#only a singularity life form can devour a singularity

[kaurwreck]

the singularity that rimbaud gifted verlaine is explicitly limited— it's not the endless reserve that guivre was. but chuuya's physical body expressly limits his capacity to channel his own singularity's otherwise limitless well of energy. if chuuya was still able to subdue guivre, then that means even weakened, verlaine may still be able to subdue chuuya should chuuya ever be subsumed into arahabaki again, like he was when suribachi city formed.

but because verlaine's singularity has a cap that guivre didn't ("Perhaps the singularity Rimbaud created couldn't output power indefinitely, unlike the limitless energy of Verlaine's past self-contradicting singularity.... He had lost most of his gravity-manipulation skill..."), he has a narrow opportunity to do for chuuya what he did before, and what chuuya did for him. he can't expend his ability frivolously; he will lose what's left. that doesn't only mean dying, he'd already come to terms with dying before: it means that should dazai ever be unable to nullify chuuya before arahabaki subsumes him (at which point dazai wont be able to reach him without getting killed before he can), there would be nothing and no one left in this world to save him. as dazai notes, "Only the singularity life-form Arahabaki could devour and destroy [Guivre]." verlaine is the only other singularity life form known to exist.

that was rimbaud's gift to verlaine. not only the chance that he might live where he'd otherwise have died with guivre, but that he might stay to protect the only person capable of compelling him to betray even rimbaud. rimbaud's last words to chuuya were that rimbaud wanted him to live. rimbaud and verlaine have ensconced their love for each other in their mutual promise to ensure that chuuya is safe for so long as they're able. in chuuya, they see the other's capacity for compassion, humanity, hope, and love; chuuya is their promise made rather than their promise broken.

rimbaud waited for a year to save verlaine. when verlaine became tired of reading and writing poetry underground, the narration says that he began doing the same thing rimbaud did: he trained others. but in the very next paragraph, the narration also says that verlaine is waiting, but that he never told anyone for what he was waiting. rimbaud also waited; perhaps, verlaine is doing as rimbaud did beyond training others. perhaps he's waiting to save the only person he's uniquely capable of saving. (and in doing so, saving the humanity that he can't admit he doesn't hate.)

and then, to further confirm that verlaine is reserving his and rimbaud's singularity for the moment chuuya needs them, verlaine says he's waiting for a storm.

when chuuya fights guivre, verlaine's light twinkles "like a star in the depths of the dark storm" that was guivre. singularities are, as chuuya himself explains in Fifteen, natural disasters, they're storms.

verlaine will never intervene, not until there is a storm. because he is the only one who can, and he only has just enough of himself and rimbaud left to, quell chuuya's storm.

it takes a singularity to reign in a singularity; there are only two stable singularities in the world. ie; verlaine isn't going to leave the basement until chuuya needs him to leave the basement. (except for executive meetings, which he does canoncially attend.) hence the storm he says he's waiting for.

[burningcheese-merchant]

Ten.

The dragon slumped forward, the newly formed cavity in its chest inadvertently sucking Hollyberry's fist in even deeper as it did so. A bottomless well of blood sprung forth from the mortal wound, soaking her leather gauntlet through and staining it - and many other parts of her person, as the sticky, foul-smelling life essence was blindly spat at her - a hideous dark color. Quickly and unceremoniously, she yanked her hand back out, allowing gravity to take back control and force the dragon's fresh corpse to the ground. The hole in its chest was far from its only injury, but it was the most grievous one. And with all of them together, the creature was slain; vanquished by a fellow predator that ultimately proved herself superior.

Hollyberry stared down at the remains of her prey, as cold and stoic now as she'd been when their battle had first started. The telltale glimmer of life in its eyes was long gone; it dimmed rather quickly, fading almost in tandem with the stream of blood that drained from its body with each erratic pulse of its dying heart, vanishing completely with the slam of its head against the tarnished earth. Once a mighty beast, now beaten and broken at her feet, its face now forever frozen in incomprehensible agony.

That's ten. Ten dragons slain. If memory served, ten was the amount of dragons that had been plaguing this area and terrorizing the nearby village. At last, she had gotten them all.

She wiped some of the blood off of her shield - just enough to allow the gem at the center to enjoy the sunlight again. Taken in by its renewed shine, she drew the shield closer, gazing into the pretty, polished jewel and the grim, unkempt reflection gazing back into her.

She didn't look any different.

She didn't feel any different, either.

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"A tragedy, really. A doughy little Cookie, carried off by a dragon... Tsk tsk."

Never did that singular phrase ever stop replaying inside of Hollyberry's mind. Never did her mind rest; never did her thoughts grant her a moment's peace. Never. Not once. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day has just been this; this terrible memory that her mind and heart and soul simply could not, would not perish. The monster hunter's countenance, as real as though he yet stood before her. The monster hunter's voice, crystal clear as a berry juice glass.

If only she'd had it in her in that moment to punch the sneer right off of his godsforsaken face.

But it was fine. It is fine. It will always be fine, if she can help it... and she can. She will. She already has. Just a messenger, he was; not worth the ammo nor the aim. There were better targets out there. Tougher ones. More deserving ones. All in far more dire need of punishment than he.

After the village had been cured of its draconic sickness, she moved on. One last day was all she chose to afford the villagers, with all of their cheers and tears and now remedied fears. They made her a feast; a hearty sampling of their finest culinary selections, the cream of what little remained of their crop. The dragons had done a number on them in more ways than one: fields torched, loved ones devoured, homes and businesses reduced to smoking ruin. But it was fine now. They are fine. And now, they shall continue to be fine, without the monsters prowling around. Without her.

What was it they'd served her again? Pumpkin soup? Roasted quail? A smorgasbord of fruits and vegetables? Even as she ventured back through the houses and streets and reached the village gates after bidding them all farewell, she scarcely recalled a single morsel. In fact, she scarcely recalled sitting down at the table at all. Life and all its contents blended together and disappeared into the fog more often not nowadays - all but her hunts. Her battles. Her cullings.

...Juice. The elegant scarlet lettering painted onto the village welcome sign, carved and decorated in such a way as to draw one's eye and heart in at a glance, awoke a single memory of the night before: a goblet of juice, eagerly set beside her plate. Their last bottle, one villager said; the dragons had either drank or destroyed the rest. A gift, one of many, for her heroism. They admired its gorgeous color, yearned for its sweet yet tart taste - but for their savior, they would happily part with it. They would be remiss and horrendously rude not to.

She made up for their politeness by being rather rude herself, and turning the juice down wholesale. "But why?" they had asked her, in such overwhelmed surprise that it was almost comical. "Is it not to your liking? Please, won't you have even a sip? We only wish to honor you! We beg!"

"I can't accept such a gift," she answered them. "You have sacrificed enough already. Don't give up any more for my sake."

"But we insist!" Of course they did. Insistence is the foundation of all gratitude, and the fuel for all celebration and merrymaking. In a different time and place, she would've obliged without question. But not this one.

"No." Her tone was cool, her words clipped; painfully firm as her grasp on her silverware had suddenly become. "I need to keep focus. Juice would get in the way of that. All of you, keep it. You deserve it more than I."

How amusing it had been, in a morbid sort of way, when their rosy-cheeked insistence withered at the sound of her harsh voice. In a different time and place, she would've apologized. In a different time and place, she would've laughed and said they fell for her joke, her act, and perhaps then she would've down the whole glass in one fell swoop to the sound of applause.

But not this one.

Her shield provided much needed protection from the morning sun's glare. Light is always welcome, but not when it dares to overtake the lines on the map. She couldn't afford to lose track of her next destination.

"A tragedy, really..."

No. She needed to keep focus.

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What might they be doing now, Hollyberry wondered?

Who "they" were, she could not tell you. Who "they" were, she knew all too well. "They" were those clouds that drifted in and out of sight on a windy afternoon. "They" were those shadows cast on the wall by the dance of the torch light, too ethereal and erratic to keep any proper shape for too long. "They" were those wandering reflections in the windows, in her shield, in the all of those berry juice glasses she shunned. "They" were a mystery. "They" were a paradox.

She wondered if there had been a search party. If the Crown had spared no expense, no soldier, no single second of time, in hunting their targets down. She wondered if her son tore his robes and dirtied his hair pacing through the jungle, parting every bush and overturning every stone himself. She wondered if her daughter-in-law could see through her veil of tears or speak past the lump in her throat; if her strength waned with each passing day, little by little, until her knees buckled and bent and she finally collapsed, howling her grief into the earth below until her voice failed her for good.

She wondered if there had been a funeral. Might as well have. From the clutches of dragons, even great warriors seldomly escaped. No exception would have been made for a child, especially one so small and feeble. Easy pickings.

She wondered if the other child felt her sister's absence. Never for a moment were they apart, those two; not in the womb, not in the crib, not even in the playpen or the bathtub. One so loud and vibrant, the other calm yet curious. But no matter their differences, it was plain as day that they loved one another. Before they knew of the world, before they even knew their own names, they knew and loved and trusted each other. Partners in crime, they were. Or, they were supposed to have been.

She wondered what the others would have said - to her, to the king and queen, whoever, it didn't matter much. The ghostly memory of a voice, sad but serene, drifted through her ears; there was never a shortage of heartfelt prayers with him. Perhaps, in the face of a tragedy like this, even his staff would have wept. Two weapons were drawn before her mind's eye, one great and powerful sword and one sleek and dazzling spear; he would proclaim that such an injustice could not stand and he and his warriors would gladly pursue retribution on their behalf, and she... she would likely say something similar, Hollyberry thinks. She would have, if she knew her well enough. Never mind that she probably didn't know what happened. Never mind that Hollyberry didn't even know where she was now.

In the corner of her thoughts sprouted a lily, small and thin and so unsure. She paid it little mind. Before all of this, Hollyberry might have imagined her gazing upon them all with such an overwhelming sorrow, even setting her staff aside so she may offer a proper hug. But now, she wasn't so sure. Nowadays she isn't so sure she ever knew her at all.

They were the sharp cries the dragons let out when her fist collided with their snouts: agonizing, deafening, piercing through her skull and haunting her thoughts well into the night. They were the droplets of blood that ruined her clothes and her hair when she rended the flesh from the bones, and bashed the heads into the rocks: small and bright and numerous, washing away in the river and rain and always leaving her behind. They were the reflections in their wide eyes, colored first with rage and then with panic, growing cold and still as their vitality slowly faded away.

She wondered what they were doing. She wondered if they wondered the same of her.

She wondered if any of them could hazard a guess.

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Ten. Ten dragons slain this week. Or, at the very least, Hollyberry believed so.

Back and forth across the world, she continued her endless trek: through the woods and across the lakes and over the tallest mountains. Wherever she heard whispers and wails of dragons being a blight, she went. And she killed them all, one by one, until their extinction in the area was all but guaranteed. And then her endless trek resumed, with hardly so much as a brief pause.

Interesting, really, how many of them there proved to be. As she trudged through the mud and snow, she racked her brain for answers - has is always been this way? Could she remember a time when dragons weren't there, appearing as the black marks on society and history they always were? Ten, twenty, thirty, forty - she was starting to lose count of them by now, to the point that she'd begun keeping tally with her shield itself, whittling a slash mark into the wood with each conquered beast.

An occasional glance into its back told her she'd run out of space soon. Pity.

She was in Beast-Yeast, somewhere in the north. There were dragons there, too. No one had called her there - no one ever called Hollyberry to Beast-Yeast, save for fun and adventure and the pain tucked away deep in her heart, still knocking on the walls - but she set out for it anyway. Always some unholy creature of some sort skulking around in that place, making it worse than it already is. A revisit or two or three or ten or one thousand to clean house never did any harm. Fewer dragons in the world at the end of the day.

She was back in Crispia, near the Cream Cake Mountains. An overheard report detailing an ice dragon beginning to circle the outskirts of a snowridden village brought her there quick; a day of preparing a trap and a lure brought the dragon out quicker. Some small, unfortunate part of her almost lamented the creature's demise; countless snowflakes of all shapes and sizes took the place of its scales and icicles of a shimmering, semi-translucent beauty made up its many spines. From above, it appeared as a sentient aurora, streaking across the night sky. It was almost a shame that that sky had to be darkened for eternity. Almost.

She was near the Crème Republic. She was in somewhere in Wholegrainia. She was meandering around some old, worn path that stretched into both ends of the horizon - the Sugar-Free Road or some such nonsense. She was everywhere. She was nowhere.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.

Fifty.

One hundred.

One thousand.

She ran out of space on the inside of her shield.

She didn't care. She simply stopped counting after that.

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"Sweet Pinkyberry! It's been so long!"

Fighting the urge to wince at that old, silly name, Hollyberry dredged up a smile, hoping against hope that it actually bothered to reach her eyes this time.

"What brings you back to Dragon City this time around, hm?"

"What always brings me back here, my friend," Hollyberry said. "I'm here to hunt some dragons."

"Fair answer, haha! Not too much else to do here." Tapping on the side of the empty bowl in front of her, the Innkeeper's smile turned a bit wry. "Besides helping yourself to some of my famous stew, isn't that right?"

"Isn't that right, indeed," Hollyberry tried her best to play along.

"Let me get you some, then! And a mug of fireade to go with-"

"That won't be necessary."

"Eh?" The Innkeeper blinked. "Are you sure about that? You look thirsty to me. And you never say no to my fireade."

"I'm sure."

"Alright then, chum... If you say so."

She only half-heard her old friend call out to one of her sons to ready a bowl of dragon's head stew. She only half-noticed when it was placed before her a few minutes later, the hot steam wafting from it only somewhat snapping her out of her daze.

"The dragons have gotten quite rowdy these days," the Innkeeper remarked. "Moreso than usual. It's been a bit of a pain for local hunters."

"Oh?"

"No one's quite sure what's got them so spooked. But there have been rumors of a slayer running around the continent, culling their numbers awfully quickly."

"Maybe that's what it is, then," Hollyberry murmured into her spoonful of stew.

"Maybe, but... There's hardly anything to go on, save for the rumors. If that slayer is real, then they don't seem to want any attention. All that's ever been left in their wake are dragon corpses. Nothing else. Not even a name or a face."

The Innkeeper slowly leaned forward, propping herself up on her elbows, eyeing Hollyberry in a way that made her feel as though a thousand eyes were suddenly upon her, trying to dissect her. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you?"

"...No," Hollyberry eventually answered, the agonizingly slow sip of her stew having done nothing to soothe her nerves. "I can't say I have."

The Innkeeper raised an eyebrow at her, but ultimately shrugged. "Alright then. I'm surprised to hear you say that, in honesty. But it's understandable. Elusive fellow, that fabled slayer seems to be."

Hollyberry nodded slowly, feigning agreement long enough to appear convincing before safely turning her full attention back to her meal.

"In any case... Have you heard what happened in the Hollyberry Kingdom recently?"

It took everything in Hollyberry's power not to choke on her stew.

"That poor girl," the Innkeeper lamented. "I can hardly imagine what the royal family is going through. I don't know what I'd do if something like that happened to either of my boys, especially with their father leaving me alone to hunt so often. It's a tragedy."

Everything looked, sounded, felt so, so far away now. Blurry. Incomprehensible.

"Those damned dragons," the Innkeeper muttered. "Whoever that slayer is, I wish them all the luck and give them all the thanks in the world. Who knows, maybe they'll even take down whichever one of those devils took the princess."

The sudden screech of the bar stool legs nearly deafened them both.

"Wha- Pinkyberry? You alright? Where are you off to so soon?"

"I have somewhere to be," Hollyberry spoke quickly. Perhaps too quickly. "I could never stay long, anyway. Forgive me."

In the blink of an eye, a rather hefty looking coin pouch appeared from Hollyberry's pocket, being all but slammed on the table before she made a heel-turn and began hurrying to the inn's front door.

"Wait! Sweet Pinkyberry!"

Biting back a sigh, she turned and looked back over her shoulder one final time.

"Be careful!" the Innkeeper warned her. "Dragons here are more hostile than ever thanks to the goings-on! Promise me you'll take care of yourself!"

Hollyberry nodded, a bit impatiently.

"And don't you forget! The only good dragon is a dead one!"

"How could I?" Hollyberry called back to her, before leaving the inn for good.

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

It's a tragedy. It's a tragedy. It's a tragedy.

Was there nowhere she could go to escape this? This- this word? This feeling? This bitter, endless mourning, corroding her bones? Devouring her soul?

Stray embers and volcanic ash particles lazily rained down upon her, dusting her head and shoulders and shield as she steadily hiked up the volcano's slope. The Dragon's Valley today was the same miserable, heat-stricken, inhospitable wasteland it had been yesterday, and would be tomorrow, and would be the day after that. Simply abominable in every conceivable fashion - most of all in how it so brazenly housed dragons of all kinds.

...But it wasn't the fault of the valley itself, now was it.

All manner of creature came for Hollyberry as she traversed that hellish landscape, practically the moment her feet first touched its cursed ground. Dragons, wyverns, lesser reptiles big and small. Perhaps her visage was too obvious, framed against the rich browns and dull oranges of their surroundings, even after generously allowing ember and ash to dress her in their likeness and offer her a free disguise. Perhaps her scent was too unique, too cloying, just enough to rise above all those hideous, overpowering smells wafting through this godsforsaken place.

Perhaps they sensed her anger, and their impending doom along with it, and sought her, and thus, their destiny, out of their own accord.

Whichever one was the real answer... she did not know, and she did not care. Regardless, she appreciated it - all of her enemies delivering themselves to her right on her doorstep. Easy pickings.

Ten, twenty, thirty, forty- oh, what did it matter. What difference did keeping count make. What mattered was that they all fell before her. That she left behind a slew of dragon corpses in her wake.

The more blood she spilled, and the more viscera she lavished upon these lands, the more likely it would be that they would come out.

In all of her long years, Hollyberry never succeeded in finding Pitaya Dragon's nest. Her usual excuse was that challenging a foe to a battle in the foe's own house was unfathomably rude - but, the truth of the matter was that she simply didn't know where their house was in the first place, and all of her long years of adventuring and tracking expertise did far less to remedy this than she'd hoped they would. Ah well, it was nothing Hollyberry couldn't otherwise overcome; the next option was to draw that old lizard to her instead.

The so-called "legendary" Red Dragon. Undisputed lord of the Dragon's Valley since time immemorial. They had answers, didn't they? Surely, in all of their timeless and impeccable wisdom? The dragons that came to terrorize her kingdom and people always hailed from the Dragon's Valley - never anywhere else.

Pitaya Dragon has to know something. They must. They will. She won't entertain any other option.

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

Tendrils of steam whispered and coiled around Hollyberry's ankles. The air surrounding them crackled with heat and energy, born from both their godlike power and the valley itself.

"Pitaya!" she called out, daring to take another step forward. "What happened?! Where is she?!"

"What doesss it matter?" Pitaya Dragon drawled, lips curling to form a dry, mocking smirk. "She'sss gone. Ssso much for a hero."

Overcome with rage, Hollyberry lunged forward with a battle cry. Pitaya Dragon stayed where they were, feet firm and arms crossed, obnoxiously cruel expression only being wiped away with the hard swipe of her fist against their cheek.

Their fight lasted only minutes. Their fight lasted for an eternity. She blocked, parried, threw back every swing of their greatsword with terrifying ease - and a hideous smile of her own had begun to bloom as their little war raged on, growing bigger and brighter with every snarl and yelp of pain she managed to knock out of their lungs.

Yet still, something was missing. Yet still, her words and actions rung hollow. Yet still, through all of the blows they exchanged, in every hit she landed, she found no peace. No resolution. No respite.

Yet still, the voices wouldn't stop.

"Wouldn't you know it? Soon after the queen left the Hollyberry Kingdom, dragons began to roam freely, terrorizing the land!"

Carefully, she tried to step- careful not to trip over the dragon corpses. The beaten, broken, bloodied remains of those slimy, pathetic, cold-blooded cowards she dutifully removed from the face of the earth. Everything that happened, everything she did- it was deserved. It was destined. It was justice.

"And in all the chaos and confusion, those lizards kidnapped one of the twin princesses!"

Pitaya Dragon's face was a kaleidoscope of emotions, each more contemptible than the last. Smugness. Derision. Anger. Shock. Confusion. Realization. Betrayal. Terror. All the sight of them did was stoke the flames of Hollyberry's wrath even more.

"A tragedy, really. A doughy little Cookie, carried off by a dragon... Tsk tsk."

Ember and ash, fire and brimstone rained down upon them as their terrible duel shook and tore apart the heavens and earth. Red as blood, blinding as the sun, searing through skin and flesh and bone. Slowly, their color and texture changed; a new element was added to this hellish mixture. Ember and ash, fire and brimstone - and dark flour, mountains of it, turning the heavens and the earth and Hollyberry's eyes and lungs pitch black.

"Terrible, terrible stuff... Too bad the queen abandoned her duties and her land..."

In a last ditch effort to turn the tides of war in their favor, Pitaya Dragon transformed. The strain was great, Hollyberry could tell; as scarlet and emerald flames engulfed their person, hisses and howls of pain rung out from within, culminating in one skull-splitting roar as the dragon's true form came back into being. At this, Hollyberry barked out a laugh. A waste of time and effort. It meant nothing in the end.

"I bet she would've never allowed the dragons to do what they please!"

Pitaya Dragon fought frantically, mindlessly, beating and clawing anything and everything within reach, spitting fire every which way with little regard to what they actually hit, flapping their wings with such force that entire boulders were swept away in the wind. But every attack proved fruitless; Hollyberry was too quick, too tough, too clever. She had waited too long for this moment. She'd be damned before she let it pass her by.

"So much for a HERO!"

Eventually, they slipped up for the final time, and Hollyberry struck back for the final time. When they made the fatal mistake of flying too too low and too close, Hollyberry seized the opportunity and every last bit of her strength to jump up, shield outstretched and aimed at that precious gemstone, that window and key to their heart. The gem embedded in Pitaya Dragon's chest shattered on impact, blazing red shards splintering and exploding every which way. Their mouth fell open in a silent scream, eyes wide as the moon, blood staining their teeth and spurting from their mouth and nostrils. Quickly and unceremoniously, Hollyberry shoved them backwards, watching them collapse with a loud thud, blood oozing from their many wounds and pooling all around them, dyeing the soil an uglier shade of red than it already was. In a smoking crater in the middle of the Dragon's Valley thus lay the legendary Red Dragon. Beaten. Broken. Dead.

In their eyes, Hollyberry thought she had seen tears. It must have been a trick of the light.

She marched forward, making her way around her slain opponent's body until she at least reached their face. Wedging her hands between the teeth of their lower jaw and gripping them tight, she pulled, pulled, pulled; slowly but steadily prying their massive jaws open, until Hollyberry could all but stroll into their mouth with ease.

She didn't have to search for long. Sitting on Pitaya Dragon's tongue for the whole world to see was a cream-colored swaddling cloth, with a tuft of teal hair poking out of the top.

"Tiger Lily!" she shouted, rushing forward and kneeling and gathering the princess in her arms. "Tiger Lily, I-I'm here! I've got you! It's alright!"

She cradled her, rocked her, but the girl did not stir.

"Tiger Lily? Tiger Lily, please, I'm here now! Look at me! Come on!"

Nothing.

"Tiger Lily..." Her vision blurred in an instant, her whole body trembling with such force that it was a miracle she remained upright. "Tiger Lily, p-please- Please, I, I-I'm sorry, I know this is my fault, I'm sorry, I-I'm here now, see? See, everything is alright now. Please, p-please look at me, wake up, look at me, please-!"

Tiger Lily's skin felt freezing cold to the touch, startling Hollyberry when she brought her hand to her cheek. Cold, clammy, with a faint blue tint. Her eyes were closed and nothing Hollyberry said or did opened them. No matter her efforts, no matter her pleas, the little princess lay still. Silent.

Dead.

"No." Hollyberry's came out so small. So feeble. Warm tears began streaming endlessly down her face; she clutched at her chest, a deep, sharp pain suddenly striking her heart. The world blurred and spun all around her, the heavens and earth and her old friend's lifeless body melting together into a single abhorrent mess. All that remained within her comprehension was her dear granddaughter, and the tears soaking through her face and clothes, and the dark flour still floating down from the sky.

Hollyberry woke up with a start, clutching at her chest and gasping for air as though someone had tried to drown her. Frantically, she looked over her surroundings - everywhere her eyes were met with walls of cool obsidian, save for the opening a ways off to her right that offered an escape to the outside world. She'd taken shelter in a cave the night before, after slaughtering her way through the valley and ending up nowhere, with no Pitaya Dragon in sight all day. The night looked young still. The moon shone bright from a gap in the clouds, offering her a single source of precious light.

Still reeling from her nightmare, Hollyberry stared down into her lap, at her trembling hands. Caked in dried dragon blood, as were the rest of her clothes. Specks of gore could still be seen on her person, clinging to her vest and boots and even strands of her hair. Instinctively, she reached for her shield; polishing off the jewel in the center, she gazed into her reflection and stayed silent as it gazed back into her.

...Who is she? What is she doing? Who has she become?

Setting her shield aside and burying her face in her blood-soaked hands, Hollyberry began to weep.

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Ten.

She slammed the crystal glass down onto the table - quite carelessly, sure, but who could blame her? It's hard to keep control of such things after a while.

"Care for another shot, miss?"

"Would I ever! In fact, I'm disappointed you'd even bother asking instead of just pouring! Haha!"

Ten shots in ten minutes. Was this a new record? She thinks it is. She hopes so.

Every day, Hollyberry sunk a little bit lower. But, at the very least, if nothing else at all, she could choose where she sunk. She could choose not to sink into rage and death and depravity. She could choose to sink into a tall, cold, delicious glass of beer or two instead.

The Hollyberry Kingdom, though renowned throughout the world for its berry juice, was far from the only kingdom with a fine drinks selection. The Crème Republic, for example; now there was a place and people that knew how to brew. And such friendly barkeeps, too! Polite, charming, well-versed in their trade. Perfect to buy a round from. As many rounds as they'd indulge.

The beer went down crisp and fresh, warming her throat and her stomach and her aching soul with each gulp. Delicious. Almost a rival to her own people's wares, even. She would have to leave the barkeep an even bigger tip than she'd already planned.

She hardly thought about that night in the Dragon's Valley, that she'd spent sobbing her heart out. She hardly thought about her nightmare, of her imaginary duel with Pitaya Dragon and its implications. Of the grave truth underlying her motives. The truth that she had not come looking conversation or civility from her old friend. She sought something far, far worse.

She hardly thought about the Innkeeper, or the fact that Hollyberry had fled the valley altogether as fast as she could at the first sign of morning, without stepping foot in Dragon City again to see her or say goodbye.

She hardly thought about the mountains of bodies she dumped practically everywhere she went. Almost every region of the world, littered with slaughtered dragons. In her quest to punish savagery, she became a savage herself.

She hardly thought about her newfound, twisted sense of justice, and the brutal nature of her one-woman crusade.

She hardly even thought all that much about her granddaughter now.

No, now it was back to her old routine; the only routine she ever should have known or abided by, that of fun and adventure and the illusion of freedom from her burdens. Though she was a connoisseur of poison, that which vengeance provided was simply too strong for even the likes of her. Her beloved drinks, and her beloved adventures, and the crystal clear reflection of her carefree smile captured within her glass made for a much finer alternative. One vice traded in for another.

It tasted less bitter than her shame.

[shadowtraveled]

what TMA entities would you assign the dungeon lords, esp mithrun? was discussing this (bc marcille is sooo End) and consulting your Seminal Mithrun Meta when i remembered you also went here!

anon i want you to know i was thinking about this nonstop like two weeks ago oh my god. i’d love to hear your thoughts on this if you’re so inclined 👁‍🗨 (and wheeze thank you i don’t know about seminal but i’m glad it passed peer review)

putting a readmore here for spoilers

to preface this, i understand the fears aren’t really separate and it’s all just fear etc but they function as distinct in the way the demons do and in the sense that they each had to mark jon to come into the world. so. distinctive facets of a unified whole. anyway i have two criteria for assigning someone a tma entity: it has to be something they deeply fear, and it has to be something they choose anyway.

and with that being said, marcille is SO end-aligned in a very gentle and chill way i think fits the end so nicely… her intense fear of death is sort of a fear of loss, which would typically be considered the desolation’s domain, especially when coupled with her aptitude for explosion/fire magic and the part of her arc where she tries to expand the dungeon, but she wasn't choosing destruction or hopelessness in either of those cases—there’s something to be said for the carnage she was willing to leave in her wake, but at the end of the day she was trying to eliminate loss. she's fundamentally incompatible with the desolation because she continually rejects it, and the loss itself doesn't form the core of her fear. the inevitability of death, though, does, and she accepts it when she gives up the dungeon and lets falin go. absolutely the end.

i think thistle is another easy designation. he clings to control to the point it corrupts him, and he creates an environment that forbids death, but his desire is not for control and his fear is not of death or loss—those are delgal's. instead, his fear that he won't be able to measure up to the too-large too-heavy responsibility placed on his shoulders is what drives him, and because we know it drives him, we know that he takes it on anyway. he even brings melini underground. extremely the buried.

laios, meanwhile. is difficult for me to assign. his fears (rejection, ostracism, that he isn't able to connect with people, that he hates people) feel very lonely, and he does withdraw from people a fair amount, but he has connections he does not and would not choose to sever. you could make an argument for the hunt (he's drawn to not only monsters but the concept of the food chain itself and his place on it as a part of the natural world, and he ends the series with the object of his fascination out of his reach), but i don't think there's enough fear there. in laios' case, the lack of strict definition between fears and the idea that they're all just muddled subcategories of a singular thing is actually really helpful, because i think i'm assigning him to the vast. it was said at some point that the vast and the lonely aren't too dissimilar—you won't realize how alone you are without distance, and that sort of mental/emotional distance and disconnect is what has haunted laios his entire life. and i think that's, in part, what makes the cosmic insignificance of seeing yourself as just another part of your environment so comforting to him. his choices... definitely make him cosmically significant lmfao but even though he chooses to be the one to go up against Infinity Itself and its endless hunger and even though he chooses to be king, he fits himself right back into the position of being a single piece of a much larger puzzle. he became lord of the dungeon to become a part of the food chain that would stand a chance to preserve it (via eating the demon's hunger). he's king because there was a gap that needed to be filled. even then, he wants his body to be scattered after death, so that he can be devoured like any other living thing would be. god i love this manga. anyway, tentative but i think the vast is the only thing i can justify at this time. actually, accepting the hunger of the infinite could itself be seen as accepting the vast into himself…….

and finally, mithrun! surprising absolutely nobody given my take on his backstory, i'd give him to the lonely, with the caveat that he does eventually sever his connection to it. prior to becoming lord of a dungeon, we know he thought the worst of people (and again i think this was intentional of him), but we also know he put up a front that was undeniably kind. milsiril says that everyone loved him for the front, but its very existence acted as a barrier between himself and others: milsiril had no idea how miserable he was, and neither did anyone else. he'd already begun choosing isolation, and he chose it ultimately when he became lord of a dungeon, literally cutting himself off from everyone in a pocket dimension where he surrounded himself with facsimiles of people he loved until... they dwindled. and they did, until he was alone again, with only the demon and the unresponsive chimera construction of the person he considered to be the one he loved. after he was eaten, we see themes of emptiness typical of the lonely coupled with his disconnection from his team—in one of the extras it says they don't really know how to approach him, and i think it shows. so in a way, he ends up back where he started: surrounded by people who care about him and who he ostensibly cares about in return, but emotionally alone. as for fear, i think a lot of his are tied up in the concept of insignificance, but that insignificance isn't cosmic—it's personal. that's why watching himself be replaced was so unbearable for him and why the thought of being left unfinished was so horrific.

as an aside, i did also consider the corruption. the idea of leftovers abandoned carries the connotation of rot and i love the concept of 'the rot within you' etc. it gets me every time, and i think there's something to be said about that with regard to the way mithrun views the person he once was. furthermore, the... eating... scene... is framed as sexual and extremely invasive (and, as a result of the combination, is very evocative of disgust) in a way we see most often with the corruption (though imo tma would never see something like this as it toes the line of jonny's "no sexual trauma horror" rule too closely), and we have to remember that for all that it terrified mithrun, he was trying to get it to happen again. but i don't think disgust is enough of a factor for him. most of his disgust is aimed at himself, and while he doesn't shy away from it, he isn't really drawn to it either. rather, i think his dialogue in the extra comic in the complete edition of the adventurer's bible ("there's nothing so kind as a demon. suddenly losing that kind of love opens a hole in your heart[...]") goes a long way in terms of defining what being eaten meant to him. the corruption focuses on a feeling of belonging and community. mithrun wanted to disappear forever knowing that in the last moment he lived he was loved. ultimately, the fear of being abandoned coupled with his attraction to being unknown and eventually entirely gone read as lonely-aligned to me.

anyway i'd LOVE to hear where you're at with this please come chat literally whenever this is the most excited i’ve ever been about anything

[voievod]

— in which Vlad Dracula grapples with a variety of feelings as he holds his newborn son for the first time.

word count: 1,227 words

warnings: non-graphic references to blood and violence; themes of mortality and death; themes of sacrifice and loss (but none of it is depressive, I promise!)

a/n: The draft for this work was sitting in my folder for such a long time — I only wrote down a few ideas here and there but never had enough inspiration or felt enough direction to carry this out. This week, something finally clicked and so, here it is, a significant work born (together with the baby boy). Just like fatherhood is a crucial aspect of Vlad Dracul’s personality (I have an entire lore about what fatherhood means to him both as a man and as a ruler that I will introduce in due time), the same eventually applies to his sons. In my fictional world, being a father is definitely a driving force in Vlad’s life — this work establishes that significance. As always, thank you for following this journey, and I hope you enjoy this piece! ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

December 29, 1455, Hermannstadt, Transylvania

Outside, the snow is a silent and relentless thief, stealing the world he once knew. It smothers the streets in white like a shroud, an unending nothingness, the earth buried and forgotten beneath the crystalline sky. Cobblestones drown beneath it, and skeletal trees drip with ice, their boughs bent like penitents under the weight of winter’s reign. A void. A silence so complete, it threatens to consume.

But here, inside, the world is chaos, riotous, wild with colours — colours he did not know could exist, colours that claw at his chest, burst behind his eyes. Red like blood, blood always, because he has lived his whole life in its shadow, but never like this. This blood is not spilt, is not lost, is not of grief or vengeance. It is fire, molten gold, the sun devouring him from within.

He stares at the tiny form in his arms, so small, so impossibly fragile, yet heavy. How can something this small weigh more than the world itself? He thought he knew weight — of swords, of crowns, of bodies — but this is different. He does not dare move, does not dare speak, as though the spell might break. The boy’s breath is a whisper against his chest, and suddenly, he understands what it is to be humbled. Not by men or power or death, but by life, by this life, by the way it roots itself inside him and demands everything. His hands — those hands that have killed, that have built and destroyed and overpowered — feel clumsy, unworthy of this weight. Yet the boy sleeps, serene, unknowing, trusting, as if he belongs there, as if this was always meant to be. And maybe it was. Maybe this is destiny, or grace, or simply the beautiful miracle of life. Whatever it is, it burns, and he knows it will burn forever.

A boy. His boy. My son. The thought erupts, echoing like a battle cry, like a prayer, and shatters him. Tiny fingers curl, so impossibly small, impossibly perfect, and with each movement, a law is written into his blood, a command that says: Protect. Provide. Burn for him if you must.

Less than an hour — how is it only an hour? — and his world is unmade. Every moment before this, every choice, every scar, has been a prelude, a stumbling preface to this. The light through the window is a pale, indifferent thing, trying in vain to intrude, but it has no place here, no power. What is the sun compared to this child, his son, to the pulse of his heartbeat against his own? He is no longer singular — he is plural. We. A father, a son. Blood calls to blood, and suddenly all the rivers of his life converge, rushing, flooding, drowning him in feelings he cannot yet name.

This is my son. The words rise and fall in his mind, crashing like waves. Our son. He sees his reflection in the baby’s face. The downy hair, his own midnight black, still damp and curling slightly at the edges. He sees Cătălina too, in the child’s darkest eyes, her eyes, revealed for a moment before he shut them close again. The line of her brow. She gave him this. He and Cătălina — Cătălina, whose laughter carries him through his darkest nights, whose quiet strength is his fortress — together they have created this. They have conjured life where there was none, a third born of their two, as though God owed them this act of creation after all He had taken.

His love for her has been his constant, his solace, his battle cry. It is the calm of still waters, the salve for old wounds, the strength that steadies him when the earth trembles beneath his feet. With her, love has been a choice — a deliberate, defiant act against fate’s capricious cruelty. Together, they have endured, their scars exposed, their hearts laid bare, and in that sharing, they have built something indestructible.

This love is nothing like that. It is not calm. It is not a choice. It is feral, raw, all-consuming. It tears through him like a storm, leaving nothing untouched. It is a blade, sharp and merciless, carving through his chest and leaving him exposed, vulnerable in a way he has never been before. It could never be shattered but has the power to shatter him. The world is not safe, not for something this small, this fragile. How can it be, when he knows what lurks beyond these walls — men with blades, beasts with teeth, a world indifferent to the sanctity of innocence? And yet, it is also power. It fills him, hardens him. He would stand alone against the fury of armies, against death itself, if it meant protecting this child from harm’s claws.

His utmost source of pride. His profoundest vulnerability.

He thinks of his father. Of Mircea. Of Radu. All names etched in his bones, faces carved into memory. He has been protector and brother and son, will become avenger one day, but never this. Never father. The title clings to him, foreign and sacred. He thought he knew it — the duty, the sacrifice. He found purpose in this devotion. He thought that all the years spent shielding his younger brother from the cold edges of the world prepared him for this moment. But how could they? Nothing could prepare him for the sight of this child, his child, breathing in his arms.

The weight of his father’s ghost presses upon him, sharp as the chill of the snow-covered street outside. He is not his father, and yet he is. The line between them blurs. Legacy threads its needle and sews father to son, one life bleeding into the next. He sees Dracul’s shadow kneeling before death, eyes blazing with a ferocity only a parent could muster. He sees the unyielding choice — sacrifice, always sacrifice, for the sake of the bloodline. Would he also bare his neck to the blade if it meant this child, this piece of him, might live? The answer is not a thought. It is a certainty, instinctual, primal, eternal.

He finds himself on the precipice of uncharted territory that he must navigate alone, led only by instinct. The tiny soul in his embrace is a unique entity, the only one of his kind in the vast expanse of the world. Despite their shared blood, they are strangers, meeting for the first time. How does he decipher the soft sounds emerging from the small body? Is his son content in his hold?

Will he navigate this journey correctly? Is it within his power? What kind of man will this frail angel bloom into as the days rush past?

His mind races through visions — the child running, the boy laughing, the man holding a sword. And then — no, he will not think it, but it comes nonetheless — visions of cold stones and red spilt over snow. He holds the child closer, as if the force of his grip can shield him from futures too dark to be borne.

The snow outside might as well be an ocean. He will wade through it, drown in it, to keep his son safe. To keep him warm. To keep him whole.

For the first time in years, Vlad Drăculea feels fear. And it feels beautiful indeed.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end! As always, now is the time to dive a little into some historical context behind the story.

You might have noticed that the timeline does not quite align with the historical information we have about Vlad’s sons. While I try to stay as faithful as I can to all the information that we have at our disposal, every writer has certain areas in their work in which they take some creative liberties — this is mine, and so here is the space to introduce a fictional eldest son into the narrative. (I hope the dedicated Vlad researchers can forgive me for this tweak!) This choice came from nothing else but a personal desire to explore Vlad as a father much earlier in his life. While his real decisions and actions stand on their own — his life unfolded the way it did, after all — I was fascinated by the creative prospect of how fatherhood might influence his personality and decisions in other areas. That is how Mircea came to be. Nonetheless, here is a bit of factual information about Vlad’s children to clarify the decision!

The precise number of Vlad’s children remains a subject of historical uncertainty, but it is generally accepted by historians that he had three sons. The eldest, Mihnea (traditionally recorded as being born in 1462, though I have adjusted his birth year to 1460 for narrative purposes), was born out of a relationship with Vlad’s mistress. After a tumultuous life marked by persistent struggles, he ultimately ascended to his father’s throne and became the voivode of Wallachia in 1508. Vlad’s other two sons were born of his first marriage to the illegitimate daughter of John Hunyadi. One of these, Vlad (alternatively Ladislaus), became his elder half-brother’s rival, unsuccessfully laid claim to Wallachia around 1495, and subsequently relocated to Western Transylvania, where his descendants would later establish the Hungarian noble branch of the Drăculești. The other son (whose name we do not know) chose a markedly different path by renouncing political ambition entirely and becoming a priest. He passed away at a young age in 1486 in Oradea. If you want to learn more about Vlad’s family, Corpus Draculianum offers an excellent video on the topic, which I highly recommend.

Mircea (who, as you might surmise, bears the name of another significant figure in Vlad’s life — we shall get to that soon) is, just like my version of Vlad’s mistress, entirely a product of my imagination. In crafting his story, I have taken creative liberties by reordering the lineage of Vlad’s children — in my version, Vlad has two sons with Cătălina and only one son (Vlad) with his first wife. Yet, even as a fictional character, Mircea serves as a lens through which to explore some of the customs, challenges, and intricacies of life in Wallachia in those times. This is certainly not his last appearance as he will be a recurring figure, with his journey depicted from his earliest moments through to adulthood. I hold a deep love for Mircea as a character, and I hope you will come to cherish him just as much.

Between 1454 and 1456, Vlad spent two years in exile in Sibiu (Hermannstadt in German), a period marked by a very lucrative and pragmatic alliance with John Hunyadi. Through this arrangement, Vlad was granted a military appointment to safeguard the southern borders of Transylvania from potential Ottoman incursions. (This role actually mirrored his father’s earlier duties in Sighișoara, where he similarly acted as a bulwark against Ottoman threats.) As part of this agreement, Vlad established his residence in Sibiu, where the influential Saxon authorities (many of whom had previously sought his death) were ordered to tolerate his presence under Hunyadi’s directive. Sibiu was a prominent cultural and administrative hub of the Transylvanian Saxons and became the centre of Vlad’s operations during this time. His headquarters attracted other Wallachian noble exiles loyal to the Drăculești, which allowed Vlad to establish the groundwork for a strategic return to Wallachia to reclaim the throne. This period of his long exile therefore served as both a refuge and a staging ground for his ambitions. (Note: In referencing place names, I adopt the regional language(s) of the said place to reflect the sociopolitical and cultural realities of the time. During the High and Late Middle Ages, the Transylvanian Saxons were among the most influential ethnic groups in Transylvania, particularly in cities like Sibiu, which underscored their dominance in administrative and cultural affairs in the region. For that reason, I employ the German equivalents for these cities.)

You may have been taken aback by Cătălina’s appearance in Vlad’s Sibiu chapter of his exile years. I promise this will also be elaborated on in the future — while I cannot promise absolute historical plausibility, I still try to use as much historical information as I can to make the arc of their relationship as realistic as possible. Let’s just say that the events taking place in “When Paths Cross” are just the beginning of the rollercoaster that their relationship will turn out to be at times. :)

[evolutionsvoid]

When the dragons fell and Eitr was spilled upon the earth, new life was born. A strange combination of old and new, creatures never before seen in this land, yet still old and primordial. Familiar shapes and traits emerge in these mutations, hearkening back to an age long past. It seems even in its lowest point, Eitr still burns and seeks to return to these ancient times. Perhaps these mutations are its attempts to rekindle its age, and perhaps its potent toxicity is the bitterness towards the youth who stole it.

One of the monstrosities born from the Eitr pools of dragon wounds is the Primal Chimera. Once a leech, now warped into something great and primordial. Its new form is a puzzle, a perplexing chain of flesh and Blood that terrifies locals and frustrates hunters. It is a beast of three heads and three minds, yet inhabiting a singular body. The largest of the three forms is a powerful, yet sluggish, creature. Eight legs drag it across the land, while a gaping toothless maw swallows everything before it. Armored bumps of bronze dot its hide, a hint at the legacy that has tainted it. Yet, it becomes more apparent when its mouth pulls open and vomits forth the next head.

The second head is armored and fierce, a great hissing serpent of olden times. Its three jaws snap and gnash, seeking flesh and Blood to tear into. Upon its body is a pair of wings, but they will never sustain flight. Rather, they seem more for signaling and intimidation, flapping them frantically to appear larger and more menacing. It is faster and nastier than its slow compatriot, often straining its body forward and pulling with frustration when its lower half fails to keep up with its desires. If prey succeeds in fleeing out of reach, than the third head may emerge to deal with it.

The third form is far smaller and unassuming, like a spiky tongue lancing out from the toothy jaws. Its armored head bears a proboscis, and it seems little else. However, this form is what harnesses the crimson lightning of Blood, which is tainted with Primal Flame. In an instant, it can sheath its wormy form in a coating of crackling electricity, and spew forth burning bolts. It has also been seen dragging itself across the jaws and limbs of its brethren, anointing them with the same searing energeiai. In battle, it can shoot from the maw with lightning speed and release a powerful burst of energeiai that fries foes on the spot. And whenever someone falls, the tiny head takes the fluids, the jawed head takes the flesh and the yawning mouth of the third head swallows what is left.

The Primal Chimera is a threat to many, as its hunger has been tripled by its mutation. All heads need to feed, and each has its own desires to satiate. Thus, it crawls across the land in an endless search for prey, eating what cannot escape. Fighting it is a nightmare, as it appears that all three heads must perish before the entire creature falls. Two of the three sport armored hides, and their great bulk can crush foes. Hunters claim that the only way to truly have a chance is to coax out the third head and lop it off quickly. This begins the end for this beast, robbing it of its lightning source and causing it great pain. However, for it to emerge, it must be good and angry, and once it is revealed, it won't hesitate to start shooting out burning energeiai. Be quick in your actions and moves, strike down each head with haste or be fried and devoured.

Those who have done battle with these beasts swear that their dance has had a secret audience. Figures watching from afar, hiding in the shadows. Yet when they look, there is no one there. But some glimpse a flash of movement, of someone fleeing the scene. Who knows who they may be, though many point towards the Academy of Veritas Mundus. Their interest in Eitr has been known, and their reputation and rivalry with the Church makes them tempting targets for blame and rumor. Yet, that doesn't mean it can't be true...

[clocktowerechos]

Factions of the Tyranid Swarms of the Brightest Night AU

"... One would be forgiven for being lulled into a false sense of hope that such foes are merely mindless, ravenous beasts. As the idea they may be something more organized and coordinated is too terrifying to consider..." ~ Unknown Ordo Xenos Inquisitor after first contact report with the Tyranids.

The all-consuming Hive Fleets have made landfall far earlier and with much greater force than in canon. They are not merely vanguards or scouting tendrils, but a vast migration of the Hive Mind's many limbs to sate its voracious apatite. Nobody foresaw their arrival, not the Eldar Farseers, not the Alliance Augurs, not Chaos Prophets, not the Necron and their esoteric, celestial calculus. The Hive Fleets arrived and since then, every angle of the Milky Way has become a vector for their entrance.

It was the Tau who first discovered the division of Swarms within Hive Fleets. Prior to joining the Alliance, they had worked with a team of Eldar on an entirely separate diplomatic research mission before accidently discovering the psycho-pheromonal signals that identify the types of Swarms. From it, scholars across the Alliance have theorized that the Tyranids have formed a super organism-like empire, scouring worlds and "farming" biomass to aid in their endless hunger. It is believed that at the conclusion of their feasting, when the last mortal has been consumed, they will devour their "empire" before moving on to the next, leaving only an empty galaxy and dead space.

Hive Fleets have been identified to possess specialized swarms, each fulfilling a singular role.

Devouring Swarms

They are the frontline of the Hive Mind, insatiable and voracious, they blot out stars with their mass and shower worlds with spores and combat forms. They are what the Tyranids are in canon.

Harvesting Swarms

What might be considered the "civilian economy" of the Tyranids, instead of simply devouring everything in a system, will instead strip all but one planet of life and biomass before dumping it on a singular planet, seeding it with abundant life. They "harvest" at regular intervals, but always leave enough for life to regrow, however twisted or terrified they are.

Survivors rescued from these Harvest or Swarm Worlds are forever scarred with horrific memories of their worlds being converted into bio-mechanical and organic factory farms. Where they were herded by a primordial energy like microbial cattle, and where the sound of chittering teeth and rending claws was always in the back of their minds.

Sprawling Swarms

Fulfilling a sort of logistical or transport role, Sprawling Swarms serve to carry biomass from Harvesting Swarms to Devouring Swarms, ensuring a plentiful stockpile of biomass for new monsters to be birthed from. Since their discovery, it has become a priority for many factions to target these swarms in the hopes of slowing the advance of Devouring Swarms, leading to Sprawling Swarms having the most formidable voidborn organisms of any swarm.

So critical are these Swarm fleets that any naval captain who provide evidence of its destruction can be guaranteed a promotion. And any penitent renegade who provides Alliance authorities with similar proof may be granted forgiveness and redemption should they be willing to join the Imperium and its allies.

Genestealer Cults & Genebloods

The infiltrating vanguard of the Hive Fleets are either formed from Genestealer Patriarchs who gestate in pools of Devouring Swarms, or from the broken individuals on Swarm Worlds. Their minds shattered and twisted by the Hive Mind's suffocating power, they believe the Tyranids to be messengers of a divine truth or star-born saviors. Given over to the profane worship of the Hive Mind, they sometimes form a "clergy" on Swarm Worlds that preach ascension into the light as the Harvesting Swarms come to reap their bounties.

No matter their origin, both Patriarchs and "Ascensionists" are delivered to unvigilant worlds to form cults and secret societies. Sowing the seeds of chaos and unrest with plans generations in the making before plunging the world into anarchy at the eve of the Hive Fleet's arrival. Yet, some manage to break free from the suffocating psychic will of the Hive Mind. Many go mad from the realization of what they are or what they have done, seeing their monstrous kin and children for what they truly are, and remove themselves entirely. However, some may seek to exact vengeance upon the Hive Mind, becoming Unbound Genebloods. Prized for their innate understanding of the Tyranid Hive Mind and ability to detect lurking organisms that stalk the shadows, they are often recruited by the Inquisition to root out their kin.

Just as pyskers must constantly ward off the daemonic whispers in their minds, Genebloods must constantly stave off the predations of the Hive Mind that seeks to enslave them again.

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Final attempts to understand before the Shape is unveiled

What is the Light?

Matter. Creation. Complexity. The Light is all these things, and in all things. Look up at the Sky. Light reveals. Light blinds.

What is the Traveler?

A manifestation. A generator. A projector. A computer and storage drive for one form of existence. A cage. A source. A wellspring. A Gardener seeking to sow. A half-truth.

What is the Veil?

A manifestation. An enigma. A blueprint. A mirror. A cocoon and a web. A matrix. A devourer. A reaper. A recycler. A chalice. A xenotaph. A prism. A prison. A black box. Katabasis. Minds; yours, mine, ours. Its. Rivers. All-in-one and one-in-all. The other half.

What are we meant to be?

Not soldiers given orders by the general of a grand campaign of conquest. Not warlords granted power to rule over the weak. Guardians, vested with a singular, true purpose; protect this reality and those passing through it in mortality. See them safely along the path so they may realize their potential. Steadfast sentinels, insatiable explorers, mindful truth seekers; a trinity that ripples across the ocean of life itself.

What are the Ghosts?

A Guardian's guardian. A link. A proxy. A go-between. A stopper on death.

When one dies and vacates their form of Light, the soul is reclaimed to the bottle from which we all once poured... all except Guardians. Guardians remain because another soul stands in the way, one already taken from life but torn back from death and given a new shell. A ghost, holding the reaper at bay. For now.

What is the Witness?

Not the Shape, but the shadow of one. The first child, the first knife to carve flesh and stone. Not the pyramidion, but the block supporting it, lifting it up, making it possible. Many in one, an aspirational reflection of that which was seen darkly beyond the Veil. A seer. An observer. A summoner. A false prophet. A thorn. A witness to the end, to the true Shape.

What is the Darkness?

Thought. Memory. Emotion. Consciousness. Collapse. The mirror's image. A byproduct. You. Me. The universe. The Deep.

What is the Final Shape?

Beauty. Fear. Sorrow. Majesty. A winnower to shape the garden, to give it ultimate purpose. A singular mind with a singular vision and a singular purpose which is what it is because it is all it ever could be. A force of nature yet shaped by a hand. Created to devour you, me, everything and everyone we know. The pyramidion. The peak. The pinnacle. The inevitable.

Choose the form of the destructor.

What is the truth in the Darkness?

Light casts shadows. The shadows dance upon the cave wall, lies projected to convey the truth, the meaning; there is no meaning. We are all the same.

We are all pinched silhouettes impaled on the twitchings of infinitely long spiderlegs.

All the while I thought on the truth of Bashaarat’s words: past and future are the same, and we cannot change either, only know them more fully. My journey to the past had changed nothing, but what I had learned had changed everything, and I understood that it could not have been otherwise. If our lives are tales that Allah tells, then we are the audience as well as the players, and it is by living these tales that we receive their lessons.

— The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate by Ted Chiang

V. What the Thunder Said After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih

[cottonfeltgembira]

you've gazed at the stars, but what if it gazed at you back?

tbob is reviving my old interest in gf so i made a fun character just to explore a concept : Bill meets an entity who is not only more ancient than he is, but for once incomprehensible to him and happens to be a sentient star... with one eye :]

more about Asteria below!

Asteria is something akin to a neuron star, she is OLD old. A star first conceived at the start of existence and has reached the final stage of her cycle, now forever immortal and shining beautifully bright passing through every part of the multiverse

She is a completely passive and peaceful figure by choice, for whatever reason she seems to have zero desire to do anything, content to gaze at everything around her (you could say shes enLIGHTened... bad joke) despite her capacity to essentially be an end bringer by devouring worlds she comes into contact with

Asteria is known by most who have observed her as the passing star, a star does not fall, but simply passes through (and if youre lucky enough, youll see her again in your lifetime)

Because of the state of her existence only a lucky few can interact with her (shes literally a flaming ball of light) and out of them only an even rarer few have been grace with her more comprehensible form and the most rarest : hear her

So imagine Bill's surprise to catch a ride on the fame passing star, getting to talk to (and being able to hear her, she has a voice that can only be understood as humming) the very thing that gave life to his curiosity beyond his own dimension (and blocking what other memories come with remembering this) and getting to see her form and that she possesses only a singular eye much like himself

I like the idea that Bill tries to tell her everything, everything he knows, only for her overall response to simply be : "thats wonderful, thats fascinating." Because at the end of the day she is by all means much bigger than Bill himself, she does not work like any other existence in the multiverse, she does not have to prove her superiority to anyone. She simply is, and she will always be here until the entirety of existence is gone.

But she is kind, and she enjoyed the company of another being joining her as she passes through. Surely being told youre a lovely entity by an ancient sentient star who only so few in the multiverse can say theyve heard her speak is the greatest compliment in existence (and get to gloat about it in therapy)

[bunniisms]

small thingie, but it got me curious! your character Amity became a vampire at age 49, right? does that mean she was still a virgin at that age? (nothing wrong with that it's just surprising!)

Hello, Anon! Thank you so much for the ask! You asked an excellent question and I'm happy to explain!

Amity isn't a vampire! I mean, she's adjacent to a vampire: she IS an undead maneater and a form of supernatural that lives by devouring human victims (particularly their flesh and blood) and absorbing their lifeforce, seducing them, eluding and manipulating humanity, etc., but the comparison is apples and oranges when you get into the finer details of things!

What Amity's species is a Jorōgumo, The Entangling Spider-Bride Yokai, using modified lore both for world-building and because, highkey, I do have a slight phobia for spiders! Haha.

-

There's a longer explanation of how the Jorōgumo in my lore works. But, for your sake as a reader, to make a page-long explanation short, each Jorōgumo is a weak collective hivemind that encapsulates an entire species of insects.

So think of house flies, just the everyday buzzy boys. A Jorōgumo that took the form of house flies would be ALL members of that singular species connected by a weak mental thread.

But that thread connecting them isn't strong enough to sustain COMPLEX intelligent life, maintain the magic binding them or allow them to unite as a singular unit.

A Jorōgumo without a host is only able to exert will on each other, not tangible thoughts, and that weakens them immensely, so they require a host mind designed for processing complex thoughts and turning the mass of the Swarm, and its magic into a singular being, into a person.

When a species of insect is born, they are built into everything they can ever be. What a bug is after they pupate is what they are until they die because that's what they were designed by nature to be. Same as how a human can't sprout wings; bugs can't be flesh and blood. But when a species makes the immense jump into being a Yokai, into being supernatural, they get a hunger for more that they can achieve on their own. More thinking, more power, more concentration, all of it, endless envy and hunger to jump and do more than sip from the pond of power they're exposed to. But being bugs, they can't will themselves to be anything more than what they were created as, a bug can only have the power a bug can carry, they cannot be a cat or a human or carry THAT magic. UNLESS they steal a mind of something greater and make themselves into it.

You see where I'm getting at?

When a Jorōgumo collective (or Swarm) makes the jump and feels that hunger, they'll use their insect-sized magic (when without a host) to STEAL (and I use the term steal purposefully) the mind of a HUMAN woman or fem-aligning person, so that they can be more than abnormal bugs, so they can be a true Jorogumo.

And because human minds are fallible and will fade and degrade over time, a Jorōgumo collective will take dozens of human minds in their lifetime, all in order to be more than what they can achieve on their own.

-

Now, Amity was physically transformed into her current state at 49 years old when she was assassinated.

But I would say her first transformation occurred much, much further back in 1899 when she was initially infected and infested with a parasitic version of the Hive's collective consciousness at 9 years old (yes, a wholeass child damned into being a monster)

The parasite of the Swarm's will travelled through Amity's bloodstream and into her brain after she was mauled by a husk carrier

And from there? They rooted in her brain, growing with her, absorbing her mind and personality, all the while pupating with the ultimate goal that after Amity's human body died, the parasite queens in her corpse would emerge, all of the dormant eggs of the previous generation of the hive would hatch, flock to her corpse, consume her last earthly remains as the last step of cementing the Hive and Amity's merging, and resurrect her and them together as a full Jorōgumo.

Now, as far as virginity is concerned, Amity is not a virgin; in fact, she's had children! but that's never been a concern for the Jorōgumo collective. They aren't particular to the concept of purity by Western standards, simply because they aren't a Western supernatural force. It's why a cross alone doesn't hurt them (though weaponized faith itself, regardless of the religion it's affiliated with, WILL hurt them)

-

To answer further curiosity, though— if she's not a vampire, what does Hellsing want with her? Well, the first answer to this lies in the fact that Hellsing never saught Amity out; she saught THEM out and wanted to deal with the devil for the sake of her numerous followers. But, even despite not being a vampire or having a professional interest in the monster hunting field Hellsing prides itself in, Amity uses her unique abilities to be their infiltrator and spymaster— dealing in information and espionage on their behalf in only the way a Jorōgumo and their collective of insects can!

[orangerosebush]

It is fascinating comparing zombie movies made outside of the United States of America to USAian zombie movies-- not because the concept of zombies is explored more compellingly by USAian directors, but because these popular zombie films rely on certain kinds of detached brutality that almost necessitate the presence of guns.

Also, this country makes a shit ton of zombie films.

The most popular version of the zombie in post-1990s USA cinema is an unthinking object that, by virtue of zombies having the singular purpose of devouring their victims (i.e. either consuming humanity -- literally -- or reproducing itself through half-hearted consumption), can be the subject of almost any level of justified, even necessary, violence. You can hardly be responsible for taking a human life if the human life is an unthinking, moving corpse — it's murder without any moral valence.

If anything, the zombie doesn't just need to be met with automatic violence, but extraordinary violence: destroying the brain, especially by means of a gun. The zombie appetence for violence is only matched by this brutishness required to eradicate it from existence. And eradication, as mentioned, is the only option with zombies, as they're incapable of understanding any form of human communication. To me, this ontological weirdness when it comes to zombies indicates both a delight in the spectacle of violence and a deep shame at having that appetite. The gore of zombie films is both puerile and sterile; anxious excess with perverse decorum.

Further, USAian zombie media is both subtextually obsessed with and afraid of diaspora and refugees -- The Walking Dead slouches through season after season and spinoff after spinoff based on the idea that the eventual dissolution of a safe haven is inevitable in the zombie apocalypse; characters will always be cast out of a place they try to create roots in. The same is generally true of the Zombieland duology, the Crazies, Dawn of the Dead (2004), etc.

There is a sense that these characters are refugees running from refugees — the ones who conceal that they have been infected, the ones who sink to the level of the zombies in this new world, etc. For example, World War Z both implicitly connects Palestinians to the spread of the virus with shots of teeming hordes of the undead trying to climb over a wall erected around all of Israel (not just the real West Bank barrier). This connection becomes explicit when people beyond this wall are allowed entry and a young girl in the group begins to sing. When she won't stop singing, riling up the zombies with the noise, she is shot; this attracts the attention of the zombies, and they finally swarm over the wall in a frenzy.

And I say all this as someone who is deeply interested in horror -- and in zombie films specifically! I think the sublimated anxieties and prejudices of the genre make these films all the more thought-provoking.

[kaurwreck]

There's certainly Something about singularities in Bungou Stray Dogs presenting as massive, myth-derived creatures with more than passing resemblances to kaiju given the setting predates its analog to World War II.

Gojira and the kaiju genre were born in the aftermath of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the Lucky Dragon Incident (in which an American hydrogen bomb test rained radioactive ash on a Japanese fishing boat and much of the South Pacific). Life form singularities (like Chuuya and Verlaine), the Seven Traitors, the Transcendants, Mori's fixation on skill-based warfare, and everything else about the Great War all indicate that skills are akin to nuclear arms.

But unlike nuclear arms, skills are generally framed as intrinsic to their user. They're neurological; as much as part of skill users' wiring as the rest of their synapses. Even for Kyouka, whose skill was inherited but not fully integrated, her skill more resembles hereditary neurochemical wiring than it does nuclear proliferation.

Gojira (1954) ends with Dr. Serizawa's promise that hydrogen bombs would always assure nightmarish, monstrous manifestations of the horrors of war. You'd think Dazai's gift, then, would be the enigmatic focal skill of the series; he's capable of nullifying hydrogen bombs, after all.

But it's Atsushi and his celestial Byakko that Shibusawa calls the antithesis of all other abilities. And, as explained in 55 Minutes, Byakko doesn't heal or regenerate Atsushi, it negates his wounds. Atsushi isn't only a particularly tenacious shounen protagonist, Byakko compels him to stand when he's been cut down. When Atsushi is at the edge of death, Byakko consumes him completely, and Atsushi is lost within him, moreso than even Chuuya is in his Corruption state (Chuuya is fully conscious in Corruption— if Atsushi is conscious, he's either repressing or sluggishly recalling the memory of what occurred). Akutagawa also mentions during the Cannibalism arc that Atsushi's claws cut through skills themselves (even Rashoumon, which eats space). Akutagawa also becomes aware, in 55 Minutes, that Byakko can be triggered by Atsushi's peril, and Akutagawa does so to negate the manifestation of a seemingly transcendant skill that otherwise had utterly defanged them (although he seems sorry to have to do it).

Nevertheless, although Atsushi's Byakko seemingly negates the metaphorical horrors of the Great War illustrated by the others and their relationships with their skills, it's Atsushi who posits that perhaps skills aren't innate. He says to Kunikida, "Maybe they come from somewhere else and stick to us. Maybe they're something we can't understand... I don't really know how to put it into words, but that's how I feel."

Much of 55 Minutes is colored by Atsushi's fear of Byakko and his understanding that Byakko could devour him. His fear is seemingly validated by the antagonist, a manifestation of a skill that seemingly swallowed its human. But although textually consistent with his expressed fear, Atsushi's tone, demeanor, timing, and thought processes from when he speaks that line until the light novel ends aren't. His musings reflect his namesake's exploration of and uneasy relationship with the nature of existence, which he understood to be constructed by one's culture and environment better than most due to his somewhat rootless childhood.

I think it's interesting that someone with a skill capable of cutting through other skills, negating wounds, and antithesizing all skills challenges whether skills are innate at all. And if they're not, what does that imply about the parallels between skills, the horrors of war, and the fear of nuclear holocaust?

It's important to me that the scars of American imperialism and disregard for the sanctity of life are not erased from the narrative when discussing the world wars and nuclear proliferation. So I hesitate to posit anything about what skills may be in Bungou Stray Dogs that is too abstracted from trauma wrought by Western imperialism, Japanese imperialism, or the horrors of World Wars I & II. But perhaps that's it; when Atsushi speculates that skills are something that sticks to you, I'm reminded of how trauma has shaped and informed his own. He is certain that Byakko's negation and restless hunger are connected to his birth and subsequent suffering. At first, I thought we were being teased with his early background. But there's no need to tease; the reason so many characters in Bungou Stray Dogs are orphans directly relates to the Great War and the generational trauma still reverberating in its aftermath, and amid the threat of another, even more destructive war.

Perhaps Atsushi was implying that skills are constructs born not from any innate self, if there's such a thing, but from traumas, experiences, needs, cultures, and environments. Which is to say that skills aren't separable, exactly, from their users, but they're not innate either. They're like our personalities: immutable once shaped in the crucible of our most formative years, but nevertheless reflections of not only ourselves, but of what we need and who we become when confronted by others, in all of their beauty and horror.

Thus, perhaps it isn't Atsushi's skill that's so very antithetical to all others. It's his understanding of it, his ability to cut through to others, his compassion, his cowardice, his curiosity, and his separation from his sense of self that both inflicted him with Byakko and which will allow him to transcend it to become who he desires to be. It reminds me that, shortly before his death, his namesake decided to become a writer. And that although he wrote and lived only briefly, his sincerity, thoughtfulness, and introspective skepticism cut, and continue to cut, with a brilliance emblematic of life.

Anyway. Atsushi is both the main character and protagonist of Bungou Stray Dogs. Dazai knows this, too; even if he can nullify Byakko, he's just as impacted by Atsushi's brimming earnestness as everyone else Atsushi encounters. Atsushi liberates the narrative so that it's not a warning that the horrors of war will proliferate so long as we are capable of mass destruction, but instead it's a promise that hope needn't be intrinsic to persist all the same.

[king-of-theforest]

Dream Weaver

A boy born with two souls and two minds. Caelum's nature is reckless and more outgoing and go with the flow kind of type character while his other half Sypher is more calculated and capable of planning ahead and is calm under battle. When these two work together they become unstoppable. They name themselves Calcifer as the two have become one.

Sypher

Sypher is the first ever dream spirit that he unconsciously created. This is his first ever friend since he was child and he has protected him ever since and now he has become an official dream spirit and his power is related to that of the moon and its illusion.

Dream Magic

Calcifer has an affinity to dream magic. This lets him have the ability to of course put people asleep in a certain vicinity. His magic is capable of manifesting anything from his dream world. He can also come inside his dream world and then out of it, making him nigh invisible to anything that can sense magic and life. One of his key abilities is being able to enter the dreams of others and use it to view their memories. His dream world is described as the moon rises high and a mirror of water lies below with a singular tree at the center. In this world he is a god as he can create anything and manifest anything, change the very landscape and from this world and in this realm he can go into other people's dreams and see their memories. He can manifest forms that holds mask and those masks are concentrated dreams that can be manifested for a long time. That is what makes him different from most mages who uses the same magic as well. He isn't able to let others enter his world but he instead made his world bring itself into reality.

Dream Creation Magic: Dream Eater

Calcifer summons the mythical baku which is able to devour dreams but in this case it eats magic.

Dream Magic: Gateway of Morpheus

Calcifer creates a portal in which any attack that comes in its direction will simply pass through it and enter the dream realm.

Dream Creation Magic: Tree of Hypnos

Calcifer summons the tree from the dream realm to put everyone in the vicinity to sleep. In the vicinity of the area, all magic also becomes dull and they loose their intensity.

Dream Spirit Creation Magic:

Dream Spirit: Phoenix

A form created by Calcifer. His wings are capable of flight and has as well as a bird like mask covering his right face. In this form all his attacks have flames that burn brighter and more powerful. His feathers are not the same as before as they fall down from his wings and they remain their intensity to the point that they burn anything that they touch and leave fire wherever they stay but you can manipulate them to create fire storms and your wings are capable of cutting through anything since they are concentrated flames. These flames are also able to heal his wounds and injuries as well as burn away poison.

Mana Zone: Phoenix Dive

Another weapon that he can create is a bow that can create arrows from his very flames from within. These arrows are capable of being able to pierce through physical objects and magical barriers to hit their target. It can also be changed to become more volatile to be able to destoy the surrounding area with its powerful explosion. The arrows though are capable of being in one direction. The arrows created can depend on how much the user uses his form as a source for arrows. He can also use existing flames as a source for arrows. He can also change the arrows properties to become more long ranged and more accurate though it loses a bit of its fire power and acts like a normal arrow. The more flames you gather the more strength and destructive force the arrow has though this only results up to one arrow and this one can destroy and burn anything away.

Dream Spirit: Sypher

Calcifer manifest flowers to create illusions to protect himself and others against attacks from any angle. He does this by creating petals to be able to defend him further by swirling around him and then use it to attack or to evade enemies by splitting the clouds of petals to different areas to confuse them. Never underestimate these petals as they are capable of damaging enemies by emitting lunar energy to strike them down.

Garden of Evening Twilight

This spell is unleashing a garden full of light and dark blue flowers in a specific area. The spells effect is that the one who cast the spell and the allies in the area will become very hard to be attacked due to it applying an illusion at the same time their strength and magic are increased. In this garden nothing is real and reality is only what you perceived.

Dream Spirit: Ophiuchus

This form is good for defensive plays and at the same time, good for countering attacks and binding opponents. This spirit allows him to manifest multiple mana created snakes that will defend from any attack in the vicinity. These snakes not only defend, but it is also able to strike enemies or either knocking them back, piercing them, or binding them in place by wrapping around them. He is also given scales made out of mana to protect him against attack that comes in contact with him. He can also create large serpents to further protect him or attack enemies and this is called "Nest of the Serpent Bearer". This form is also immune to poison.

Eyes of the Gorgon

This form also gives him eyes that is able immobilize anyone that sees it. This is reminiscent of the legend behind the legendary monster called medusa. Not only is this ability limited to Ophiuchus' eyes, it is also applicable to the snakes he created.

Dream Spirit: Oberon

This form has incredible healing ability as it draws power from nature itself. He can aslo heal others of their wounds and injuries and even save those close to death. He can even create barriers that can block the most formidable attacks. This form has also complete mastery over his mana and magic. Oberon has also one of the most sensitive mana sensing abilities.

Mana Style: Emerald Sanctuary

This is a spell in which he uses nature's mana to be able to recover his strength, mana, and heal his wounds at an astounding rate. At the same time barriers would be there to protect him and his allies from further attacks.

Dream Spirit: Raijin

This form is one of his fastest spirit . It controls lightning with great percision and can strike anything from far away. He can control his lightning to cover himself and become faster. His lightning is able to pierce through anything with blinding speed as he summons lightning itself with this form and not lightning that was generated with mana. Making attacks that can nullify magic be rendered useless as attacks that come from this form is not made out of magic but it is made out of what lightning is. He can also use the air as a stepping stone and be able to make himself go faster with it.

[bardicpotato]

Now that session 0 has concluded and he's a fully realized character, meet Well-Done!

Name: Well-done

Ancestry: Kobold

Class/Level: 5th Sorcerer (Red Draconic Bloodline)

Background: Anthropologist

Origins and Early Life

In the bustling orphanage of a mid-sized city, there was a kobold who stood out – a small, energetic creature named Well-done. From his earliest memories, he was different from the other children. While they played typical games, Well-done was consumed by a singular, burning passion: becoming a dragon.

His days were filled with dramatic performances that both amused and exasperated the orphanage caretakers. He would dash through the halls, arms outstretched like wings, letting out ear-splitting roars that echoed through the stone corridors. Other children would cover their ears or roll their eyes, but Well-done was undeterred. In his mind, he wasn't playing – he was practicing.

One crisp autumn day, Well-done wandered beyond the city's outskirts, exploring what he dramatically called "his future kingdom" but was, in reality, a modest woodland area. His imagination transformed the ordinary forest into a vast, unexplored terrain ripe for a dragon's domain. It was during one of these "expeditions" that fate intervened.

Glinting among the fallen leaves, a small red scale caught his eye. No larger than a gold piece, the scale seemed to pulse with an inner fire. When Well-done picked it up, something magical happened – quite literally. As he let out one of his trademark triumphant roars, a tiny spark of fire erupted from his mouth, dancing between his teeth.

This moment confirmed everything Well-done had always believed: he was destined to be a dragon.

The Path of Sorcery

The discovery of the scale was more than just a lucky find – it was a calling. Well-done threw himself into studying sorcery with a fervor that both impressed and concerned his mentors. He wasn't just learning magic; he was systematically researching every possible method of dragon transformation.

His magical studies became a combination of serious research and childlike experimentation. His magical focus became the first scale he discovered – a small, red token of his potential future.

In addition to his magical studies, Well-done devoured any and every dragon text he could get his claws on. His obsession has only recently begun to prove financially valuable, as he is now considered an expert on all things draconic; lore, culture, politics, even down to the most obscure detail.

Motivations and Dreams

Well-done's ultimate goal is nothing short of complete draconic transformation. He sees his current kobold form as nothing more than a temporary vessel – a chrysalis waiting to become a magnificent dragon. Every spell he learns, every magical experiment he conducts, is another step toward what he sees as his true destiny.

His overconfidence is both his greatest strength and his most significant weakness. He genuinely believes transformation is not just possible, but inevitable. This conviction drives him forward, making him fearless in the face of challenges that would intimidate others.

Personality in Action

Despite his grand ambitions, Well-done retains a charming, almost innocent quality. His loyalty to companions is genuine, even if sometimes overshadowed by his dragon-becoming quest. He'll protect his friends with the same intensity he applies to his magical studies – partly out of genuine care, and partly to prove his growing strength.

His impatience and short attention span mean he's always looking for the most direct path to power. Long discussions bore him, but tales of dragon legends can captivate him for hours. He's as likely to interrupt a serious strategy meeting with an impromptu dragon roar as he is to provide a critical insight.

Current Quest

Now, Well-done travels with a group of adventurers, seeing each journey as both a practical training ground and an opportunity to collect more dragon lore, magical knowledge, and – most importantly – more scales. His ultimate goal remains unchanged: to become the dragon he knows he is meant to be.

[veldrune]

Complete collection of Warcraft Lore Media/Publications In Chronological Lore order as listed on the Warcraft Wiki 🧵

This list contains direct links to:

- Official Licensed Warcraft Novels on Amazon

- In-Game Book text from World of Warcraft

- Youtube Videos (Animated Shorts)

- Free E-Publications such as Short Stories/Comics

Follow our blog to stay updated to our Warcraft Lore order list. Unfortunately there's a maximum amount of text I can add to a single post. Likes/Re-blogs appreciated!

Markers:

Past* - Contains scenes set in the past presented through flashbacks

Begins* - Where the lore begins in the timeline

Ends* - Where the lore ends in the timeline (The list will be updated frequently)

1) Mythology of the Titans | WoW In-Game

No one knows exactly how the universe began. Some theorize that a catastrophic cosmic explosion sent the infinite worlds spinning out into the vastness of the Great Dark - worlds that would one day bear life-forms of wondrous and terrible diversity. Others believe that the universe, as it exists, was created as a whole by a singular, all-powerful entity. Though the exact origins of the chaotic universe remain unclear, it is clear that a race of powerful beings arose to bring order to the various worlds and ensure a safe future for the beings that would follow in their footsteps. The Titans, colossal, metallic-skinned gods from the far reaches of the cosmos, came forward and set to work on the worlds they encountered. They shaped the form of their worlds by raising mighty mountains and dredging out vast seas. They breathed skies and raging atmospheres into being - all part of their unfathomable, far-sighted plan to create order out of chaos. They even empowered primitive races to tend to their works and maintain the integrity of their respective worlds. The Titans, ruled by an elite sect known as the Pantheon, brought order to a hundred million worlds scattered throughout the Great Dark Beyond during the first ages of creation. The benevolent Pantheon, seeking to safeguard their structured worlds, was ever vigilant against the threat of attack from the vile, extra-dimensional entities of the Twisting Nether. The Nether, an ethereal dimension of chaotic magics that connected the myriad worlds of the universe together, was home to an infinite number of malefic, demonic beings, who sought only to destroy life and devour the energies of the living universe.

2) Sargeras and the Betrayal | WoW In-Game

Although Sargeras' nearly limitless powers made short work of the shambling demons he found throughout the Great Dark, he was greatly troubled by the creatures' corruption and all-consuming evil. Incapable of fathoming such depravity, the great Titan began to slip into a brooding depression. Despite his growing unease, Sargeras rid the universe of demonic entities by trapping them within a corner of the Twisting Nether.

While his confusion and misery deepened, Sargeras was forced to contend with a particularly insidious group intent on disrupting the Titans' order: the Nathrezim. This dark race of vampiric demons (also known as dreadlords) conquered a number of populated worlds by possessing their inhabitants and turning them to the shadow.

The nefarious, scheming dreadlords turned whole nations against one another by manipulating them into unthinking hatred and mistrust. Sargeras defeated the Nathrezim easily, but their corruption affected him deeply.

As doubt and despair overwhelmed Sargeras' senses, he lost all faith not only in his mission, but also in the Titans' vision of an ordered universe. Eventually he came to believe that the concept of order itself was folly, and that chaos and depravity were the only absolutes within the dark, lonely universe.

His fellow Titans tried to persuade him of his error and calm his raging emotions, but he disregarded their more optimistic beliefs as self-serving delusions. Storming from their ranks forever, Sargeras set out to find his own place in the universe. Although the Pantheon was sorrowful at his departure, the Titans could never have predicted just how far their lost brother would go.

By the time Sargeras' madness had consumed the last vestiges of his valiant spirit, he believed that the Titans themselves were responsible for creation's failure. Deciding, at last, to undo their works throughout the universe, he resolved to form an unstoppable army that would set the physical universe aflame.

Even Sargeras' titanic form became distorted from the corruption that plagued his once-noble heart. His eyes, hair, and beard erupted in fire, and his metallic bronze skin split open to reveal an endless furnace of blistering hate.

In his fury, Sargeras shattered the prisons he'd created and set the loathsome demons free. These cunning creatures bowed before the dark Titan's vast rage and offered to serve him in whatever malicious ways they could. Seeking a way to lead and control his vast demonic army, Sargeras recruited (and subsequently corrupted) the ancient and intelligent race of the Eredar. From within their ranks, Sargeras picked two champions to command his demonic army of destruction.

Kil'jaeden the Deceiver was chosen to seek out the darkest races in the universe and recruit them into Sargeras' ranks. The second champion, Archimonde the Defiler,[sic] was chosen to lead Sargeras' vast armies into battle against any who might resist the Titan's will.

Kil'jaeden's first move was to enslave the vampiric dreadlords under his terrible power. The dreadlords served as his personal agents throughout the universe, and they took pleasure in locating primitive races for their master to corrupt and bring into the fold. First amongst the dreadlords was Tichondrius the Darkener. Tichondrius served Kil'jaeden as the perfect soldier and agreed to bring Sargeras' burning will to all the dark corners of the universe.

The mighty Archimonde also empowered agents of his own. Calling upon the malefic pit lords and their barbarous leader, Mannoroth the Destructor, Archimonde hoped to establish a fighting elite that would scour creation of all life.

Once Sargeras saw that his armies were amassed and ready to follow his every command, he launched his raging forces into the vastness of the Great Dark. He referred to his growing army as the Burning Legion. To this date, it is still unclear how many worlds they consumed and burned on their unholy Burning Crusade across the universe.

3) Lore In Short: The Burning Legion | Animated Short (Begins)

4) The Old Gods and the Ordering of Azeroth | WoW In-Game

Unaware of Sargeras' mission to undo their countless works, the Titans continued to move from world to world, shaping and ordering each planet as they saw fit. Along their journey they happened upon a small world that its inhabitants would later name Azeroth.

As the Titans made their way across the primordial landscape, they encountered a number of hostile elemental beings. These elementals, who worshipped a race of unfathomably evil beings known only as the Old Gods, vowed to drive the Titans back and keep their world inviolate from the invaders' metallic touch.

The Pantheon, disturbed by the Old Gods' penchant for evil, waged war upon the elementals and their dark masters. The Old Gods' armies were led by the most powerful elemental lieutenants: Ragnaros the Firelord, Therazane the Stonemother, Al'Akir the Windlord, and Neptulon the Tidehunter.

Their chaotic forces raged across the face of the world and clashed with the colossal Titans. Though the elementals were powerful beyond mortal comprehension, their combined forces could not stop the mighty Titans. One by one, the elemental lords fell, and their forces dispersed.

The Pantheon shattered the Old Gods' citadels and chained the five evil gods far beneath the surface of the world. Without the Old Gods' power to keep their raging spirits bound to the physical world, the elementals were banished to an abyssal plane, where they would contend with one another for all eternity. With the elementals' departure, nature calmed, and the world settled into a peaceful harmony. The Titans saw that the threat was contained and set to work.

The Titans empowered a number of races to help them fashion the world. To help them carve out the fathomless caverns beneath the earth, the Titans created the dwarf-like earthen from magical, living stone. To help them dredge out the seas and lift the land from the sea floor, the Titans created the immense but gentle sea giants. For many ages the Titans moved and shaped the earth, until at last there remained one perfect continent.

At the continent's center, the Titans crafted a lake of scintillating energies. The lake, which they named the Well of Eternity, was to be the fount of life for the world. Its potent energies would nurture the bones of the world and empower life to take root in the land's rich soil. Over time, plants, trees, monsters, and creatures of every kind began to thrive on the primordial continent.

As twilight fell on the final day of their labors, the Titans named the continent Kalimdor: "land of eternal starlight".

5) Dawn Of The Aspects | Novel (Past)

6) Dragonflight Legacies: Chapter One | Animated Short (Past)

7) Charge of the Dragonflights | WoW In-Game

Satisfied that the small world had been ordered and that their work was done, the Titans prepared to leave Azeroth. However, before they departed, they charged the greatest species of the world with the task of watching over Kalimdor, lest any force should threaten its perfect tranquility. In that age, there were many dragonflights.

Yet there were five flights that held dominion over their brethren. It was these five flights that the Titans chose to shepherd the budding world. The greatest members of the Pantheon imbued a portion of their power upon each of the flights' leaders. These majestic dragons (as listed below) became known as the Great Aspects, or the Dragon Aspects.

Aman'Thul, the Highfather of the Pantheon, bestowed a portion of his cosmic power upon the massive bronze dragon, Nozdormu. The Highfather empowered Nozdormu to guard time itself and police the ever-spinning pathways of fate and destiny. The stoic, honorable Nozdormu became known as the Timeless One.

Eonar, the Titan patron of all life, gave a portion of her power to the red leviathan, Alexstrasza. Ever after, Alexstrasza would be known as the Life-Binder, and she would work to safeguard all living creatures within the world. Due to her supreme wisdom and limitless compassion for all living things, Alexstrasza was crowned the Dragonqueen and given dominion over her kind.

Eonar also blessed Alexstrasza's younger sister, the lithe green dragon Ysera, with a portion of nature's influence. Ysera fell into an eternal trance, bound to the waking Dream of Creation. Known as the Dreamer, she would watch over the growing wilds of the world from her verdant realm, the Emerald Dream.

Norgannon, the Titan lore keeper and master-magician, granted the blue dragon, Malygos, a portion of his vast power. From then on, Malygos would be known as the Spell-Weaver, the guardian of magic and hidden arcanum.

Khaz'goroth, the Titan shaper and forger of the world, bestowed some of his vast power upon the mighty black wyrm, Neltharion. The great-hearted Neltharion, known afterwards as the Earth-Warder, was given dominion over the earth and the deep places of the world. He embodied the strength of the world and served as Alexstrasza's greatest supporter.

Thus empowered, the Five Aspects were charged with the world's defense in the Titans' absence. With the dragons prepared to safeguard their creation, the Titans left Azeroth behind forever. Unfortunately it was only a matter of time before Sargeras learned of the newborn world's existence….

8) War of the Scaleborn | Novel (Begins)

9) Dragonflight Legacies: Chapter Three | Animated Short (Past)

10) War of the Scaleborn | Novel (Ends)

11) The Twin Empires | WoW In-Game

About 16,000 years ago (long before the night elves foolishly called down the wrath of the Burning Legion), trolls lorded over much of Kalimdor (then a single continent). There were twin troll empires -- the Gurubashi Empire of the southeastern jungles -- and the Amani Empire of the middle forestlands.

There were smaller tribes that lived far to the north (in the region now known as Northrend). These tribes founded a small nation known as Gundrak, but never achieved the size or prosperity of the southern empires.

The Gurubashi and Amani empires had little love for one another, but rarely warred against each other. At the time, their greatset common enemy was a third empire -- the civilization of Azj'Aqir. The aqir were intelligent insectoids who ruled the lands of the far west. These clever insectoids were greatly expansionistic and incredibly evil. The aqir were obsessed with eradicating all non-insect life from the fields of Kalimdor.

The trolls fought them for many thousands of years, but never succeeded in winning a true victory over the aqir. Eventually, due to the troll's[sic] persistence, the aqiri kingdom split in half as its citizens fled to separate colonies in the far northern and southern regions of the continent.

Two aqiri city-states emerged - Azjol-Nerub in the northern wastes, and Ahn'Qiraj in the southern desert. Though the trolls suspected that there were other aqiri colonies beneath Kalimdor, their existence was never verified.

With the insectoids driven into exile, the twin troll empires returned to business as usual. Despite their great victory, neither civilization expanded much further than their original boundaries. However, ancient texts speak of a small faction of trolls that broke off from the Amani Empire and founded their own colony in the heart of the dark continent.

There, these brave pioneers discovered the cosmic Well of Eternity which transformed them into beings of immense power. Some legends suggest that these adventurous trolls were the first night elves, though this theory has never been proven.

12) Death From Above | Short Story

13) Rise Of The Horde | Novel (Past)

14) Lore In Short: The Burning Legion | Animated Short (Ends)

15) The Waking World and the Well of Eternity | WoW In-Game

Ten thousand years before the orcs and humans clashed in their First War, the world of Azeroth cradled only one massive continent surrounded by the infinite, raging seas. That land mass, known as Kalimdor, was home to a number of disparate races and creatures, all vying for survival amongst the savage elements of the waking world. At the dark continent's center was a mysterious lake of incandescent energies.

The lake, which would later be called the Well of Eternity, was the true heart of the world's magic and natural power. Drawing its energies from the infinite Great Dark beyond the world, the Well acted as a mystical fount, sending its potent energies out across the world to nourish life in all its wondrous forms.

In time, a primitive tribe of nocturnal humanoids cautiously made their way to the edges of the mesmerizing, enchanted lake.

The feral, nomadic humanoids, drawn by the Well's strange energies, built crude homes upon its tranquil shores. Over time, the Well's cosmic power affected the strange tribe, making them strong, wise and virtually immortal. The tribe adopted the name Kaldorei, which meant -children of the stars- in their native tongue. To celebrate their budding society, they constructed great structures and temples around the lake's periphery.

The Kaldorei, or night elves as they would later be known, worshipped the moon goddess, Elune, and believed that she slept within the Well's shimmering depths during the daylight hours. The early night elf priests and seers studied the Well with an insatiable curiosity, driven to plumb its untold secrets and power. As their society grew, the night elves explored the breadth of Kalimdor and encountered its myriad denizens.

The only creatures that gave them pause were the ancient and powerful dragons. Though the great serpentine beasts were often reclusive, they did much to safeguard the known lands from potential threats. The night elves believed that the dragons held themselves to be the protectors of the world, and that they and their secrets were best left alone.

In time, the night elves' curiosity led them to meet and befriend a number of powerful entities, not the least of which was Cenarius, a mighty demi-god of the primordial forestlands. The great-hearted Cenarius grew fond of the inquisitive night elves and spent a great deal of time teaching them about the natural world. The tranquil Kaldorei developed a strong empathy for the living forests of Kalimdor and reveled in the harmonious balance of nature.

Yet, as the seemingly endless ages passed, the night elves' civilization expanded both territorially and culturally. Their temples, roads, and dwelling places stretched across the breadth of the dark continent. Azshara, the night elves' beautiful and gifted Queen, built an immense, wondrous palace on the Well's shore that housed her favored servitors within its bejeweled halls.

Her servitors, whom she called the Quel'dorei or -high-borne,- doted on her every command and believed themselves to be greater than the rest of their lower-caste brethren. Though Queen Azshara was loved equally by all of her people, the high-borne were secretly hated by the jealous masses.

Sharing the priests' curiosity towards the Well of Eternity, Azshara ordered the educated high-borne to plumb its secrets and reveal its true purpose in the world.

The high-borne buried themselves in their work and studied the Well ceaselessly. In time they developed the ability to manipulate and control the Well's cosmic energies. As their reckless experiments progressed, the high-borne found that they could use their newfound powers to either create or destroy at their leisure. The hapless high-borne had stumbled upon primitive magic and were now resolved to devote themselves to its mastery.

Although they agreed that magic was inherently dangerous if handled irresponsibly, Azshara and her highborne began to practice their spellcraft with reckless abandon. Cenarius and many of the wizened night elf scholars warned that only calamity would result from toying with the clearly volatile arts of magic. But, Azshara and her followers stubbornly continued to expand their burgeoning powers.

As their powers grew, a distinct change came over Azshara and the high-borne. The haughty, aloof upper class became increasingly callous and cruel towards their fellow night elves. A dark, brooding pall veiled Azshara's once entrancing beauty. She began to withdraw from her loving subjects and refused to interact with any but her trusted high-borne priests.

A young, brazen scholar named Furion Stormrage, who had spent much of his time studying the Well's effects, began to suspect that a terrible power was corrupting the high-borne and his beloved Queen. Though he could not conceive the evil that was to come, he knew that the night elves' lives would soon be changed forever….

16) War Of The Ancients | Novels (Past)

To be continued! Follow us for continuation of the list of Warcraft Lore in timeline order! We'll be updating every day!

[heartfullofleeches]

Ooh if you feel like writing for them I’d love to see a first meeting scenario with Rosebud from the night gallery, they seem to be one of the most calm residents of the place so I’m curious how the first meeting between night guard reader and Rosebud went, especially in comparison to how the two interact after they first meet :)

"Hungry... So very hungry"

What have you gotten yourself into?

The day marked your sixth night as security. You've had a few run ends with the gallery's inhabitants by now, but their passivemess and the pay lead you right back through its doors. Upon walking into the breakroom, you were greeted by a watering can, plant food, and a list of instructions for your shift. This was the first time you've received them, but it wouldn't be the last.

"Go to the garden tonight and give The RoseBush its meal. The garden is set to reopen next week and we cant have it eating guests. You will be paid three times your usual if you complete the task. Below, write the name of your next of kin so we can send them your pay incase of incent."

A key is taped to the bottom of the note. With a prize on the table and fear in your gut, you gather the tools and set out to complete your task. Now that you've thought of it, you've never seen the garden or even knew that was one to being with. This likely had to do with it being closed, but it was a tad strange your boss hadn't mentioned it before.

A few posters and signs guide you to its doors. The absence of the gallery's fellow inhabitants made the journey a breeze, but now you hesitate. Greed takes over, and you insert the key into the lock, opening the doors to an entirely new world.

Beyond a short, overgrown passage, the garden presents itself to you beneath a starlight night. A glass dome ceiling separates it from the heavens. Plants of wide variety spread through its field. A butterfly enclosure lies vacant in one corner. A man made stream lines the stone path to the central piece of the garden. A large, stone statue of a rosebud sits in the center of the road surrounded by a bush. The shrubbery's flowers hang limp on their stems; deviating from the life that flourishing in every corner of garden aside it. The RoseBush.

Your feet move on your own. You expect some of the flowers. Its petals wilt around the edges. Poor thing, but- there's something wrong with it. As you poke and prod, you feel something hard in the middle. You spread the center flowers with your fingers...

Ow!

Something... bit you.

Tearing your now bloody hand away, the rose's teeth gnash at the air; tongue flicking over the blood that taints it leaves. The bush as a whole begins to rustle. More roses wake, shifting as if sniffing the air. They soon cannibalize their fellow bud; the creature screeching and flailing as its ripped to a blood messy. You fight to pull your eyes from the sight, but your attention is only altered by a soft, hissing voice.

"Hungry.... So very hungry..."

Stone pieces chip as the statue unfurls from its fetal state. Vines shoot upwards from its middle, weaving into a long arm that grips the sides of its prison as its body continues to form. Another arm. A torso. A head. It splits in twine, a red rose blooming before your very eyes. Its suck somewhere between full peak, pedaling shriveled around its singular beady eye.

"Feed me.. now."

The voice rattles with anger. You quickly jump into action, dumping the entire pail of water onto the bush. To your horror, the fall runs red, but that's the least of your worries for now. You struggle to tear open the plant food, earning a frustrated snarl from the creature.

"Just throw the damn thing in."

You follow the command. The roses devour the food, bag and all. At last, the creature is satisfied. Petals in full bloom, it leans against the stone petals, peering down at you with a sigh of gratitude.

"Filth compare to what woke me, but it'll do. Excuse me for my hostility. I am another beast when I haven't been feed for long."

You swallow the breath you held. "It's.. fine. I'm guessing you're Rosebush?"

"RoseBud, Dearest. I believe it fits better. If may ask, what was that delectable concoction I was given before? Just the scent of it had my little ones ravenous."

You lift your bloody hand. "Guess it was me."

"Ah, so sorry, but I suppose they know greatness when they smell it. May I ask for another taste? I will give you something in return."

You hold your hand over the bush. A few of the flowers lap at your falling blood, while others nuzzle your feet with an odd purr. Meanwhile, Rosebud plucks thorns from its vine before they're descended upon your wounded finger; wrapping around it like a bandage. A rose snips its end for further conformity.

"That should do for now. I hope that this isn't too much considering it's our first meet, but please do visit us again. I can tell already that your presence will be missed by me and my babes, and not just for your blood."

"I think I can do that."

"Wonderful. For now, let us get to know each other, Rosetta."

[teslacoils-and-hubris]

YES. TELL ME

right ok. so this explanation sort of hinges on a basic understanding of my worldbuilding project Loam, I'll go into basic details here but you can find a more detailed explination linked on the pinned post of my wizard blog @teslacoil-wizard it's still not a Super detailed rundown because im working on setting up a full page for this on my neocities site

but anyways-

Loam is a world built from the decaying corpses of long dead beast gods. While alive these gods only knew one thing; to devour. Eventually they all died off, planets formed etc etc. Eventually you get to modern day Loam where the consciousnesses of these long dead gods are starting to wake up, but they've changed slightly in the awaken process. They still have the singular urge to fill the void within themselves, but with what changes depending on the form the consciousness is tied to.

The radio tower craves attention.

It is starving.

Loam has only one singular super continent with a few sparse uninhabited islands off the coast, one of which houses the radio tower. No one can get to it to create new broadcasts. It blares out a singular, repeating broadcast constantly. Six encrypted letters that no one who's stumbled upon the signal has managed to uncode. It needs someone to hear its signal desperately, so, in the way only gods can, it picked someone, anyone, to feed it.

June was your average human living in the south of the continent, which most people just called The City after LIVcorp's connectivity program reached its horrible conclusion and turned the whole world into one giant corporate town. Her life was pretty shit in the way that everyone but the uber-rich's life was. Shit apartment, shit job, no chance at upwards mobility. She lived with her mom and younger brother in their only decently livable LIVcorp apartment complex.

Everyone knew the world was ending. This way of life wasn't sustainable. Oil and gas supplies were almost utterly depleated and the climate crisis was just getting worse. No one she knew planned on having kids, even with the bonus incentive LIVcorp was offering to those who did.

She was on her way back from her soul crushing retail job when everything changed. There was a blinding flash, a deafening boom, and what she can only assume was the bus being flung sideways into a building.

When she opened her eyes, she was in a decrepit radio broadcast tower. I don't want to go too deep into her time in the tower because it's the plot of the project im working on, but the tower loves her. The tower needs her. The tower cannot provide for her the way she provides for it because it is just a building, but she already owes it her life (not that she knows that). There is no way off the island. The distance is too great to swim and the water is far too rough for a homemade raft. She is trapped and alone but she is loved and wanted and needed.

She will never know just how much she is needed.