “Let us converse, to fill the silence. Or did you have another suggestion in mind?” he purrs, watching as the metal bracelet you were crafting drops from your hand and falls apart on the floor. A curse is muttered underneath your breath as you struggle to salvage what is left of it.

“N-No of course not.” You stammer, reaching for supplies to start anew. “I have a game of sorts from when I was younger. Would you like to hear of it?” you ask, easily falling back into the groove of your work. 

“Yes.” he answers, fully reclining into the couch, relaxing as strange as it sounded. While yes he would lounge upon his thrones, he had never had the sense of peace that would come with it.

“We take turns asking each other questions. We are allowed decline a question we might feel is too personal or sensitive, but anything is fair game.”

Arching a brow at that, he wonders at your own game. Were you trying to corner him for information about himself or was it a genuine suggestion? Even so, he could still turn your game against you, and ask whatever he wished to know. “Interesting. The stakes are both low and high at once.” smirking, he gives you his full attention. “Very well. Let us play. You may have the first turn.”

Pausing in your work, you bite on your lip to think of your first question. “Do you enjoy my cooking?” you ask hesitantly, awaiting his answer.

A simple enough question, though he did expect you to start with heavier material. “Yes, Warrior. And to ease your worries, I am particularly fond of your Rolanberry Cheesecake.” His honesty seeps into his words, the smile on your face like an extra light in the room. “Thank you.”

Starting small seems like a good idea, now that he thinks on it. He has deeper questions to ask, but those can wait until later. “What is your favorite discipline, in terms of combat?”

The next hour so continues the same, the two of you going back and forth. What’s his favorite color? Red. What is something you like to collect? Orchestrion Rolls. So far he’s only turned down one question, able to twist lies and fabricate stories about his past that make his tongue feel like ash for reasons he can’t explain.

It is good and dark by the time he asks a question he had asked you once before, but gave him a pitiful answer. “And I want you to be serious, should you choose to answer Warrior.” Leaning forward, his lips part to speak, “Why are you a hero?” It was a question with a million sub-questions within. Why do you fight to save Eorzea? Slay gods, kill political figureheads? Topple empires, for countries you bear no allegiance to?

You’re quiet for a moment too long, placing your tools down. “You may decline,”

“No. I’ll answer it. Give me a moment.” Slowly, you put your things away, silent all the while. Dusting your hands off,  you seat yourself in a plump chair adjacent from his place on the couch, meeting his eyes calmly.

“It’s complicated, to some degree. Or maybe I should say, it’s from my own indecision.” You recline fully into the chair, leaning against the arm. “I never wanted to be the hero.”

The confusion on his face must be visible, for you let out a small giggle. “That’s weird to hear from me, isn’t it? But it’s true. When everything started, I just wanted to go out and see the world. I wanted to be just an adventurer. Unfortunately, I wasn’t just an adventurer. I was blessed by Hydaelyn, and I couldn’t escape that. My talents, my abilities got me noticed by the Scions, the Grand Companies. And that’s how I became a hero.

To a degree, it wasn’t all bad at the start

. I got to fight Primals, travel to extraordinary locations, see things most people will never see in their lifetime. All I had to do was help people, which seemed easy enough. But soon the trials became harder. It went from rescuing a lost child to saving entire nations.”

Your voice is heavy with burden, thick with how tired you are. Your eyes droop as if it pains you to even think about the weight on your shoulders, your eyes staring at something far away.

“At first it was stopping a few Garleans to ending a thousand year long war. To liberating not one, but two nations. All because I was the only one who could. Not the only one who Hydaelyn has blessed with power, but the only one with enough power to fight gods, fight these strong warriors. Perhaps it wouldn’t all be so bad had I not lost so many people along the way.”

Holding your hand out, he spies a deep, reddish crystal, with some form of symbol inside it. “This is one of my many soul crystals. They are what help give me power for my many disciplines. However this one is special.” A small smile graces your lips, eyes lost in a distant memory. 

“I have helped so many people in various lines of work. But this is the only one where I was told I should help myself.

My master’s name was Fray. They were somewhat brutal, sometimes mean. But in their heart, they cared for me. They made me really begin to question who do I fight for? That I should fight for myself, care for myself more. But how could I turn my back on the people who cannot fight for themselves? Who suffer and perish under constant tyranny?” Closing your fist tight around them gem, a dark glow comes from your palm. “This is probably the only time I’ve really taken care of myself these past few months. Things are somewhat calm after liberating Ala Mhigo, but I fear that things will pick up again soon...”

Looking up at him, you give him your answer. “I’m a hero because I have nothing else to be.”

He digests what you said, your words shedding light on why you are the way you are. You both sought the same things; a challenge, a fight, but your circumstances led you down different paths. To people he was the villain; the man who was whispered about in fear and to scare children in their beds. And to those same people, you were the hero.

He digests what you said, your words shedding light on why you are the way you are. You both sought the same things; a challenge, a fight, but your circumstances led you down different paths. To people he was the villain; the man who was whispered about in fear and to scare children in their beds. And to those same people, you were the hero. Leading people to freedom and glory, your greatness sung from coast to coast, across continents even. And yet you had not wanted any of the glory, that fame. You had only wanted to go out and see what the world had to offer, but it had only saw what you offered in return.

He cared little for what anyone thought of him, that much was obvious. Though he hid it with a mask of indifference, he felt trapped when was younger, forced into a role where he had to learn how to rule, how to lead, how to deal with politics, hardly knowing anything outside of how to be the next heir to the throne. But he complied, for what else could he do? Strike out against his father? As if that would have changed anything, given how distant his father was since birth...

“If I may ask a follow up question...” his voice is hushed, eyes pinning you down intently. Slowly you nod, meeting his gaze directly.

“Has anyone ever offered you a way out?”

You bite your lip immediately, seeming to mull over if you want to answer or not. “Yes. There was someone once. He had asked...for me to accept him.”

“And if he not only wanted acceptance...if he wanted to free you from the chains that bind you as the Warrior of Light, would you have still said yes?” his voice is somehow quieter, breath caught in his throat as you give him your answer.

“Without hesitation.”

[moiraineswife]

Molly Theory - Soldier Background

This is kinda fucked by the whole memory-loss thing but we’re just gonna say that he still has instincts and shit. And I just. Feel passionately about this so y’all are going to get this: 

So this is going to amount to a combination of actual theory based on old instincts he hasn’t shaken yet, something I just enjoy picturing, and getting into the realm of headcanon: 

More specifically than soldier, I think that Molly was a mercenary, and a monster-hunting mercenary. 

I now present to you all The Evidence: 

-So, first off, Taliesin said on Talks that Molly’s nervous breakdown after the battle of Alfield had nothing to do with the battle, and that he’s killed before. Which struck me as interesting because as far as we know this guy’s been with the carnival for the past two years and, if the amnesia theories are true, that’s all he’s got.  But this is the tiefling that slipped silver pieces into common people’s pockets because he doesn’t want them to buy drinks for them because he knows they can’t afford it. I feel like he wasn’t a serial killer back in the day with that kind of moral code. Soldier/mercenary then makes the most sense for why he’s used to killing things and isn’t bothered by it. 

Molly has a strict moral code and part of that moral code was that if you take money from someone, you do the job that they paid you to do. Bing bing bing - The Mercenary Mantra. (I feel like this...Well I suppose it could apply to the carnival, but I’m not sure you need a moral rule for that, you know? And yes it was in context of the gnolls but STILL, this is grounded in something) Unless they’re trying to pay you for something really shifty - a moral mercenary. 

The way Molly acts with regards to combat is another big clue in this vein.  The battle of Alfield freaked him out for reasons, if I remember, Taliesin said had to do with his Bloodhunter abilities, not the combat, but either way, it’s delayed. He doesn’t react in the moment, only when the fighting is done, his party is all safe, and he’s got some peace, privacy, and a drink in his hand. If you’ll allow a little bit of stretching it - not only has he seen combat, but I think he was in charge of other people during combat situations, but he waits until he’s in private before he shows any kind of weakness/processes things. 

The Manticore battle/Caleb- Molly knows how to respond to traumatised people. Molly knows how to respond to traumatised fighters. He deals with the source of the trauma, brings them back, reaffirms them, and then leaves to check on his other troops (Nott) There’s a few things in here, some of which I’ve talked about in other contexts, but I’m going to say again here for the purposes of this city. First of all, he removes the source of the flashback - the fire - which is significant because it means that he was keeping enough of an eye on Caleb during the battle to see what triggered him. This is also the first thing that he does when the battle ends - his first instinct is to go and look after his party. 

But once he’s dealt with Caleb, he checks on Nott, which means that he was keeping half an eye on her, too, and was aware that she went down. In the frenzied heat of combat he’s keeping an eye on his party, and he prioritises them when he checks in on them afterwards - which is quite tactical and organised for a random dude in a carnival who spun swords around and put up tents for a living, and again supports the theory of him being some kind of military leader. 

The camp bandits in episode 8: the saga of Molly the mother hen in this episode was amazing but also...Totally supports this theory tbh. First, when the bandits stop him getting his scimitars, he makes a beeline for the cart which is a)- the only potential cover in the open field they’re camping in and b)- the source of other weapons, which he makes good use of. Tactics.  Molly also takes charge of the situation - he checks in that the rest of the party is good with him doing so - then he organises the bandits. He has them line-up in front of him (soldier order) and he then has them renounce their now-dead leader, elect a new one to speak on their behalf, he then gives them gold and reforms them instead of killing them.  I’m stretching things again but quite often bandits/robbers like that lot are deserters/were soldiers who lost employment and struggled to make their way in the world - so there’s a chance Molly found himself in a similar-ish position when the carnival picked him up and gave him a second chance and now he’s doing the same thing for these men. But also with the former-commander thing in mind, I think it’s just his instinct when he sees these armed young men without purpose to step-up a bit and whip them into shape. And I can see this as being something that he did before - just sort of...adopting these wayward, purposeless men and turning them into loyal followers of him. 

So all of this says ‘military soldier’ but there are a couple of things that push me more down the mercenary route. 

His class for one thing. Molly’s a Bloodhnter, which is great for killing monsters and beasts, not as much random people on battlefields. Also, having read through the class, and knowing Matt Mercer is a giant Witcher nerd I’m like a solid 87% sure the Bloodhunter class at the very least draws inspiration from witchers, whose primary purpose is as hired monster-hunters. 

Also his general dislike for lords/rich folks/establishments, and just his general flamboyance - the tattoos, the coat, the individuality and independence he exudes - means I can’t easily see him in a strict military organisation and liking it. He’s a mother hen but he’s also a little shit, and I can’t see him happily belonging to any kind of rigidly structured organisation.  I think his discipline is a bit like his moral code - he sticks to it as much as possible, but it’s his and there’s no mistaking that.  

TL;DR for the theory part: Molly has the soldier background - but he was specifically the leader of a mercenary, monster-hunting band back in the day. 

SO Theory over: headcanon/extrapolation time! So, with all of that in mind, my theory for Molly’s backstory (which is probably UTTERLY wrong but it’s so fun to speculate and picture him as a mother hen pre-game) is that he had a little party of adventurers/mercenaries who,much as witchers are wont to do, wandered Wildemount and took on contracts to slay dangerous beasts.  At some point, they got a little overconfident, and his party were killed by an extremely powerful beast, leaving Molly as the sole survivor. It was at that point he either sought out himself or, being vulnerable, was sought out by a cult of Bloodhunters who recruited him with the promise of revenge on the monster that killed his friends/soldiers who he felt personally responsible for.  Then comes the memory loss, which I have a few thoughts on. It could have been something extremely traumatic that just wiped him, but I sort of doubt that. Trauma and memory loss do go hand-in-hand, but not complete memory loss to the point Molly believes he and his powers were born not made and has a wealth of theoretical backstories for himself.  I think either something traumatic happened to Molly and made him all but useless to the Bloodhunters that took him in, or his morals started to strongly disagree with his new friends/he started getting too close to that line the Bloodhunter class warns about becoming the thing you hunt, tried to back out, and as a result, either by magical means or some kind of poison, they wiped his memory because they didn’t want a rogue Bloodhunter wandering Wildemount. 

TL;DR: Molly was the leader of a mercenary monster-hunting group, somewhere along the road he became a Bloodhunter to become a more effective hunter, and then some shit happened and his memory was wiped and he ended up in the carnival. 

There are some holes in this, obviously, but I Enjoy It, so I decided to post it and here we are.