#plastered with faction symbols

[selchwife]

ive been drawing star wars refs again lol. im playing dollies

i changed polydegmon's design a little bit. his hair is still kind of emet hair but it's curly now for extra Glamour. hes so cute. my evil wife

i also fixed up pfeil's a bit. it was actually the first paper doll style ref i had ever done and was beginning to look kind of. dated. especially because i did a new one for regular miqo pfeil based on it and changed his face. so i just made them more consistent between one another

my next thing i need to do is go over pfeil's existing clothes and remove visible fasteners like snaps, buttons and zippers. that is a big star wars no no, like it's one of the rules george lucas established. i knowwww they do it in disney era and that the basic designs still look plenty star warsy. but star wars living history blog.

[notaplaceofhonour]

A reminder that Anti-Israel doesn’t mean “Pro-Palestinian”.

The militant faction referenced here is Ansar Allah (aka The Houthi Movement, commonly known as just “the Houthis”), a totalitarian theocracy that does not mince words about hating not just Israel, but the Jewish people. Their slogan, which they display as the symbol for their movement, is “God is the Greatest; Death to America; Death to Israel; A Curse On the Jews; Victory to Islam”.

Also no, the Houthis didn’t risk jack shit for Palestine. They’re one in a long line of militant factions who are directly responsible for the humanitarian crisis in Yemen. Abandoning their own people’s humanitarian needs to wage war isn’t a “risk” for them; it’s standard operating procedure.

The people obscuring this fact to position them as heroes for opposing Israel are engaging in dishonest, manipulative, and immensely antisemitic propaganda. (Also, like, “puppets”? Really? That’s not even subtle.) You do not even have to scratch beyond the surface of just “who is this referencing, and what is their slogan that they plaster everywhere on everything?” to know this. The fact that anyone would fall for it demonstrates gross negligence & a deep & unserious lack of curiosity on their part. There’s no excuse.

But what if you did actually spend more than 5 seconds to know more than 2 facts about the government of Yemen? Well, you might find:

There is a long history of antisemitic violence in Yemen. It culminated in 1949, and roughly 47,000 of Yemen’s 50,000+ Jews fled to Israel. A few remained, but the Houthi regime (which formed in the 90’s and is the one that is now attacking Israeli ships) is so openly, explicitly, & genocidally antisemitic that it forced even that remnant to flee.

The last Jew in Yemen, Levi Salem Musa Murhabi, is currently rotting in a Houthi prison where he has been illegally detained & tortured for the last 7+ years. Our last sign of life was in 2022, so we don’t actually know if he’s still alive.

The country that tried to murder all their Jews & continues to torture the only one that remains is now attacking the country where all those Jews went, all the while chanting “death to Israel, a curse on the Jews.” Do the math. They didn’t “show up” for Palestinians. They pulled up on Israel because that’s where all the Jews they’ve been trying to murder for years live.

[oleander-neruim]

Welcoming in a few of our more prominent members of the Isles.

• Joel Beans, the still so-called temporary head of the Isles for the past 20 years. He's grown cold and distant to most outside of his love for his son. A well hidden paranoia has set in, those around him and trying to dethrone him effective in having him have his guard on high at all times.

• Hermes Mythos-Beans, the loosely-titled prince of the Isles, he's become something of a symbol for the creation of the new-era of the Isles. He's seen more with his artwork or instruments rather than with any sort of political or fighting scenes. He tries hard to uphold padre's name and even harder to keep his father safe as much as he can.

• Eddie Mythos, a loved and respected man of the Isles. He was once a cherished father figure to many of the Kestrals & still so for some pirates outside of the Faction. Since his passing, he still remains a quite positive memory among any pirates who knew him in life.

• Scott Denholm, the last survivor of the grand-standing family name. He's more away from home than not nowadays, tending to be one to keep others at arms length. Since his abrupt return and prolonged stay on the Isles, he's made a face for himself of being a major supporter of the left-behind Mythos family.

• Owen Orange, a charismatic and eerily persuasive character on the Isles. She's not shy to voice her thoughts, clear on how he views Joel as some undeserving intruder on their Isles. Many find it hard to say no to him and she's become rather savvy at rallying people to her side, however he may have that play out.

• Martyn Woods, a snappy and stubborn member. Many have noticed an odd shift in his personality since the first Fall of the Isles. Most attribute it a reaction to such an event or to the rumored rejection & built rivalry of sorts between him & a certain ex-Heron captain.

Important faces seen during the journey through the sirens.

• Siren Joel: an imposter's face plastered on a monster. An uncanny resemblance to the partner of our story's Captain.

• The true face of the lead siren, it's disguise falling off after finding the danger they're in.

• Another captured siren, baring a striking resemblance to their captor's long-passed partner.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Pt. 1 || Pt. 2 || Pt. 3 || Pt.4 [Here] || Pt. 5

As it now stands, I am done with the character sketch line up. Up next is the pennings which are going great and then I can start exploding with my nonsense <3.

I did rush the out-of-disguise designs of the sirens but I will clean them up in the pennings.

As always, questions and comments are always appreciated and my askbox is wide open for them.

[maskedfoolss]

I have a feeling she knows something about march’s past 😋

first off, black swan is a memokeeper from the garden of recollection, who are the faction in hsr that collect memories they find interesting and store them in the form of bubbles (like the ones around herta space station)

secondly, we know that the memokeepers have march’s memory, as in a recent quest she tried to get it back and failed, told to stop looking by another memokeeper

thirdly, the orb in black swan’s drip marketing (seen above) contains a symbol that looks like the one plastered all over march’s design (on her lapel & the things floating out of the book)

so what if march’s memories are being held by black swan, and when we finally get to penacony, we’ll get to find out more about her past, like we found out a lot about dan heng on the luofu 👀

[illwilledomen]

What the cultists of the woodland mansions worship?

They’re less of a religious cult and more of an ideological cult. They do have a religion though, I just haven’t fleshed it out. It’s an offshoot of villager religion. They also idolize various animals, like chickens and cats. But to give you a straight answer: Themselves. They plaster their “shared face” everywhere, on their flag, their homes and their clothing. The Omen, that iconic illager face symbol, is their coat of arms. Sort of similar to a certain western empire in the real world — They plaster their flag everywhere, they treat their national identity like a deity in itself, and must let everyone know, with words, music, iconography and identity, what war-criminal global superpower they belong to. Illager indoctrination goes as following: the illager empire is the most important, the most powerful, and the most honorable, and all other factions in the world are either irrelevant, exotic or your enemies. Anyone who isn’t you is either a monster or a servant. We are the main character. History is warped to their ideology’s whims.

[lienguistics]

村上春樹・ノルウェイの森（上）

all vocabulary, misc grammar

p8 歳月 - time, years 草原 - grassland, grassy field たたえる - praise, extol すすき - zebra grass 穂 - tip / ear / point of a plant  井戸 - water well

p10 稜線 - mountain ridge line 耳たぶ - earlobe  ほくろ - mole, beauty mark

p12 執拗 - persistent, stubborn  記号 - symbol, sign 巧妙 - ingenious, creative 柵 - fence トカゲ - lizard 身を乗り出す - bend oneself forward 

p14 くじく - sprain, twist  見込み - hope, possibility  身の毛がよだつ - have one’s hairs stand on end 盲滅法 - reckless, blind, without knowing, at random

p16 おも���をする - babysitting

p18 収支決算 - settling a balance

p20 梢 - treetop, tip of branch なだらか - gently / gradual sloping, slow, smooth 辺土 - remote region

p22 何はともあれ - in any case 刻一刻 - moment by moment, with each passing moment しゃぶる - suck, lick 克明 - detailed, scrupulous 

p26 うさんくさい - suspicious-looking, shady, questionable 右翼 - right-wing politics 財団法人 - foundation / organization (nonprofit) 運営 - management, administration, operation  根幹 - foundation, roots 窮める→極める 財界人 - business leader 模糊 - dim, vague, obscure 売名行為 - act of self-advertisement, publicity stunt 同然 - just like, virtually no different from やりくち - way of doing 閥 - clan, clique, faction 偽善 - hypocrisy, wolf in sheep’s clothing 偽悪 - pretense of evil 荘厳 - solemn, grand, magnificent 掲揚 - hoisting / raising (a flag) 控える - be in waiting, preparation for

p28 きわまりない - extremely, boundless 日の丸 - japanese flag 君が代 - national anthem しゃんと - being in shape, holding a dignified appearance 翻る - fluttering, flapping, turn / flip over 不公平 - unfairness 原則 - general rule, as a principle

p30 しっくい - plaster, mortar 交尾 - copulation, mating かび - mold くすぶる - smoke, smoulder, sooty 死体安置所 - morgue  半永久的 - semipermanent 

p32 干渉 - interfere, meddling 退避 - evacuation, taking refuge

p34 仕送り - allowance, remittance つっかえる - get stuck, jammed これ見よがし - ostentatious, showy 仰々しい - bombastic, highly colored, exaggerated まるっきり - completely, totally, (not) at all 熟睡 - deep sleep

p36 歩み寄る - compromise, meet in the middle 端折る - make / cut (story) short, abridge 

p38 追い払う - chase / drive away, disperse  たくしあげる - roll / tuck up (sleeves)

p40 威張る - put on airs, act big / haughty  とりたてて - in particular, especially

p42 気おくれ - losing one’s nerve, get awkward / daunted  都電 - metropolitan electric railway

p44 付けたす - add onto, append 筋合 - reason, right 髪どめ - hair clip, barrette 

p46 品がない - unrefined, vulgar 多かれ少なかれ - more or less 生まれ落ちる - to be born がさつ - crude, unrefined, insensitive  性に合う - to be congenial, agree with one, be in one’s nature, 気が合う

p48 いくぶん - somewhat, to some extent  ぎくしゃく - awkward, stiff, stilted  頭が切れる - to be sharp, keen, clever 座談 - conversation, discussion

p50 すっぽかす - leave undone, neglected, stand someone up  撞く - 突く 一服 - a puff, smoke, dose; short rest 排気 - exhaust (gas from engine) 目ばり - sealing up (a window)

p52 思い当たる - to suddenly understand, recall in a flash, come to mind しかるべき - appropriate, proper, suitable ずんぐり - short and stout  文鎮 - paperweight 

p54 至極 - very, extremely  を境に - turning point 同義 - synonym 必ずしも - (not) necessarily  背反 - rebellion, revolting

p56 用水 - irrigation / cistern water

p58 わき目も振らず - without looking aside, wholeheartedly, single-minded  気潰す - to wear out (clothing)

p62 冷やかす - make fun of, banter 通りいっぺん - perfunctory, cursory, passing, conventional

p64 噛み合う - engage with, be on the same wavelength

p66 日だまり - sunny spot 洗礼 - christening, initiation, baptism 俗物 - uncultured person, materialistic, snob, worldly-minded person 外交官 - diplomat

p68 小遣い - pocket / spending money 風采 - appearance, getup, air 率いる - to lead, spearhead, command (a group) のたうつ - writhe in pain 背反 - revolt, rebel  美徳 - virtue

p70 ナメクジ - slug ごたごた - quarrel, dispute, trouble, disorder 代表格 - representative 死にものぐるい - desperation, struggle to the death  誇張 - exaggeration

p72 気が抜ける - to lose interest / heart / motivation / flavor; get stale くりだす - head out as a group 

p74 幻滅 - disillusionment みすみす - before one’s very eyes, without resistance, from under one’s nose, negligently  発揮 - demonstration of power 口をきく - go in between as a mediator 

p76 すっぽかす - leave something undone, neglect, break a promise / appointment 

p78 むっくり - abruptly / slowly (rising) 過失 - accident by negligence

p80 克明 - detailed, scrupulous, elaborate

p82 口をつぐむ - shut up, hold one’s tongue  もぎ取る - twist and pluck off, snatch away

p84 前かがみ - slouch, stoop / bend forward 小刻み - short repeated (movements: trembling, quick steps) たかぶる - become aroused / excited / worked up 鎮める - calm one’s nerves, appease, pacify, settle さぐり合い - probing each other, sounding each other out

p86 ぴくり - with a twitch / flutter とりつぎ - answering the door / phone / etc. on someone’s behalf  皆目 - entirely, (not) at all

p88 スト - strike 解体 - demolition, dissolution

p94 茫漠 - vast, vague, boundless 螢 - firefly  客寄せ - attracting customers 

p96 煉瓦 - brick 旧式 - old style, old-fashion

p98 弧を描く - draw an arc with a compass

p100 機動隊 - riot control 出動 - marching / sending out, dispatch  資本 - funds  投下 - invest, throw down  掠奪 - pillage, loot, rob し尽くす - leave nothing undone, do everything possible  愕然 - astonished 占領 - military occupation

p102 驚天動地 - astonishing, earth-shattering 

p104 こざっぱり - neat, tidy, trim

p106 がらりと - with a clatter / crash, flinging open やけっぱち - complete desperation 強制収容所 - confinement camp ほとばしる - to surge, well up, gush out

p108 檻 - cage, pen, cell

p110 頬杖をつく - rest chin in one’s hands もそもそ - creeping, crawling, hesitantly, restless 自叙伝 - autobiography 科白 - セリフ 壁土 - plaster, wall mud

p114 外務省 - ministry of foreign affairs

p116 いわば - so to speak, as it were 無私無欲 - selflessness 一目置く - take one’s hat off to, acknowledge another’s superiority

p118 紳士 - gentleman あやうく - barely, narrowly, almost, nearly 勘定 - bill, check, payment

p120 杖 - cane, walking stick ひょろり - tall, long, thin, lanky 討論 - debate, discussion 欺瞞的 - deceptive, fraud 総長 - president, leader 粉砕 - pulverize, crush to pieces 似たり寄ったり - much the same 欠如 - lack, absence, deficiency  反革命 - counterrevolution 

p122 朱塗り - painting something vermillion 日変わり - changing every day

p124 はりだし - overhang 趣き - gist, grace, charm, effect 焼却炉 - incinerator 

p126 見栄 - vanity, appearance ずるずる - dragging on slowly, gradually, little by little 寄附 - donation, contribution お膳 - four-legged tray for festive food; + 立て - setting the table 懐石料理 - traditional japanese meal brought out in courses

p128 仰天 - being amazed 引け目を感じる - feel inferior ～やしない - should do but doesn’t  ～たるや - と言えば 気の毒 - pitiful  堅実 - steadily 技巧 - technique, finesse  とじ込み付録- bound-in supplement in a book / magazine 熟読 - careful reading, perusal

p130 びくびく - timid, trembling, fearful 仕送り - allowance

p132 小冊子 - booklet, pamphlet, brochure  情景 - spectacle, sight 情緒 - emotional, sentimental 害のない - harmless, innocuous 

p134 赤とんぼ - small red dragonfly  死に絶える - go extinct がらんと - empty, deserted

p136 水仙 - daffodil  鉢植え - potted plant 見映え - good outward appearance, looking nice 繁盛 - prosperity, thriving かすみ - haze, mist

p138 どなる - shout, yell つまずく - trip over, stumble  収納 - storage 

p140 俊敏 - quick-witted and agile, keen and nimble 中性 - neutral, androgynous  あしらい - treatment, handling, reception  もてなす - to treat (entertain) a guest

p142 ぼってり - plump, fleshy, chubby; heavily applied / coated

p144 生乾き - half-dried

p146 木樵 - lumberjack

p148 タガか外れる - to become unrestrained and go to excess, lose one’s head / mind

p150 気の毒に思う - to pity, feel sorry for, sympathize 絵葉書 - postcard

p154 きな臭い - smelling burnt 身を乗り出す - bend oneself over in curiosity / excitement ひしめく - to crowd, clamor, jostle

p156  顰蹙 - frown; + 買う - be frowned upon 情が薄い - cold hearted 

p162 甘皮 - cuticle of a nail 延焼 - spread of fire がやがや - loudly, noisily in a crowd of people ひしあげる - withdraw (from / to)

p166 ぎくしゃく - awkward, stiff, strained 

p168 喧噪 - tumult, hustle and bustle, commotion, clatter ひっぱりまわす - pull / drag around 卑小 - petty, trifling

p170 埋め合わせる - compensate, make up for

p172 原っぱ - open field 即席 - impromptu 宴会 - party, banquet  短大 - junior college おおまか - rough, general gist

p174 収まりがつかない - getting nowhere, becoming uncontrollable, getting out of hand, unsatisfied

p176 とりとめのない - incoherent

p180 矯正 - correction, remedy, reform 

p182 温室 - greenhouse  ���料 - fertilizer 

p188 目につく - catch one’s eye, be noticeable 盆地 - basin between mountains 薪 - firewood 眺望 - prospect, view, outlook  峠 - mountain pass / ridge, highest point 立ち小便 - urinating outdoors by the roadside

p190 耕作 - cultivation, farming 標識 - sign, marker  拡大 - expansion 門衛 / 門番- gatekeeper 先刻 - a short while, already

p192 よけ - repellent, protectant  別荘 - vacation home, villa

p194 世をすねる - cynical 腕のいい - skillful

p196 すたすた - (walk) briskly

p198 療養 - recuperation 鉄格子 - iron bars, prison 隔離 - isolation 自給自足 - self-sufficiency

p200 人里離れた - lonely isolated place out in the middle of nowhere

p208 養鶏場 - poultry farm 理容師 - barber, hairdresser なだらか - gently sloping, smooth, gradual 立方体 - cube 対称 - symmetry 手入れ - taking care of , maintenance

p210 くつろぐ - to relax, make oneself at home

p212 奔流 - torrent, rapid stream 紡ぐ - to spin / weave a tale 考えごと - absorbed in one’s thoughts 髪留め - hair lip, barrette 

p214 梳く - to comb out, untangle 行き届く - to be scrupulous, attentive, thorough

p216 縁取り - hemming, bordering まちまち - various, diverse

p218 分泌 - secretion

p220 ほんのり - slight, faintly

p222 錯綜 - becoming complicated, involved, jumbled, mixed up 大目に見る - overlook a mistake, let off leniently, tolerate 調弦 - tuning やすらい - resting, relaxing 奴隷 - slave, servant

p224 ほぐす - relax, loosen

p226 範疇 - category 系統 - lineage, family line

p232 対岸 - opposite shore

p234 のめり込む - be completely absorbed in 点検 - detailed inspection 

p236 手に負えない - too much for one to handle

p238 ゆきずり - in passing, people passing by 収拾 - bring under control

p240 ちやほや - to make a fuss over, pamper, spoil 手を回す - use one’s influence, pull strings

p242 もつれる - get entangled 腫れ物 - tumor, abscess, swelling ひしひし - acutely, keenly, sensitively feel

p246 婚姻届書 - marriage registration 処女 - virgin  罠 - trap

p250 はねつける - flatly refuse, reject 目を細める - look fondly at, smile with one’s whole face 天賦 - natural, innate (talent)

p252 つじつま - consistency, coherence 手を加える - perform some process, apply some treatment, revise, correct

p254 譜面 - sheet music, score 我流 - self-taught, one’s own method / style ひっそり - inconspicuous, quietly さっぴく - deduct, take away

p258 自叙伝 - autobiography

p262 見わけ - distinction 膨張 - expansion, swelling, growth

p264 吸収 - absorption 

p266 しがみつく - to cling

p270 変遷 - change, transformation

p274 納屋 - barn 水しぶき - spray / splash of water はね返し - repel, reject, bounce back

p276 かげり - shadow (on one’s happiness), gloom

p280 一服 - a puff / smoke, short rest 穂 - point, tip, edge

p282 垣根 - fence, hedge 放牧 - pasturage, grazing

p288 腕を組む - fold arms, link arms with someone  時刻表 - public transport timetable 

p290 すっぽり - completely, entirely, clean, snug

p298 どんより - gloomy, overcast  定規 - measuring ruler 

p300 擦り切れる - wear out, worn down

[sunoflegend]

It's clear that when Prowl shifts subjects, something in her demeanor shifts as well. She was trying to be civil; as it stands, he isn't very highly rated on her list of acquaintances. She'd left her faction behind her long ago, and had tried to leave her grudges there too, but that isn't as easy as ripping symbols from your wings. One could argue she stopped holding much love for the faction and held more for its views even before the war ended. Besides faction differences however, Prowl was never a bot she liked. She could respect his efficiency, but she'd seen him as more of a useful tool when they'd briefly worked together - even if someone else ended up wielding him. Before the war, she knew him best for being a Prime bootlicker even before Optimus held the title. Afterwards, he was more than glad to shove a bomb in her and every other decepticons head.

Neither are experiences she remembers fondly.

All this to say, if he decides to make jabs first, she wasn't the type to take it with a fake smile plastered on her face for the sake of staying agreeable. Her optics narrow and her helm turns to glare right at him, a scowl evident on her face. One that only worsens at the mention of Metalhawk.

"Since I decided to stand on a podium and throw the entire election for a life behind bars instead, which I'm sure you saw, seeing as you decided to bring Metalhawk into all this. You're good at conductive reasoning - would I have shown all my cards if I was looking to go right back to plotting afterwards? Throw an entire election I could've won towards Windblade, and then let her keep it without so much as one unhappy accident from me? I'm not planning anything, Prowl. I'm doing my job. I don't exactly think you were very sound of mind last time you saw me do anything - things change."

The fact she still doesn't fully play by the rules is something she keeps to herself. It's none of his damn business afterall, and she's trying to prove a point here.

Prowl's not sure exactly when he stops paying attention to Starscream's introductory speech, but he does at some point, and takes much spite-driven pleasure from it. The smoke from his cygarette still rests heavy through his systems and heavy in his head, incentivizing his need to be, for lack of a better term, petty. Old grudges, and other such things. Starscream may somehow have the larger half of the political scene in Iacon charmed enough to leave her a seat in Council, but four million years of conflict are not so easily lost on Prowl. A mech who has taken Autobot lives as easily as pointing a finger stands beside him, unbothered, talking about wrapped candies and accommodations. (He listens, of course. Listens, because he is who he is, and even if Prowl isn't paying attention, all notable discussions are logged into his memory.) Prowl barks a humorless laugh when Starscream stops herself, turning his head only to stare at the other from the corner of his optics. "Alright. Keep things close to the chassis. Let me ask you, Starscream- since when did your plans ever hinge on the wants of other people?" The tactician pauses, optics narrowing and voice dropping tonelessly. "Hm. Let me rephrase. Since when were you perfectly comfortable with that? If I recall, you've never liked playing politics by the rules. Mechs like you-" And I, goes unspoken, "-Need control. Metalhawk knew that well enough, didn't he?"

-------

[brotherslayer]

I've never seen what magic usage looks like in VADD but if I were to build a magic system for that setting I'd do one where magic is harnessed/activated via complex arrays and formulas and equations, an incomplete one won't activate and one must take great care to not get stuff incorrect. Best case scenario the magic won't activate, worst case scenario your flesh might just slough off your bones and you die a horrible death. Or blast an area. Or both. Magic is dangerous. Imagine Penny (OG Penelope ofc, it's me you're talking to) hurriedly scribbling a formula on an alley wall in a foggy setting, just in time for the area to burst into flame when her pursuers get there and she's a safe distance away. Pre-written formulas, intentionally incomplete so that the wizard can just add the one component needed to activate it on the fly... I tend to visualize VADD's setting as very grim and foggy in aesthetics for some reason, so yeah. “Bounded Fields” aka an area surrounded by an array that can serve multiple purposes depending on the symbols included— wanna drain the life force of anyone who intrude? Wanna punt them away from the guarded area? Zap them really hard with electricity? Just wanna sense whoever trespasses the boundary? That sort of stuff would be also cool. Maybe symbols can be etched onto objects to give them certain properties, permanently or no.

As for WMMAP, I haven't gotten a solid rule down but I'd like to think magic is more diverse and fluid, not so rigid as the array-bound wizardry of what I gave VADD. Want to strengthen your body by channeling magic into it? Yeah! Crafting magical artefacts? Sure! Reinforce objects, temporarily or not, via magic? Hell yeah! Illusions? Fireballs? Sure thing! Conjuring stuff, or outright transforming them into smth else entirely? Uhhhh that's not gonna be possible, sorry.

If you conjure an object, the world itself tries to reject and eliminate it, the same way our bodies eliminate any foreign entity that enters it. Conjured objects don't last long, maybe a couple minutes at most. If a mage tries to hold their existence longer than it should exist the object begins to warp. Glitch. Becomes a weird thing that... isn't the object as we knew it originally. We become unable to perceive it normally let alone make use of it. If some maniac decide to specialize in that, then well good fucking luck to them. Transformations don't also tend to last long, if you hold it past its limit it's gonna glitch and disintegrate just like the conjured object did.

On that topic, I kinda see Jennette's creation as trying to bypass that law of nature, as did past Obelian emperors. I don't have the specific mechanics down yet, but the way the royals' mana gets too out of control it's actively killing them... sounds a lot like nature trying to reject individuals of such massive mana because they're unnatural going by our own theory of “Obelian royals did black magic and incest to increase mana volume but also keep kids alive”. Have their cake and eat it too. But black magic too has a price to pay and it eventually catches up anyways. So... yeah.

Pre-written formulas...that's a unique idea! I can picture incomplete formulas and equations scratched or engraved into the wall plaster of taverns and houses in balatant sight of the authorities and no one pays it any mind. Powerful defense and attack spells that survived from ancient civilizations but they are interpreted as a kid's doodles or an act of vandalism and either ignored or scrubbed away. Imagine a magician's child unaware of their origins accidentally activating an attack spell by writing something silly like adding dick drawing to a prewritten formula and blasting an entire city wall away without meaning to. The anti-magic faction would, of course, use these incidents of accidental magic to demonize magicians further. Penelope could've had her first contact with magic when she was still living in the slums, hiding in a dark alley from the guards that are chasing her because she stole a loaf of bread, her fingers are itching, in the darkness she find the engravings in stone and finishes the escape spell almost out of instinct, writing it out with the dirt and blood on her hands.

For wmmap I have the rough idea that you essentially drain your own life force to use magic, contrary to baby Jennette who probably drained the life from Penny and I hc is later capable of draining it from the people around her. Using your own life force isn't a problem with the Obelia family since they are practically immortal and possess an extraordinary amount of mana. The non-wizards are simply people who have barely enough mana to life. Magic use would almost definitely kill them. And having someone force magic into you is also bad for their bodies since they aren't meant to contain that much mana. Lore-wise I have some ideas how the Obelias became that powerful including them stealing a fruit of the world tree, which turned them into half gods and made the world tree unable to go against them since they now possess the same type of mana. It'd also explain why Athy is linked with the world (prophetic dreams) and has permission to change the essence of the world.

Just like you I don't like the idea that you can just conjure objects out of nothing with no repercussions or whatsoever. I'd prefer a Law of Equivalent Exchange or that you can turn an object into the one you want for a short amount of time provided they share a similarity. Turning wood into a gold coin would be harder than a key from metal for example. And it might not last as long until the spell wears off.

About Jennette...yup I too see her as a conjured object. Except she has been created from a scratch of something and has to be constantly fed (mana maybe?) to prevent warping or disappearing entirely. It's possible that she could achieve a human like status if she has consummed enough souls/or mana and lived long enough as a human. Basically fake it until you make it.

The world tries to eliminate her as it does to all things that don't belong there (I hc that this is also one of the reasons why most wizards don't travel between parallel worlds. Your are basically putting a target on your back. And if the world doesn't manage to kill you it kills your other self and traps you in the world you travelled to because only one of you two has a place there.) Anyway I think it starts really harmless in her childhood with small accidents that get bigger, more frequent and more complex as she ages. For example at first it's just a flower pot almost falling on her head but suddenly there are bizarre accidents happening around her caused by an unseen force creating complicated chains of cause and effect, that most often than not harms those around her instead of herself. Her magic doesn't neutralize the curse it only repells it. It kind of bounces off her and clings to the person she is closest to, leading at best to a serious injury and at worst to their untimely end. Even if ther black magic is there to protect their host, it still can't go against its nature to destroy.

The world becomes slowly aware of Jennette's presence and tries to reject her. Did the world once see her only as an annoying fly and tried to swat her occationally when she gets involved in the prewritten destiny of others, it now sees her as something sacrilegious against God, a wretched thing that tries to disrupt the order of the universe. I imagine it gets worse the more Jennette interacts with other people (and inevitably twists their destiny). So when Jennette, someone who shouldn't have existed in the first place, gets put as the ruler of the Empire on the throne, a position where all the threads converge to link up the world/story, the universe is furious. Perhaps the poisoning incident was set in motion by this mysterious force and originally meant to kill Jennette (fr why would Rosalia do something risky like poisoning her own niece to get rid of Athy who wasn't even first in line to the throne? isn't risking Jennette's life to get Athy exiled a little bit too extreme considering Athy posed no threat to her?) but her black magic protected her and Athy was the one who ended up dying. A life for a life. Magic always demands a price. And Athy was the perfect price to pay to justify her existence since they were both too similar to one another.

[pendragonfics]

Sole Surround

Paring: Eric/Reader

Tags: no pronouns, no gender used, no y/n or _____, requited love, tattoos, sketches, fluff and humor, no plot, reader says a bad word!!

Summary: The story how Eric got his arm tats OR how you accidently score a date with your fave badass Dauntless leader.

Word Count: 1,054

Current Date: 2019-06-30

A better part of working with Tori Wu at the shop was the people who’d come in. Fresh Dauntless picking their first ink, knowing people by name who’d come in regularly for pictures under their skin, the art you’d design. And while you were sure your co-workers liked their job for the other parts to it, you had one particular, specific reason. He was a leader, and, his name was Eric.

If it weren’t for the fact that the pair of you came in the same initiation ceremony, you’d be sure that he wouldn’t know you existed. But seeing as you came second to his first place, often battling for a place in the black-clad faction, he knew your name. However, while he worked with a gun, patrolling the factions, you had a gun with needles, inking the skin of your own faction.

“If only you didn’t squander your potential,” he greeted, walking in.

Eric had a cockiness to him that made you wonder if he thought the world bent to his knee. While most others, Four included, did not bend, you were more than happy to.

“Says the guy with a stick up his ass,” you retort with a smile, gesturing to the chair. “Take a seat, Coulter.”

He takes his time, even though your time was a commodity. But if he was willing to spend it, you wouldn’t tax the man for lingering in your presence. Hell, if he wasn’t with his head up alongside that stick, he’d notice that you’d had feelings for him since he barrelled into you on the Dauntless roof after the Choosing Ceremony.

Finally taking a seat, you turn to him, catching his eyes. They’re devastatingly handsome, just like him.

“After some more block-black work?” you roll up your sleeves.

Turning to the bench, you snap on a pair of gloves, expecting a grunt of agreement. He’d come to you for his neck tats, and if you were someone to gloat, you’d say that they turned out excellent. But you were biased. You’d bang him with or without ink.

“I saw Max’s new art. That was you, right?” he asked.

You nod, glad someone saw your design. “He wanted something symbolic.”

Eric smirked. “I’m no artist, but -,” from his pocket, he withdrew a paper. Unfolding, you saw a mock-up penned with graphite. “Had a go at what I’d like.”

Tilting the art, you look between his scribble and arms, you beam. “I have the perfect place in mind for this.” You reply, turning to your sketchbook. It was starting to get full, especially since you’d been using the same thing since you started as Tori’s apprentice. “It’s like, a map? Of Dauntless, the tunnels?”

“Good eye.”

“And while you shoot to kill, I make designs to kill.” You mutter, sketching as fast as your wrist could let you. “…and before you tell me that I’d be better on patrol with your team, remember who gave you half your ink.”

“Touché.”

“If you don’t want any changes to this design,” you hand over the notepad, turning to the shelves beside where you sit, looking for the transfer paper and your lucky pen, “ - I’m sure I can get it sketched out pretty quick today.”

“Looks good,” he replied.

It was the fact that his words weren’t inciting any comebacks that made you wonder. You’d never heard of Eric ever having something nice to say at all, in all the time that you’d been around each other. Back in training, he’d knock you on your ass time and time again. When you did his neck tats, he’d wanted it ‘slightly to the left’ and made you trace all over again.

“Did I just hear the Eric Coulter accept something as is?” you tease, smiling to yourself. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

But when you look up, you see that he hasn’t heard a word of what you were saying. Most likely because he’s flicking through your notebook, his calloused hands treating the paper pages like they’re delicate, soft. If it were any other book, you’d take a second to relish being privy to a softer moment of the man’s life. But it’s your art book. Every sketch you’d ever done. Even private ones.

“Hey!” you yelp, shooting toward him. “Don’t -,”

But he held it away, intently looking at a page. Your eyes bug out because you know exactly which drawing it is. It was a really slow day at the shop, back when you had to bust ass to make a buck around the place. Tori did most of Eric’s earlier art; you weren’t sure if he was in for his back or shoulder pieces, but it was the day you sketched him out, laying under shiny LED light like a cat basking in brilliant sunlight.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” you say. You can’t bring yourself to meet Eric’s eyes. If you did, you’d see the look in them, the slant to his strong shoulders.

The pause before he speaks.

“Why would I?” he speaks with his usual ease, but…careful. He hands you the notebook back and tucking it away, you meet his gaze. “Seems like we feel the same way.”

You’re about to retort, but Tori makes her way into your space of the store. She leans; her long hair in her face, swaying. “You man the shop for a bit, I’m grabbing a bite.” She tells you, oblivious to you and the situation. “Want me to grab some food for you, or…?”

“No thanks,” you say, quickly.

As soon as Tori’s out of earshot, you look back to Eric. He’s got one of his smiles plastered upon his face, and the aura of cockiness he’s emanating alone has you wanting to knock it off with your fists, or your own mouth. You’re not sure which one, to be honest.

“So?” he prompts.

You go back to sketching the stencil, ignoring the growing annoyance of your lack of reply. Eric was such a meathead sometimes. But that was why you liked him.

“How about this fresh ink, then you and I take a walk, grab some coffee.” You look up from your sketch to his waiting eyes. “Maybe fuck afterwards?”

Eric’s barking laugh is softened by his grin. “Girl after my own heart.”

[wykart]

The Prodigal Daughter

Summary: The Doctor has some unfinished business on Gallifrey. She has a purpose, and the Time Lords intend for her to fulfil it. (read on ao3)

a.k.a. local girl has a crush on the 13th Doctor, a love of cosmic/psychological horror, and a fascination with the whole Doctor = The Other thing from the wilderness years novels.

Chapter 1: The Promise 

Pity, and things were just starting to get good. In retrospect, a little too good. 

She’d been thrown out of her TARDIS and crashed right into the next band of wide-eyed, brilliant humans who’d been all too enthusiastic to go along with it all. Humans. They gravitate towards the weird like ions to a gravity belt, buzzing around like flies. Anything to pull them away from the collectively self-enforced misery of the day-to-day. You get the odd few – like Karl – who are more than content to meander through time, always a little lost, always holding the truth back a fraction so as to keep the fear at bay. Not her new best friends. In a way, she had them trapped, even if she hadn’t meant to do it. But, maybe she always means to do it, a little bit, deep down. (All of time and space, what d’you say?) reluctance, because they all have little lives to be getting on with, and little people that rely upon the unceasing perpetuation of those little lives. A web, intricate, all of them trapped in it. (By the way, did I mention, it also travels in time?) splendour, because it’s just a bit too close to magic. They hardly ever say no. 

To be fair, she had wholly intended to die, all noble and peaceful-like. All staring out over the brief armistice on the battlefield and lamenting the guttural woes of immortality. Eyebrows had always quite enjoyed his lamenting. All her lamenting went on behind a smile and a brightened glare – fidgeting hands and bouncing feet. She liked the way she moved now, all limber and sporadic. The youth of it. It felt like old times.

 She’d taken off the veil after Trenzalore, but it got boring after a while; the sadness, the age, the self-imposed exile. He made a promise to the next one along, a few rules to hold close to her hearts. Laugh hard. Run fast. Be kind. She plays the part rather well. It’s a different sort of relationship. She didn’t up and snatch some young woman away from her life to see the stars with an intimacy that only comes with that one-on-one, that face to face. It’s different, too, because they all joined her at the same time, none knowing more than the other, all of them from the same time, same place – down to the block. They’re predictable.

 Things were light-hearted. Controlled little escapades, low stakes, relatively speaking – but more than enough for a few humans. This is who she had wanted herself to be, wasn’t it? This was the promise.

She’s in control, creating a narrative, sticking to the corners of the universe where nobody knew her title. She’s got rules now, too. Better rules than before. The Doctor lies, of course, but she doesn’t advertise the fact these days. Non-interference is a buzzkill, always will be, but she can appreciate the sentiment. Walking away; she isn’t used to that feeling. Maybe it’s a sign of maturity, or maybe she’s just growing cold. Like this – with her rules and her power – she can almost pretend that she really is just a traveller, can act the benefactor while she watches their wide eyes take in the sights. She can almost pretend that there’s no past reaching out from the end of the universe, gripping her neck, ready to twist her back towards home. Ready to snap.

 Their influence is spreading beyond their secluded corner at the end of the universe. Maybe in the beginning they were humble about it, promising to patch over their tyranny and lead a civilisation of malevolent indifference at the end of time. Memories of the war still haunting the global subconscious, weapons locked away, gathering dust. Indifference never lasts forever. Curiosity and hunger prevail, scars whiten to a faded groove – even hers. As her species reaches out, tugging at time, twisting it around her like bonds, it is accompanied with an implacable longing for red fields under an orange sky. For a barn in the desert. She wonders if the grass has grown back yet – if it’s struggled up through the arid, fallow soil. She wonders how many survived the war, how many hate her, and how many idolise her? Which faction holds power now, after Rassilon’s usurpation? Do they call her a monster, a renegade, a prodigal daughter, or do they hold her up as some sort of cosmic hero, some sort of god? She isn’t sure which is worse.

 And still, the message hangs in the back of her mind, a psychic backdrop, a drone. (Lord President, your presence is required on homeworld. Comply, or we will be forced to take action. Your weakness is known. It will be exploited. Kind regards). Always polite at least, the aristocracy.

 Of course, she’s not going to do what they tell her. She’s been disobeying the wishes of the high council for over two thousand years. She isn’t about to stop now. Running is what she’s good at, and running was part of the promise. Still, she can feel them rifling through her head, sifting through her time like a pool of sand. Searching for something old, something powerful. Something she hasn’t thought about since before the war, when she was starting to get a little too cocky and the universe thought it best to bring her down a peg, or two, or all of them. Whether her negligence is a question of hasn’t or can’t is another matter altogether. There’s something older in her bones, deeper. Something that’s been running for even longer than she has. She doesn’t want them to find it.

 The TARDIS lands, rougher than usual. She hopes she hasn’t broken any more chairs. The Doctor takes a moment to catch up with herself, pushing that spiralling message down as deep as it will go (it still hums, always singing). She feels displaced, and their grip is only growing tighter, pulling time up over her eyes like a murky veil. It tastes metallic red in her mouth.

 A knock at the door scatters the symbols, impact throbbing in her ears. “Hey Doc!” it’s Graham. She quite likes that nickname, it suits her. Hip and – what was it that Eyebrows had said? – down with the kids. “Gave me a bit of a turn there, I almost dropped m’tea!”

 She tries to shake the grogginess from her head and plasters on a smile, hair balled around her face like fuzz. “Tea!” she exclaims, shrill, hurtling out through the TARDIS doors in front of a startled and exasperated looking Graham. “I’d love me some tea, thanks very much Graham.”

 “Well alright then, I’ll put the kettle on shall I?” he says with a chuckle. He sets his own half-full mug down on the dining table and calls up the narrow staircase. “Oi Ryan! The Doc’s here, get down or you’ll miss out til next Sat’day.” Picture frames line the walkway. Pictures of Graham and Grace as the Doctor knew her, and older ones. A young, rosy woman with braided hair smiling that same, motherly smile. Portraits of a young boy that must be Ryan, stifled in too-high school shirt collars and gazing off-centre into his own thoughts. “He’s havin’ an afternoon nap,” Graham informs the Doctor with a fond, knowing smirk. “Went out with his mates down the pub last night and came back in a right state. I don’t know how he does it.”

 “Oh, to be young,” the Doctor muses, only half in jest. Graham barks a short laugh, because he doesn’t see her, none of them do. She’s just fine with that. Oh, to be young. It makes the running so much easier.

 “Yaz should be round in a bit, she had some family lunch, extended and all. Makes me jealous just thinkin’ about that food. Do they’ave Pakistani food in space?”

 The Doctor is grateful for the invitation for anecdote. “Oh yeah, plenty of em’! Especially in the 31st century when you lot really start branchin’ out. There’s one in the Taureen System just off the Braken Nebula – excellent Karahi. I’ll take you sometime, shall I?” Fast words, wide grin, teeth bared against that incessant noise thrumming against her skull. She tries not to betray her disquiet. She feels sorry for The Master.

 “That sounds great Doc,” a flash of concern. That isn’t good. He must have noticed her expression. “I’ll get that tea on. Make yourself at home.” He bustles out as Ryan traipses down the stairs, one careful foot in front of the other. Climbing down a British suburban staircase with a hangover and dyspraxia is a feat of unimaginable skill, and he almost makes it look easy.

 “Mornin’ Ryan,” she calls, plastering on her grin again.

 He winces. “Hey, Doctor.”

 “Big night?”

 “Yeah.” He sighs, blinking rapidly as if the action might jerk him awake. “Long shift at work too. I’m down for an adventure, just no more space warehouses, yeah?”

 “Well, guess I’ll have to cancel my plans for our space warehouse extravaganza then.” She rolls her eyes in mock-frustration. “Honestly Ryan, you keep me on my toes.”

 The doorbell rings, causing Ryan to wince and hold his head again. “Shall I answer the intruder alert?” she chimes, trying for a joke. It’s an old one, overused maybe, but her head hurts far more than Ryan’s does and the joke-making centre of her brain is seeped in Time Lord threats, viscous as tar.

 “That’ll be Yaz,” Ryan mumbles. “I’ll get it.” He wanders along the landing, the Doctor following absently, not really sure what to do with herself. When Ryan opens the door, Yaz’s face is almost covered by the tower of Tupperware balanced precariously in her arms.

 “Hey Ryan, Doctor,” she beams. “Could you grab a couple of these, otherwise I’m gonna collapse under a pile of Nani’s cooking.” Ryan obediently scoops the top-most lot of containers from Yaz’s tower. The smell is overpowering, and steam fogs up against the plastic, softening it. The Doctor takes the next lot with a hurried grin at Yaz and carries them to the kitchen. Best not to look at her too long, Yaz is good at noticing faces and what’s going on behind them.

 “Oh Yaz, you’re a gem, you are,” Graham exclaims as he waves through the parade of leftovers.

 “Well I wasn’t about to leave you out was I?” she says, shunting the sparse contents of the O’Brien/Sinclair fridge to make room for her contribution. “How about we have second lunch when we get back. Just make it a long one, okay Doctor, because I am full to bursting.”

 “Ooh, lunch with the fam,” The Doctor cries, a little too loudly to be passed off as mere enthusiasm. The truth is she’s having trouble hearing her own thoughts, let alone her voice. It’s like her head is being pushed underwater, deeper, deeper, to where the light doesn’t shine and the creatures are strange.

 There’s a shared sheepish smile from the rest of them. Sometimes all of their faces knit together into one. Predictable. All humans look a little bit the same. She can see their time stretching out in front of them, see where it snaps off abruptly, no confetti. A straight line. A grey line. Their youth hangs about them like something tangible, and there’s so little substance to them that they’re often nothing more than pinpricks in the dark. You have to squint. The other Time Lords don’t see them at all. That simple fact is what scares her the most.

 “You all good Doctor? You’re sorta just… starin’,” Ryan says, brows knotted together in concern. The other two wear the same expression. Identical. Pinpricks in the dark.

 “Hmm?” she inquires, using the sound to give her more time, processing his words. They take a while to filter through. His voice is like tin; thin, rattling. “Me? Very all good, thanks Ryan. Always good, that’s me.” (Am I a good man?) She buries the question. It has a habit of cropping up at inopportune moments.

 “Okay then,” Yaz claps her hands together, dispelling the tension. She’s good at that, but it’s double-edged. Yaz notices everything, and the Doctor knows that later she’ll be taken aside and bombarded with questions from PC Khan. Astute, assertive, hopelessly curious. She prides herself on attracting that sort. “What have you got planned for us today, Doctor?”

 “Well, now that you mention it, I think I have some idea.” As far away from the Time Lords as possible. What sort of leisure activities could one take one’s humans to at the beginning of the universe? “It’s a surprise, though,” she blurts, when she realises that she’s been silent for too long. The sound of it is sharp, and it stabs up through the din pressing down on her (Lord President). Involuntarily, her hand rushes to her head, a wince, her feet slide and stumble beneath her as if she’s standing on ice.

 “You sure you’re alright Doctor? You sure it weren’t you that drank too much last night?” Ryan smiles, half concern, half content. They have no idea what they’re dealing with. She aims to keep it that way.

 “Phew, yeah I am, thanks Ryan,” she wipes her brow with the back of her hand. Mock exhaustion. The sort of exhaustion they understand. The tiredness she’s feeling now doesn’t culminate with a sheen of murky sweat on the brow – it’s deeper. It grips every nerve-end and twists. A knife in the gut, slowly spinning in. “Had a bit of a rough landing. I’ll be right with a cuppa tea in me.” She puts her hands on her hips, steadying herself. “Speakin’ of, wonder how Graham’s getting on.” It’s a forced sort of exit. Obvious. Her head hurts too much for subtlety. She wanders off towards the kitchen, past two humans with mouths open in exclamations of concern and protest held at bay. Pinpricks.

 …

  “Do you think she’s alright?” Ryan asks, when the Doctor is out of earshot. Alien ears though, maybe she can always hear them. He doesn’t linger on the thought.

 “Probably, she did look a bit wobbly. Nothing she can’t handle though, right?” she grins. It’s transparent; for herself as much as for him. “She’s an alien, could have an alien cold or something.”

 “Do you reckon humans can catch alien colds?”

 “Dunno.”

 Small talk is difficult. She had quite enough of it that morning surrounded by her extended family all crammed into their little apartment. It’s always the same questions delivered at varying levels of disdain coated in sweetness. Questions like; have you thought about going to university?, do you have a boyfriend yet?, and then; you’re so beautiful Yasmin, you would have no trouble finding a good man. Her mother had cast the odd look her way, a knowing smile, encouragement in her eyes. Her mother had always been supportive of her, but Yaz wondered whether that was only because she still had a chance of ending up with a man, if the right one came along. She didn’t want to believe that – her mum was great, really – but love could be conditional like that. Needless to say, she was looking forwards to a bit of escapism. She even found herself craving a bit of danger. A chase, a monster, a plot to foil.

 Talking to Ryan is different. She’d been surprised at the relative ease with which they slotted back together. Primary school was a minefield, especially for a kid with dyspraxia and a tendency to wander off into his own head. The teachers didn’t understand, they thought he was just careless, and every bump and bruise was met with an exasperated cry of ‘Ryan!’ She helped him out, because even then she was a bit of a teacher’s pet. Even then she was a bit of an outcast. High school came with a promise to keep in touch, but all of a sudden there was a new place in which to be an outcast. New eyes to feel pressing upon her back, gleeful. All of a sudden, Ryan Sinclair was a far-off thing, who probably had better things to do, better friends to see. Now, once again, he’s the only real friend her age she’s got. Life is circular like that.

 “So, you were down the pub last night?” Yaz asks. Small talk.

 “Yeah, me and a few mates. Nothing big though, had work today.”

 “Your ‘nothing big’ and my ‘nothing big’ are totally different things,” she smiles. “Tell me you didn’t end up in the park again.” That was part of the night shift, clearing out drunks from the local park when the residents complained about the noise. It wasn’t the picture of justice she’d been imagining when she’d gone for the job – just people being stupid. They did that a lot, she was coming to realise.

 “What were you doin’ last night, then?”

 “Sleepin’ like a responsible adult,” she grins.

 “You should come out with us sometime Yaz. The gang wouldn’t mind, it’d be a good time. You don’t have to drink or nothin’ if you don’t want,” he adds, at the sight of her reproach. Although she’s sure Ryan wouldn’t press her, she figures his friends might be a little more forceful. One does not simply walk into a bar in Yorkshire and not have a pint or two.

 “Thanks for the offer Ryan, I might take you up on that,” she probably won’t. She’s just trying to be polite. “Just don’t expect me to go staggerin’ through the park after and listen to your god-awful rap music.”

 “That stuff’s mint, Yaz. You’ll come round to my way of thinkin’ someday.”

 She scoffs, “will not.”

 “How’s the family then?”

 “Oh they’re alright. Didn’t have my phone though, so I couldn’t even escape with that. Sonya did though, for the whole meal.” Another eye roll, a gesture her sister often inspired in her. Even if Sonya does have a boyfriend, Yaz is definitely the family favourite. She quite likes being the favourite. It’s an easy thing to do; she can say the right things, smile the right smiles. It works on teachers, family members, even superior officers to a point. It also works on the Doctor. “I had my phone all charged up, but I got this weird call last night that drained all the battery. Probably some foreign scam or something.” But it wasn’t, she knows it wasn’t. She can still hear the bruised voices in her ears. “But still, it was okay. They’re pushy, but you know how families are.” She presses her lips together, and looks at him apologetically, because she remembers that, of course, Ryan doesn’t know how families are, not really. Not big families, anyway, and not since his mum died.

 He must know what she’s thinking because he says “don’t worry ‘bout it. Besides, I think I’m about to. Graham’s tryna get me to go to a Christmas do with his family. I’ve managed to avoid it for the past few years since he married me Nan, but now he really isn’t lettin’ it go.”

 “That could be nice, couldn’t it?”

 “And have a bunch of stuck-up old white folks I don’t know say how sorry they are about me Nan? Don’t think so.” Silence again. Yaz doesn’t know grief the way Ryan does. She hopes she never has to. Ryan winces, bowing his head against the headache Yaz knows is still plaguing him. “I swear to you, I didn’t even drink that much last night. It hit me proper good though, I totally spaced out in the pub, look,” he points to a spot in the middle of his forehead. It’s hard to see against the darkness of his skin, but definitely there. “I fainted or something and banged my head right into the table. Felt like I got concussed ‘cause I got all spacey for a bit.”

 “And you just went on with the night?” she asks, in exasperated incredulity.

 “What? Nothing’s wrong with me. I did see some proper weird stuff though. Colours on the TV and this weird grating noise – you ever heard anything like that?”

 “You sure no one slipped anything in your drink?” She’s heard horror stories about that sort of thing. Mostly from Sonya and her mates. They’re all underage, but that never stops them. Yaz is convinced her sister continuously breaks the law just to spite her, not even trying to hide it.

 “Dunno. Nan would’ve been able to explain it, I’m sure. Plenty of people coming through A&E on a Friday night.” He pauses, just a moment, a memory, a flood of grief. “It was real weird though, not to sound like a total nutter, but I heard a voice and all this static. Somethin’ about –“

 “A president.” Yaz finishes, gazing at Ryan, mind kicking into gear, whirring.

 “Err… yeah, actually. How’d you know that.”

 “That’s what they said on the call.” The more she thinks about it, the more she can feel the presence of it; the memory. There’s a hole where her mind has plastered over the event. It’s thin and, with trembling fingers, she starts to peel the plaster back. “It was this horrible noise, like static, you know?”

 “Are you sayin’ we had the same hallucination.”

 “Startin’ to think it wasn’t a hallucination, actually.” She pauses for a moment, so does he, both of them trying to pull back the plaster, see what’s behind the wall. No substance, just absence – but the scars left behind paint the picture well enough. An inverted image.

 “Coincidence?” he offers, clearly not believing it himself.

 “I don’t really believe in those.” After everything she’s seen, she doesn’t think she’ll ever believe in coincidences again.

 “You reckon it’s alien?”

 She almost wishes it is. She could use a bit of a thrill about now. “Should we ask the Doctor?”

 “Wait, you don’t reckon her weirdness has got to do with this weirdness?”

 “Like I said, don’t believe in coincidences.” And just as she says it, cementing it, the universe goes and proves her right. The phone rings.

 …

 The Doctor doesn’t hear the tone. She doesn’t hear much of anything, actually, because her ears are pounding with the sound of time twisting, space warping, cries scraping across it like – what was that human saying? – nails on a chalkboard. It was only going to get worse, she knew that. Even if she rushed to the other end of the universe, it would follow her. Maybe slowly at first, but it would come. It would never, ever stop.

 She grasps the edge of the kitchen counter for balance. Good old furniture – nice and sturdy.

 “Doc?” (Doc, doc, doc) it echoes out and mixes in with the noise. Someone used to call her that. The sound is something to hold onto.

 “Yep, yep I’m here,” she groans, speaking underwater again. He’s not even a pinprick now, just an absence. She claws herself back.

 “You sure you’re okay Doc?” he’s holding a tray laden with teacups, and those little things she likes – biscuits.

 “Oh good, thanks Graham,” she murmurs, reaching a trembling hand out to the tray. She grabs a handful of biscuits and shoves them into her mouth.

 “Woah there, watch the tea!” he cries, “you hungry or something? I’ll fix you something proper.” When she doesn’t answer his face folds into an inquisitive line. His face is all full of lines, it reminds her of Eyebrows. She misses those lines, sometimes. Drawn together, they formed a mask to hide behind, the grooves pressed with vitriol and imposing anger. Sharp, icy eyes. This new face is all smooth, wide dark eyes, nothing to pull back and hide behind. She thinks it’s hard for people to take it seriously; the wonder, the youth, the gold. She’d found that out in Bilehurst Cragg, and in a thousand other little ways. Pity, that change was the largest. Nobody pities angry old men. “Your phone’s ringin’, that’s all. Want to go and get it?” Graham again. She can almost see him now – a speck on the horizon.

 “Phone,” she mumbles through the mass of cakey biscuits, “p h o n e,” she tries the sound out in her mouth. The sugar isn’t helping much – her tongue still tastes like blood.

 “Err, yeah,” he mutters. “Listen Doc, if you ain’t well we can give it a miss this week. Or, you could rest for a bit and pop back – wonders of time travel and all that,” he laughs, forced, drawn out. He’s expecting an answering chuckle and quip. Something bubbling and bumbling to put his mind at ease. (Your weakness is known. It will be exploited).

 “They’re tryin’ to undo me,” she whispers.

 “What? Doc please, give me somethin’ to work with here.”

 “We should get out of here. We should really, really get out of here.” Urgency keeps her sharp, all gasping words, repeating. Fear is a superpower.

 “Oi, what about the tea?” Graham cries after her as she darts from the kitchen, coat flying.

 “Forget the tea, Graham!” There are worse things to worry about than tea getting cold.

 She leaves him standing in the kitchen, tray still clasped steadily in his arms. He’s poured himself another mug, ever the addict, and four clouds of steam waft up into his face, lines pulled up into an expression of surprise.

 …

 Yaz can’t help it. She’s always been a little too curious for her own good. (Hello? Hello is anyone there?). The TARDIS phone continues to chime, muffled against the wooden panel. She prises it open before Ryan can utter a noise of reprimand. The sleek black phone rattles, and the ringing is replaced with something else. It grows, warping around the tone. Static. Her stomach drops as a memory stirs. The hole behind the wall is flooded all at once. Sweet bruises, bones grinding, and a song that could almost be beautiful, the frequency just a bit too far from what a human throat could produce. (Lord President).

 The lights begin to flicker. A dark shape rushes out from the hallway – the Doctor, bright to shadow by the millisecond as the lights crackle overhead. “What happened?” she asks. Snappy, and – but she couldn’t be – scared.

 “I – I didn’t do anything,” Yaz defends, casting a pleading look at Ryan. “I didn’t even answer it, it just –“

 “Never mind that,” she interrupts, “we need to go, right now.”

 “Doctor,” Ryan says, “what’s goin’ on?”

 “I’d like to know that too, actually,” Graham says, tray abandoned, out of breath.

 The TV blares on suddenly, curdled colour reaching out in tendrils. The noise follows it, and the patterns on the screen swirl into something that could be mistaken for a face. It hurts to look at.

 The Doctor cries out, doubling over and clutching her side. “We need,” she gasps, face contorted with pain, “into the TARDIS, now –“ she groans as Ryan’s phone buzzes in his back pocket. He pulls it out with apprehension. It burns hot, phone case melting at the corners. He drops it in alarm.

 Yaz is the first one to act, though it’s difficult to think anything at all, let alone move. Each flash of the lights illuminates the scene, the next frame in a stop motion film. Her feet feel rooted, connected to something deep in the ground. She pulls them out and dashes to the Doctor’s side.

 “Hey Doc, what’s that –“ Graham’s voice trails off as he blinks, pressing his eyelids together, furrowing those handy lines of his. “Lord President,” his voice sounds like his own, almost. There are more voices towing it along, some racing ahead, some lagging behind. Layered. “Your presence is required –“ he’s shaking, like his skin can’t keep up with whatever’s raging inside it. Blood trails from his nostril in a clear dark line.

 “Graham!” Ryan shouts, rushing over to him and grabbing his shoulders.

 “Comply, or we will be forced to take desperate measures –“ It’s coming from everywhere, without, within, propagating from each one of them like a beacon.

 “Doctor!” Yaz cries, still supporting her friend as she crumples towards the floor. “We need to get everyone inside!”

 “Yaz!” Ryan shouts, “I can feel it, I can –“ his eyes glaze, his arms hang limp. There’s a hint of a smile. “Kind regards.”

 The Doctor’s face screws up into a darkened grimace, head pushing up against the tide raining down, veins in her neck bulging. Yaz can see a hint of that old anger, the thing she doesn’t know is there, the lines. She seems to growl it. “Leave them alone!” Again, she doubles over, head hanging. A whimper. “I’ll come, I’ll come, I will,” she pleads. Yaz doesn’t think she’s ever heard so much fear. The Doctor’s voice is dripping with it. “Let them go, I’ll come… I’ll come.”

 (Lord President).

 “Just SHUT UP!” she screams, protest tearing through her throat.

 “Doctor, please, we need to go,” Yaz can’t keep the tremor from her voice. She’s been trained to deal with stressful situations – but this is beyond stress, it feels like she’s decomposing. “We need to go, something’s coming,” because the beat is getting louder and her heart throbs in her throat. The song is rising up like bile into her mouth, filling it with words. The world becomes a haze, and she feels nothing at all.

 …

 The voice at her shoulder starts up the tune, just another voice, amplifying it. Yaz’s voice. The Doctor’s knees give way to carpet. She grasps the stuff in tufts between her fingers, clawing at it like she claws at reality, at texture. They’re still searching, rifling through her mind for the thing that’s stirring there. The thing she saw in the untempered schism.

 “Your weakness is known. It will be exploited,” they chorus, dissonant. They know, of course they know, her pleading promises are empty. She won’t go willingly. She’s always been terrible at being psychic, and truths held so close are hard to disguise. She wonders how long her new friends will last before the signal burns them up.

 Trembling fingers grasp at her sonic, feeling the familiar sheen of Sheffield steel, reminding herself of who she is now. Just a traveller. No past, just her and some mates, larkin’ about. Calculations rattle through her head, fighting against the tide of the message, the spirals, the bloodied taste. She’s good in a tight spot.

 The Doctor raises her sonic as high as the spasming muscles in her arms will allow and fires it off. A beacon of golden light, a familiar buzz, like honey against the bitterness. It flares out, a brief respite. The lights fizzle out and leave them in darkness, the faint glow of a dying bulb overhead. There’s no time to wonder how many seconds she’s got. The weight pressing down on her, stones in a river, lift so suddenly that she feels as if she could float. Mind clear as a summer sky, no tar. She smiles, something a little wicked. Outsmarted again.

Her friends stagger and she shouts. “Let’s go team, into the TARDIS, right now!” They sway, fraught with confusion. Predictable – but the pinpricks grow to sprawling tapestries behind her eyes. “Now!” she emphasises, grabbing Yaz by the arm and frantically beckoning the other two. Thankfully, they don’t ask questions. She has a feeling they’re about to, and she’s not at all looking forward to it. Just as she half pushes Graham inside the TARDIS doors, she feels the beginnings of the hum again. A nibble at the back of her mind. She doesn’t wait for it to start gnawing. She pushes past her dazed friends and half dives onto the lever, not even bothering to set a destination. Run circles around them, she thinks, you’re good at that. It will follow her, though, a parasite. Burrowing under the skin, something she can’t shake. If she stops, even for a second… Well, one thing at a time. This version likes to live in the moment. That was part of the promise.

[dalishious]

Some Fun Facts from The Art of Dragon Age Inquisition

(Because I actually read shit instead of just looking at the pretty pictures, finally)

“Orlais has its fineries, Ferelden its furs.” (pg 9)

The signature look of the Inquisition pulled inspiration from Babylon and Mesopotamia, and early Islamic and traditional Sikh armours. (pg 9)

The colours of the Inquisition are charcoal grey and crimson, evoking the Inquisition’s ties to the Seekers, in black, and the templars, in red. (pg 9)

The war table was once a symbol of peace “between two forgotten factions.” Before Skyhold was built, the tree was cut down and made into a war table. (pg 26)

Chantry uniforms share similar but more modest aspects of Orlesian fashion, as the Chantry was founded in Orlais. (pg 55)

Varric was originally going to have a bit of scruff on his face. This was rejected because “Varric’s smooth face symbolizes his rejection of dwarven culture.” (pg 63)

Fans (and Dorian) like to joke that Solas dresses like an “apostate hobo,” but that is literally the look they were going for, his appearance made of “homemade improvisations born from necessity.” (pg 68)

The Breach acts like an “unchecked oil spill,” and early renderings reflected this more in the design. (pg 70, 78)

For the revist to Redcliffe, the red was embraced, and contrasted with pale plaster. (pg 83)

Dorian’s concept was that of a “rock star mage.” (pg 84)

Dorian’s clothes are actually typical Tevinter mage robes he’s modified to make his own style. (pg 86)

The Venatori warriors? Apparently they’re slaves. (pg 91)

Chant of Light iconography is intentionally supposed to show the creator’s political motivations, as “religion, art and politics often intertwine.” (pg 97)

Finer Orlesian style buildings were influenced by Gothic architecture and the Vatican City. Noble buildings typically feature the colours blue, gold and white prominently. White marble with gold details is a signature look. It’s also common to see Andraste and Chantry iconography featured even in secular buildings. (pg 109, 113, 116, 132)

But while Orlais looks pretty, it is nothing but a mask of renovation after renovation, held together underneath by rotting wood. In Orlais, it doesn’t matter if something is weak, so long as it doesn’t look weak. (pg 109)

Orlesian dress also follows this philosophy; nobles wear clothes of rich dyes, complex patterns, and fine fabrics in designs meant to mask their ‘imperfections.’ Outlandish designs are commonplace, with flowing layered garb, high shoulder pads, dresses with long trains, heavily applied colourful makeup, and of course, elaborate masks are worn at the expense of function and mobility. (pg 109, 125)

Aesthetics trump practicality among Orlesians, and practicality trumps aesthetics among Fereldans. (pg 116)

Early concepts of Val Royeaux featured a drained canal system where the impoverished lived, but this was abandoned because they felt it was too similar to Kirkwall. (pg 116) [This is a shame, since its existence was described in Asunder.]

Vivienne’s style of dress drew inspiration from high fashion and religions ceremonial clothing. (pg 140)

Tevinter architecture features strong horizontals and verticals, accentuated with high-contrast, precious stone and metal materials and sharp edges, lots and lots of sharp edges. Mages are employed to literally lift stone pillars from the earth to act as foundations. (pg 156, 157, 159)

Mythal’s temple in the Arbor wilds is made of greens and golds, commonplace for ancient elven designs in the “glory days.” Inspiration for all the wilds around it was taken from primal forests in New Zealand and Vancouver Island. (pg 177)

The golden mosaics for the Elven Pantheon are meant to speak for the culture’s reverence for higher power, rather than vanity, in contrast to Orlais, where things are pretty for the sake of being pretty. (pg 185)

When designing dragons, artists referenced a large range of predators, from prehistoric reptiles to large jungle cats. (pg 209)

Ferelden’s idea of high-end fashion is wood, stone and ore. (Again, an extreme contrast to Orlais!) Fereldans prefer to show their wealth through strength and performance rather than what looks pretty. (pg 227)

Finally, here’s a picture of a nug skeleton:

[southeastasianists]

In June 1932, in the dying days of an absolute monarchy that had ruled Thailand unchecked for centuries, the streets of Bangkok were plastered with a manifesto issuing an ultimatum to the almighty sovereign.

“The government of the king has treated the people as slaves,” it read, calling for the king to submit to the will of a proposed popular assembly of people’s representatives and be bound by the laws of an as-yet-unwritten constitution. “If the king replies with a refusal… it will be regarded as treason to the nation, and it will be necessary for the country to have a republican form of government.”

Like the constitution that would soon follow, the manifesto and the radical ideas that underpinned it were the work of Pridi Banomyong, a former law student who led the civilian side of the People’s Party that united with powerful military figures to overthrow Thailand’s absolute monarchy. But despite becoming the first prime minister of Thailand to be elected by the will of the people, the Kingdom’s so-called Father of Democracy and his revolution have been increasingly written out of Thai history by the very elites he spent his whole life fighting against.

Last year, under the blind eye of the military junta that has ruled Thailand since 2014, a plaque commemorating the 1932 revolution mysteriously went missing 80 years after it was embedded in the road at the Royal Plaza. The plaque, which had received a resurgence in popularity as a focal point for Thailand’s pro-democracy red-shirt movement, has since been replaced by a royalist slogan promoting loyalty to the nation, religion and king. To those for whom the plaque had come to symbolise the nation’s long struggle for democracy in the face of authoritarian rule, the symbolism is only too clear – as was the fencing off of Bangkok’s Democracy Monument to the public earlier this year, the framed constitution first written by Pridi now lost behind a labyrinth of elegantly bland topiary.

Giles Ji Ungpakorn, a Thai-British academic and socialist who was forced to flee Thailand in 2009 after publicly criticising the palace’s complicity in the 2006 coup against the popularly elected Thaksin Shinawatra, said that Pridi had paved the way for Thailand’s long struggle for democracy – a legacy, he said, that the palace and its military supporters have long tried to stamp out.

“His legacy was to overthrow the absolute monarchy and install some form of constitutional rule – although that has been disrupted by a number of military coups,” he told Southeast Asia Globe. “The other legacy is less well known, and that was his proposal for a welfare state – and that’s something that people still need to struggle towards in Thailand.”

Kevin Hewison, emeritus professor in Asian studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, said that Pridi had been “expunged” from Thailand’s official history.

“What has happened in recent years, and especially since succession in 2016, has been an effort to roll back memories of 1932 – broader than Pridi himself – and to re-establish royal control of areas of Bangkok around the Dusit palace as a ‘royal precinct,’” he said.

No visitor to Thailand can escape the feeling that they’re being watched. Rising above the boulevards of Bangkok, hanging from the walls of Chiang Mai, the face of Thailand’s King Maha Vajiralongkorn stares down at his subjects. It is this face, repeated on every street corner, that serves as a reminder of Thailand’s long and bitter fight to fill its public spaces with images of the people who have shaped the course of the nation’s history – although not always for the better.

“There’s been a monument war, if you like,” Ungpakorn said. “After the sixth of October 1976 bloodbath, which was actually the ruling class hitting back against the rising socialist and communist movement within Thailand, after the defeat of the left on the sixth of October, they built a monument to Prajadhipok, Rama VII, outside parliament.”

This statue of the Kingdom’s last absolute monarch, erected not long after state security forces and far-right royalist paramilitaries raped, murdered and lynched scores of left-wing student protesters on the grounds of Bangkok’s Thammasat University, is a stark reminder of the constant struggle to rewrite Thai history to twist the revolution from democratic revolt to royalist largesse.

“I mean he was the king who had to be overthrown in order to have a parliament!” Ungpakorn said. “But that is something that really shows their imposition of their version of history. Growing up in Thailand and learning history, we were taught Prajadhipok gave democracy to Thailand. School students are taught that he is the father of democracy. So you have these competing narratives.”

Long accused by right-wing royalists within the military as an ardent communist, Pridi proposed a sweeping programme of public ownership, land reform and universal basic income intended to give millions of poor farmers the right to reap the rewards of their work. Horrified, the palace united with members of the People’s Party’s conservative faction to shut down both the parliament and judiciary, driving Pridi into exile for more than a year.

For Ungpakorn, it is a familiar pattern – and one he sees repeated in the 2006 military overthrow of Thaksin, whose policies of healthcare and rice subsidies for the nation’s impoverished farmers infuriated the moneyed Bangkok establishment.

“I think there are similarities,” he said. “Of course Thaksin was not a socialist in any way, shape or form. Pridi Banomyong was a socialist. But nevertheless, the conservative elites didn’t like the fact that he wanted to improve the lives of ordinary people, and that’s really a fundamental reason why he was overthrown and his political parties were overthrown – he won their hearts and minds, and the conservatives couldn’t compete with that. So there is a thread there, where whenever people have tried to do something for the poor or decrease inequality, then the conservative elites have struck back.”

Despite his return from exile and subsequent election, Pridi proved no exception. Although his fight against Imperial Japanese domination at the head of the Free Thai Movement during World War II earned him the support of the people, the newly minted prime minister continued to face opposition from the palace and its supporters. When the young king Ananda Mahidol was found shot dead in his room – a mystery that endures to this day – Pridi’s staunch republican reputation was used by his rivals to paint him as a conspirator in the monarch’s death. Pursued by the military that would soon seize total power in a coup, Pridi was once again forced to flee the country.

Ungpakorn said it is essential for Thailand’s true history of democratic struggle to supersede the narrative forged by the palace and its backers in the military and wealthy urban elite.

“History is actually about contesting politics in the here and now,” he said. “Throughout the world, people contest history and try to impose their version of history. So the ruling class will tend to downplay the role of social movements and struggles from below.”

For Hewison, the future of Thailand’s embattled pro-democracy forces looks uncertain.

“Thailand has seen several revolts against military domination,” he said. “It could happen again. However, the middle class has seemingly abandoned electoral democracy and embraced dictatorship. With no links to the past, it is difficult to advance a non-royal vision of democratic reform.”

With the long-promised elections set for next February, the absence from the nation’s textbooks and popular history of Pridi Banomyong and the social movements that have pushed for democracy in Thailand is a glaring one – one that may prove fatal in undermining the power of the people to push back against military dictatorship.

“It’s important in terms of struggling against the conservative mainstream ideas,” said Ungpakorn. “If you don’t shine a light on the role of Pridi, if you don’t shine a light on the 1932 revolution, if you don’t shine a light on the rising communist and socialist movement in the 1970s, if you don’t shine a light on the mass movements that have overthrown the military in 1973 and in 1992 and the red shirts, then you weaken the ideological advantage for the pro-democracy movement. So it’s very important that these things are not forgotten.”

[jrt-fmp-year1]

The Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker

Discussing the game

Discussing boat and figurehead 

The boat from The Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker seems to be a stylised, single sail wood boat. Though I am not a fan of using a similar style in my own game, I do like the smaller boat idea, I think this makes the boat more personal and the “players” rather than just another boat in the game. 

The game also features a design on the sail. It did not occur to me to create a design for the sail but I don’t think I am going to use this for the players ship as I like the red, fin like sails. Though a design could be used differentiate between different factions or groups in the game. I think this would fit in the game. Maybe like traders or merchants traveling could have a symbol plastered on their sail to indicate to the player that these are generally peaceful boat but could be harbouring something of value. The player can decide whether they want to attack the weak offensively ship or let it past. 

I don’t know if this is the case in the game but in the image below, it looks like the figurehead is actually alive. I think this is a really cool idea and can give personality to my games own ships. Could even have a front attack that the player can use. 

Example of a real figurehead:

Random Encounters

At any random point of the player travelling the player can get attacked by giant octopus creatures. My game uses the same idea of the player randomly getting attacked by giant creatures. I think having the player in a smaller boat really exaggerates the size of these monsters and creates a battle the player has to use brains and tactics to overcome this large obstacle. 

[swordoforion]

Orion Digest №23 — A Personal Anecdote

What has shaped history more than the power of belief? Everywhere I go throughout my nation, I see the signs, the echoes of one man who walked through the desert and preached his values thousands of years ago, the symbol of his punishment plastered on the very soul of many cultures worldwide. Similarly, the spirit of colonial revolution remains alive in the hearts of the citizens of the U.S., and basic symbols and figures of a long bygone war are nearly mythic in the modern world.

I have not always been interested in the matters of the world at large. As a child, it was all so much bigger than me, and I was concerned with the fictional — cartoons and video games and books, things that were simple. The Internet and its subsequent culture grew around me with age, and soon, the world felt smaller and smaller. I met and talked to people from faraway lands, found that my experience was but a drop in the vast ocean of humanity — only a small part, yet not altogether different from the rest. There are things that we share so fundamentally human, as wide as the divides between us may seem.

But as I grew older and my world grew smaller, the problems that only adults talked about became more and more evident. My friends weren’t concerned with gathering sticks and playing tag; they started talking more and more about realistic, terrifying problems. Elections caused them to feel dread, news stories about other nations incited passion within them, and pollution became less of a thing warned against on television and more of a very real threat. Admittedly, I found these things at first strange and confusing — this wasn’t the world I knew, and they didn’t seem to affect me in the slightest. It was upsetting to think about the world as a scary and flawed place when I could easily continue to escape into fiction.

But time proves the greatest bringer of sobriety, and this nonchalant, carefree attitude faded over time. What was annoyance at a constant complaint among my friends became an acceptance and understanding, and I witnessed the things they warned against become very real, very observable. To be more specific, the U.S. election of 2016 was the first time in my life that politics seemed to matter, that the constant debate and deliberation meant something, and impacted so many people. I witnessed half of the people in my life cheering on the election of Trump with thunderous applause; and the other half overtaken with fear at what might happen next, and with more of an awareness, I saw that these events led to action.

Since 2016, the world has obviously changed in many ways, often for the worse, and as each wave of disasters hit, I started to take in a bit more, to go deeper into this world I had ignored for so long. It had always been easy and convenient to ignore politics and flaws — to face them head on would be to realize how close we really are to the edge, all the advantages I enjoy without appreciation, and how my life has been built on the backs of so many less fortunate throughout history. However, by the time I came of age, ignorance had no longer become the easy option.

I had progressed past ignorance of politics, and had come to the conclusion that the world was flawed, that I had privilege because of what I looked like, who I was, and the environment I grew up in, and that there was really nothing I could do in the face of all that. I could understand and talk about these issues, I could participate whenever given the chance, but the world was really ruled by business owners, politicians, royalty, powerful factions far beyond the scope of my life, and all I could do was accept this and hope the odds shook out in the world’s favor. It was all I could do at that point to try and reckon with my place in the world, and how I could sleep at night knowing full well the hell others went through every day.

Years went by, the world worsened. Hurricanes and fires rocked my nation, innocent people were gunned down whether because of improper distribution of firearms or the irresponsibility of law enforcement, and constant war continued to plague innocent civilians, who fled their homes only to be caged and hated elsewhere. 4 years after the initial election, a virus from a lab spread across the globe, shutting down much of society for what could be 2 years. The idea of crossing our fingers and hoping things would get better hardly did, as the rich got richer and superpowers grew more embittered. The apocalypse edges closer, and much of our effort is spent persecuting celebrities over old quotes; a meaningless crusade for the illusion of change.

As I lay purposeless within the many months of quarantine, I began to ponder the rest of my life. Because I feared for the longest time ever making my more progressive opinions known to a largely conservative family, I had never imagined doing or saying anything about the state of the world outside of hushed circles of friends, in private messages, in dark rooms. But with all the time in the world to reflect, I began to ask myself what indeed I had planned to do with my life. You really only get one go-around on Earth, one life to live, before your time is up, and the chance to do anything is lost forever. As far as I knew, there was nothing before and nothing after, and anything I did not do voluntarily would be a chance wasted in life.

My thoughts drifted to grand things, to the loftiest of ambitions. To change the world, to truly leave an impact was something I thought above me, something I could never do. But what use was thinking I couldn’t do something? As difficult as it was to do, I had never tried it before, and I didn’t know for sure that I couldn’t do it. And if I never tried, then I would have gone through life simply telling myself I had limits without ever knowing. All these things I never ventured to attempt were simply things I had convinced myself I was incapable of. But what if I took a chance in life? What if I stopped fearing the unknown, and left escapist fantasy and complacency behind?

COVID-19 brought me to the realization that if I told myself that because of who I was, and because the world was so large and ruled by people so powerful, I would never be able to bring about change in the world, and that the more people like me believed in this idea, the more set in stone the current order would be. The highest heights are only achievable because we have been told that they are nigh-unreachable; even if you are incapable of getting there, the effort itself is laudable, and on the chance you do succeed, you’ve made your mark.

The world, I realized, was getting worse, and that for all the fortune I received in life, I owed it to the world to try and save it. If I stopped believing that changing the world was audacious, and focused simply on trying to change it, maybe I could be successful. I started writing, seeking out others who had similar ideas, trying to formulate a solid set of ideas about how the world could be saved, how we can move forward from here. And that led me to the most important part — as far as I can possibly go, as much as I can possibly do to help the world, I cannot do it alone. And so, I sought to find others, to create something greater than myself, bigger than me.

As I said in the beginning, our world has been dramatically influenced before by belief, and not just in Christianity. Major world religions — Buddhism, Islam, Hinduism; nationalistic identity and pride — it’s driven people in the billions to wage wars, to find love, to travel great journeys, and to devote their lives to higher callings. Belief is a powerful thing, because it’s what shakes people out of a groove and into action. Regardless of what people think of me, regardless of whether or not I succeed, and if what I do builds anything that lasts, regardless of who I am and where I come from, I believe that the world is malleable, that I can at least set a stone rolling down the path that may one day loose a boulder that knocks it all into place.

Orion is the culmination of what I hope and believe in. An organization of those with the will to shape history, to move us off the course we’re headed on, by reminding the people of the world that the power is in their hands. I labored for far too long under the delusion that the workings of politics were something I could never reach, that I was powerless, that I was just one person. But every person is an integral part of this world, and when we realize what we can do and how we can go about doing it, the goals that seemed unachievable move within reach.

I know that this essay was a departure from my usual style of writing, but I wanted to touch on what motivated me to found Orion, and what motivates me to aim higher in everything I do. I firmly believe that either I, or the things I leave behind, can make a difference, instead of allowing my fear to make me an accessory to a destructive pattern. And if you are reading this, and you have a desire to make a change for the better, the first step is believing.

- DKTC FL

[culinarystrategist]

▲

Symbol Meme (Closed)

@loqis

▲  five times my muse thought about kissing yours, and the one time they did.

i.

Without fail, each and every time Ignis starts to think that Loqi is becoming less of an insufferable little shit, he’s almost immediately proven wrong. There’s simply no end to the other man’s conceit and Ignis would dearly love to wipe that smug little smirk off Loqi’s face for once and for all. Whenever he finds himself upon on the receiving end of one of Loqi’s diatribes on how the Empire is vastly superior to Lucis, or how it’s little wonder that one of Insomnia’s own has turned against them, Ignis allows his mind to wander to all the myriad ways he could put a stop to the grandstanding. A fist to the face would be most effective. Cracking Loqi in the jaw would not only shut him up, but would prove enormously satisfying. Or Ignis could simply walk away, mid-rant. Another thought comes to him; he could put Loqi’s mouth to better use, say with a kiss…

If Loqi notices the sudden tint of redness of Ignis’ cheeks, it doesn’t deter him from his discourse, but it does allow for Ignis to press the back of his hand to his forehead and offer up the weak excuse that he thinks he may be coming down with a fever. Without questioning it, Loqi waves him off, not willing to potentially catch whatever Lucian germs Ignis might be carrying.

ii.

This is running the risk of becoming a habit…

For the fourth week in a row, Loqi has invited himself over to Ignis’ apartment for dinner, with apparently very little care whether Ignis wishes to have a guest of not. Indeed, Loqi seems to view it as some sort of right of his position, that he can impose himself upon the Lucian traitor whenever he wishes. In all honesty, Ignis lacks the will to argue; Loqi can be surprisingly pleasant company when he’s not being an insufferable little shit.

At least this time, Loqi hasn’t come empty handed, thrusting a bottle of Merlot at Ignis as he walks into the apartment. He doesn’t have to be asked to remove his footwear any more, obediently taking off his boots and slipping on the pair of guest slippers Ignis may have especially bought for such an occasion. Despite his regular remark that Ignis had better not be trying to poison him, Loqi hangs around the kitchen while the meal is being cooked, peering around Ignis’ body to see what’s in the pots and pans. Since the initial dinner of meatballs had gone down so well, Ignis has elected to repeat the meal and Loqi grabs a spoon from the drawer to ‘taste test’ the sauce - last time, he claims, it lacked salt. This time, he says, it’s better.

“You have a little-” Motioning with his finger, Ignis points to the corner of Loqi’s mouth, where a minute dribble of cream is left behind. For a fraction of a second, he contemplates cleaning it off with his tongue, before thinking better of it and reaching out to swipe away the smear with his thumb instead.

iii.

Ardyn might be the one testing Ignis’ combat skills, but Loqi is the one testing his patience. There have been rumours of a rebellious faction in the heart of Gralea, the Empire’s capital city, and Ignis and Loqi have been sent to investigate and quell any potential uprising. Although this is a joint mission, with responsibility for its success or failure resting squarely on both sets of shoulders, Loqi believes himself in charge and Ignis is growing rather sick of this imposed hierarchy. He is the brains of this operation, not the flunky, and most certainly not the sidekick.

Ignis has no doubt that Loqi is highly proficient, but unfortunately, the sentiment isn’t reciprocated and that is causing a problem because instead of trusting Ignis to play his part, Loqi tries to take it all on himself. Following a couple of suspected insurgents, Loqi states his intention to take them both down and instructs Ignis to hang back. Ignis cannot help himself.

“Why must you always be such an insufferable little shit?” The rhetorical question is murmured a little louder than intended, resulting in Loqi swiftly spinning around to look at Ignis with unbridled fury.

“Maybe if you learned how to follow the orders of your superiors,” Loqi started, jabbing a finger towards Ignis’ chest. “I wouldn’t need to-”

A shout halted Loqi in his tracks; he’d managed to attract the attention of the two men, who were quickly tracing their steps back to where Loqi and Ignis stood, bickering. Ignis had to do something - he had to make it look as though they were two random strangers, on the street, to throw off suspicion. In the movies, a situation like this was usually resolved by a kiss, and while that might have been something Ignis would like to do, he thought it wiser to throw a punch instead.

iv.

This is definitely becoming a habit. Ignis has spent the past few months in Lucis, carrying out Ardyn’s work, and now that he’s back, Loqi has - unsurprisingly - invited himself over for dinner. There’s a distinct lack of food in the apartment, because Ignis hasn’t had the opportunity to go shopping yet, but he does what he can with what he has. An improvised meal of dried pasta, cooked with a sauce made from canned tomatoes, dried herbs and some potted meat will just have to suffice. It’s not to his usual standard, but it smells appetising and is relatively tasty.

Amazingly, Loqi asks for seconds. It seems that even storecupboard cooking is preferable to Loqi’s usual supply of meals and Ignis offers what remains of the dish so Loqi can take it home and heat it up later. As they sit back after eating to catch up on the news, the atmosphere is amicable. For the time being, Loqi keeps his usual barbs and digs to himself and chats with Ignis about his journey, about what he’s missed while he was gone, and about the world in general. Either Loqi has mellowed while Ignis was away, or their relationship has transcended to something resembling friendship.

Towards the end of the night, both are lethargic from the food and the wine, and they sit close together on the couch so Ignis can show Loqi the photos he took from the train. The sight of snowy landscapes brings a smile to Loqi’s face and Ignis is reminded of why he finds the man so attractive. There’s a moment when Loqi leans in close enough for Ignis to smell the residual aroma of his shampoo and there’s a brief moment when he wants to throw caution to the wind and pull Loqi in for a kiss.

“I’m sorry to cut our evening short,” he says, instead. “But my journey has left me exhausted and I must turn in for the night.”

v.

It’s most unlike Loqi to miss an engagement. The reason, Ignis discovers, is a high fever and cold sweats. Lying in his bed, hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks a deep, ruddy red, Loqi looks almost childlike in the grip of sickness. He doesn’t argue when Ignis wipes his face with a cool, damp cloth, nor does he protest when Ignis offers to spoon-feed him some soup.

Full of worry and concern, Ignis remains at Loqi’s side while he sleeps. It’s a fitful sleep, broken by bouts of hacking coughs and wheezing. It’s just a cold, Ignis knows, but it’s a bad one, and for all his faults, Loqi is someone Ignis has come to view as a friend. Certainly, he’s as close to a friend as Ignis can have in a place like Gralea, and for that reason, Ignis will not leave him to suffer alone.

After one particularly bad coughing fit, Ignis fills a bowl with hot water and drops in a couple of menthol crystals, then holds the bowl for Loqi to inhale the vapours. It seems to do the trick of clearing his passages long enough to allow him to drop off again. Before he takes away the bowl to clean it and put it back where he found it, Ignis bows over Loqi to brush a few strands of hair away from his eyes. It’s almost instinctive, the urge to press a kiss to that damp, sweaty brow. But with Loqi asleep, it would be unforgivably invasive, so Ignis suppresses the urge.

vi.

Winter is bitter in Gralea. A cruel wind blows through the streets, carrying with it rain and sleet which stings Ignis’ face. Wrapped up in a thick overcoat, woollen scarf and thermal gloves, he makes his way to his apartment. It’s not often that he feels homesick for Insomnia, but this is one of those occasions. The winters aren’t nearly so bad in Lucis and he almost wishes he was there right now. Almost, but not quite, because this is Friday and on Fridays, Loqi comes over for dinner and video games. It’s a long-standing tradition, and one Ignis wouldn’t break for anything.

When he gets home, he finds the door is already unlocked and he can hear the music from their favourite fighting game coming from the living room. He’d regret having given Loqi a key if not for the fact that he can feel the heat as soon as he walks in - Loqi has never been shy about turning up the thermostat. Hanging up his coat and removing the rest of his outdoors wear, he calls a cheerful greeting to his guest, then heads straight for the kitchen to make a start on cooking.

After dinner, and without any prompting, Loqi washes the dishes while Ignis puts the leftovers into containers for Loqi to take away with him. It’s an oddly domestic scene, especially with Loqi wearing Ignis’ apron to keep his clothes clean of dirty dishwater. The pleasant harmony of the scene is disrupted by a loud - and colourful - curse from Loqi, and Ignis hurries to his side to find him cupping his finger, which drips blood into the sink.

“I’ve warned you before that those knives are very sharp,” he says, fetching the first aid kit out of the drawer to see to the wound. Once it’s cleaned and covered with a dressing, Ignis lifts Loki’s hand and gently kisses the injured finger.

“You’ll live.”

[jugandbettsdetectiveagency]

The Serpent and The Swan - Ch.8

My plan went a little further in this chapter originally but I’ve split it up so you’re not waiting as long for an update this time. I promise next chapter is filled with Betty and Jughead happiness, in the midst of all the drama!

Ch.1 / Ch.2 / Ch. 3 / Ch.4 / Ch.5 / Ch. 6 / Ch.7 / Read on AO3

Jughead ached all over. His entire body felt sore and mistreated, and that was probably because it had been.

He should have known something like this would happen. All the hints his father had been dropping, telling him to wait and see. He’d waited, he saw, and then he’d had an entire cavern’s worth of rocks dropped on top of him, pinning him helplessly to the ground while everything else crumbled around his useless body.

Betty. Her name echoed relentlessly through his throbbing head as his mind tried to swim back into consciousness.

What he wouldn’t have given to be able to see her face in that moment, and not just in the hazy, unfocused images his subconscious was producing as he found a weight pulling him back into the murky depths of sleep. He wanted to be able to hear her delicate laugh, to feel the warmth from her shy smile pouring over his face as she looked up at him with bashful eyes. Those wide eyes – he’d never stop getting lost in their impossible depths, full of every emotion he didn’t think he was capable of being shown, let alone reciprocating. Jughead had only had the honour of feeling her soft, inviting lips against his own once, and it was a memory he was sure he’d carry with him until his dying day, no matter how far or soon that day might be.

He’d been so distant from her, despite the gaping chasm it caused to open up in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole. The sight of her in his doorway, those eyes like shattered sea glass as she begged for him to open up, to let her in, in every sense of the words, haunted him even now. From the moment Queen Alice had announced the death of the King he knew. The last little part of him that had been clinging to the notion that Betty’s father’s illness was mere coincidence buckled and fell, leaving only the doubtless knowledge that FP had been involved somehow. He wanted to have faith in his father, longed for it even. But he’d wished for things before and knew that the universe was never so giving.

He groaned as whatever carriage he was in juddered to a stop, a harsh wind chilling him as soon as the door was wrenched open and he was shaken roughly.

“Come on, get up,” a gruff voice ordered, and Jughead put every last ounce of effort into opening his eyelids. It took a minute for him to adjust, but he could see one of his father’s lackeys waiting for him to move, and the flickering, orange glow of firelight just over his shoulder. “We don’t have all night,” he barked when Jughead still hadn’t made to move.

He stumbled out on weak legs, half dragged, half falling towards the small house in front of them, signs of life visible from within.

“Here,” the man demanded, pushing on Jughead’s shoulders to get him to sink into the wooden chair in the centre of the room. He put up no fight as he felt his arms being tugged behind him, coarse rope scratching at the soft skin of his wrists as they were bound behind him. Every instinct within him called out to struggle, but the energy to do so could not be summoned. The back of his head thumped rhythmically, matching the beat of his heart pumping blood around his limp body, and he vaguely recalled the feeling of glass shattering with his impact before the world succumbed to inky darkness.

“What…” Jughead tried to talk but all that came out was a wisp of a breath, his throat dry and raspy. He tried again. “What’s going on? Where are we?” he croaked, trying to get his eyes to focus on something, anything while they attempted to roll back into his head. His gaze landed on something in front of the fireplace, cast into shadow by the roaring flames, and he wished he hadn’t bothered.

There, in a crumpled heap, lay his father. His eyes went wide, dry lips dropping open to release a whoosh of air. His muscles went rigid as everything but FP’s lifeless form faded away. In the dim lighting Jughead could see the unnatural angle of his arm as it folded over his stomach, the cuts and bruises strewn across his worn, aged skin, including the river of dried blood running down the side of his face, stemming from the open wound at his temple.

“Is he…?” Jughead whispered, unable to tear his eyes away.

“Dead? Not quite,” came a voice from over his shoulder, a voice he recognised. It was then that he noticed the shallow movements of FP’s chest, rising and falling with some difficulty, but definitely steady and consistent. A sharp pain erupted behind Jughead’s forehead as he tried to look for the voice’s owner, emitting a low grunt as he grit his teeth in an effort not to cry out. “Comfortable, little snakelet?” Mustang sauntered into view, an obnoxious sneer plastered across his features.

“Where’s my sister?!” he yelled, searching the room for any sign of her.

“She should just be arriving home by now, she’s being taken care of.” The words didn’t offer him any comfort, unsurprisingly.

“What are you doing?” Jughead grunted, tugging against his restraints as he felt the spinning of the room start to subside, his strength growing.

“Ahh, the young prince is in the dark. Been spending too much time with that Swan bitch of yours, have you?” Mustang sneered. Jughead felt his blood boil at the mention of Betty, lunging for the man in front of him only to be stopped by the bonds that held him fast. “I have to say, we didn’t plan for the two of you to actually fall for each other. Guess you must have more charm than we realised,” he laughed heartily, circling Jughead the way predator hunts prey. It was a common analogy whenever someone dealt with the Serpents; people weren’t equals to them, they were objects to be conquered.

“So, what was the plan?” Jughead tried to ask calmly, tilting his head as he looked up at Mustang questioningly. “Get an in, kill the King, and then what? Get hunted for murder. You weren’t exactly subtle,” he spit, upper lip pulling back over his teeth in distaste.

Mustang just continued to grin, something unsettling beginning to press on Jughead’s chest until he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. He strolled lazily over to FP, crouching on the toes of his boots as he gripped the unconscious man beneath the chin, fingers clearly pressing down on his airways. FP gurgled softly in his slumber.

“Nah, you see… That’s where this nice little scapegoat comes in,” Mustang murmured, jerking FP’s head up, lowering his face to hover over him. “There’s a benefit to having a useless piece of shit for a ruler. Easy to blame.” He looked back over to Jughead, teeth glinting in the firelight.

“Why? What do you get out of this?” Jughead asked, genuinely at a loss. Mustang stood up, running a calloused hand over his dirt-matted hair.

“You ask a lot of questions, kid,” he said, jabbing an accusing finger at him.

“Then answer some,” Jughead retorted, refusing to back down. That earned him a grim chuckle.

“You’ve got more balls than your father, I’ll give you that.” He pulled up a chair, twisting it so the back faced forwards and straddled the seat. “You see this?” He tugged up his already rolled sleeve, exposing the S-shaped serpent tattoo inked prominently on his forearm. It wasn’t unusual for those in close keeping with the court to brand themselves with such a symbol. Jughead was thankful that the matter wouldn’t be pushed until he reached eighteen, not rushing to mar himself with the mark of a place he hadn’t been proud of in a long time. Mustang’s fingers ran over the image, trailing pointedly over the scar running straight through the middle. It was long and white, winding distinctly through the body of the double headed serpent, end to end. The cut must have been deep. “This is the mark of the Wyrm. It binds us, keeps us together, and together we are sick of seeing some drunken coward run our homeland into the ground. It’s time for change and we’re here to see it through,” Mustang finished proudly. There were distinct mutterings erupting from the crowd, of agreement and solidarity for who Jughead assumed was their ‘leader’. He scoffed.

“So you kill the Swan King? Are you stupid? What does that get you? You’ve committed treason in not just one but two factions,” he said, nodding his head towards FP’s inanimate figure. “The High Council is going to have a field day sentencing you – all of you,” he shouted, casting his gaze around the room, straightening as much as he could in his chair.

“The High Council won’t be a problem,” Mustang grinned maliciously, tapping two fingers against his tattoo once more. Jughead’s nostrils flared as he understood the insinuation. Panic started to bubble in his throat. He willed it down, breathing steadily as he recalled the sensation of riding through the grounds of Castle Aeris with Betty on horseback, the summer breeze wrapping around them in a cloak of youthful abandonment. How was he meant to keep her safe tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere, like an animal in a cage? He didn’t even know how many days they’d been travelling to get here.  

“And what next? War? I’d like to see you try and get hold of enough resources to even get close to winning,” Jughead taunted. He knew the fastest way to get information out of Mustang would be to taunt him, to make him feel inadequate. It was working.

“It’s not that hard when you’ve got a backer,” he replied, all but flaunting his plan in the prince’s face. “And Clifford Blossom has been most accommodating.”

The Blossoms are in on this too, Jughead thought, mind racing. He thought back to all the visits that had brought Cheryl and her father to his home, King Clifford disappearing behind doors with his father to discuss any amount of unknown topics. Jughead knew he must not have done a very good job of hiding his horror because Mustang laughed freely.

“Not so smart now, are we?” he jeered. “Your father thought he was smart, too. All those meetings he took with King Clifford, talking about a union for the ‘strength and prosperity of our great factions’. Little did he know that union didn’t involve him, not in the slightest. You were never supposed to marry that perfect princess, you know? Your engagement to Princess Cheryl has been in the works for a long time. The plan just took a little detour, a way into the Swan’s nest so they could be attacked from the inside.

“FP just thought they were going to clean ‘em out, take them down by ridding them of their riches. He couldn’t wait; turns out he had a bit of grudge against their Queen for leaving him high and dry some years back.” Jughead’s brow furrowed. “He basically did all the work for us! All we had to do was swap the herb he was going to use to weaken the King for a slow working poison and that was it – one dead King. It was almost too easy,” Mustang joked. Jughead bristled; despite their less than favourable relationship, hearing these men talk about using his father this way sickened him to his stomach, almost as much as the thought of the bloodshed that was inevitably to come did. “Once King Clifford comes to power we’re going to get everything he promised us. Power beyond anything you could imagine,” Mustang bragged.

“They won’t go down without a fight,” Jughead tried, feeling himself losing with every second passing.

“Then a fight is what they’ll get,” Mustang retorted.

“I won’t marry Cheryl.” It was a last ditch attempt, said around a growing lump in his throat, words sounding thick and feeble even to his own ears.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll have a choice, snakelet. Deal’s done.” He was looming over Jughead now, blocking all light from his vision as he towered over the prince, the victor taunting his conquest.

The room was silent save the bursting and crackling of firewood. Jughead had nothing left to say, no defences left to use. It was over.

He jumped at the sudden harsh rapping against the outside door, every man in the room reaching for their weapons as they took on defensive stances. Mustang gestured for one of them to go and open the door with a jerk of his head, readying his sword for the intruder. Jughead craned his neck, hoping beyond hope that his out was waiting just beyond the slatted wood. The door swung open, the lithe figure standing there bathed in moonlight.

“Hello, gentlemen. Thanks for waiting for me,” Joaquin said breezily, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Mustang strode over to him, placing the tip of his blade pointedly at the base of the man’s throat.

“We didn’t know where your loyalties lie,” he said suspiciously, sizing him up. Joaquin’s expression remained unfazed, but Jughead was sure he could make out just a hint of wariness in the depths of his friend’s eyes as he surveyed the room, resting on Jughead for no more than a second. He blinked and it was gone, settling back into his usual stoicism.

“I place my trust in whatever is best for my faction,” he said firmly. “And if that no longer includes our King then far be it for me to stop whoever tries to rectify that fact.” He spoke with a calm measure that almost had Jughead believing him. Almost…

Mustang peered at him for a moment longer, eyes searching his face thoroughly. He must have been satisfied with what he found for a moment later he lowered his sword, nodding quickly while stepping back to let Joaquin inside.

“And I can help,” Joaquin continued, placing his back to Jughead, hands clasped behind him. “I was able to hear some of what they are planning to do after you left the castle. No one pays much mind a servant,” he reminded them. A sly smile slipped onto Mustang’s face. He clapped Joaquin approvingly on his shoulder, imploring him to share what he knew.

But Jughead wasn’t concerned with that, barely noticing the interaction. His gaze was focused solely on Joaquin’s hands, more specifically his upturned palm. He’d unfurled his fingers slowly, the movement catching Jughead’s attention, and there, nestled in the palm, was a shaky but unmistakable drawing of a rose.

Jughead’s heart stopped before picking up again in double time. Betty, it could only mean Betty. Was she here? She was foolish, so foolish, if she was – she could get hurt? Jughead felt a swell of affection despite his worries, the thought of her glowing presence so close by making his head spin all over again. He could practically feel her warm skin against his hands, smell her sweet, floral scent. He tried to keep his reaction minimal, allowing the conversations around him to filter back in.

“So, go on. Tell us what they’re going to try,” Mustang said excitedly, almost bouncing on his feet with the idea that he’d have even more advantage over the enemy. Joaquin sent a look over his shoulder, raising one eyebrow at Jughead. Jughead nodded subtly in return and Joaquin closed his fist.

“Perhaps we should do it out of earshot of certain prisoners. Just in case,” he suggested smoothly. Mustang glanced over at Jughead as if he’d forgotten he was even there in all his excitement.

“Fuck, yeah you’re right,” he agreed, looking around the room.

“Allow me,” Joaquin offered, moving swiftly over to untie Jughead and haul him up, gripping his arms a little on the uncomfortable side of tight, keeping up the façade. He made a show of retying Jughead’s wrists, and Jughead could feel the give in the new knot that wasn’t there before. Joaquin shoved him over to the far side of the room, opening the door there and pushing him through.

“The window,” he mouthed to Jughead before slamming the door and plunging him into darkness.

Jughead spun round, wrenching his hands free the first second he could, using his fingers to search along the walls. There was just barely a sliver of moonlight pouring through the cracks in the shutters and he fumbled for a moment before pulling them open.

Not two seconds after he’d got the window open a face appeared and Jughead was breathless.

He didn’t know how many days it had been since they’d last seen each other but he knew that it was too many, regardless. She was just as beautiful as he had remembered her to be, more so, the images his fogged brain had conjured up not doing her elegance justice. Her golden hair was wild and windswept, eyes bright and frantic as she gripped at the windowsill, finding his face in the darkness.

“Juggie,” she breathed, and all other thoughts left him.

She reached for him, pulling herself over the ledge by her hands on the back of her neck, her fingers slipping into his hair as she crushed her lips to his. He wondered briefly if they’d ever slow down, be able to explore and taste one anther unhurriedly, without the overwhelming desire to take as much as the other was willing to give. He’d give everything if it meant never having to be parted from her.

Their lips found a sweet rhythm, pushing and pulling in a frenzied dance until they were both without breath, gasping into one another’s mouths without restraint.

“I’m sorry, Betty,” he panted against her mouth, bringing his hands up to cradle her flushed cheeks, feeling damp trails against his fingertips. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I just thought my father…” He couldn’t resist dipping in for one more kiss, pressing against her with a bruising passion, communicating every apology he didn’t have the breath left to say.

“It’s okay,” she chanted, over and over, soothing him gently. “I understand it’s okay.” Her fingers didn’t stop combing through his hair, pulling him back from the brink.

“Betty, it’s bad. What they’re planning… I’m not sure if we can fight it alone,” he worried, tracing every last detail of her in case…

Just in case.

The sea of jade in her eyes solidified with a steely resolve that he had never witnessed before, sending shivers branching out across his shoulders and down the expanse of his back.

“We’ve got to try, Jughead. We can do nothing but try,” she affirmed, eyes darting over his shoulder at the sudden noise from the other room. “Come on, we have to leave quickly,” she whispered hurriedly, looping her hands around his arms to pull him through the window.

“Where are we?” Jughead asked in a whisper as they ran away from the building, unfamiliar with his surroundings.

“About three days ride south of the castle,” she informed him, securing the saddle of the white and grey horse tied under a covering of nearby trees, hushing her when she started to whinny softly. Jughead smirked.

“I see my lessons have paid off,” he teased, folding his arms across his chest. Betty rolled her eyes, untying the rope with nimble fingers.

“You can congratulate yourself later,” she huffed, an affectionate smile accompanying her words. “Climb up,” she instructed.

Jughead’s couldn’t help but eye up the dark horse tied to the neighbouring tree, gaze flitting between it and the building they’d just left. Betty’s eyes flooded with sympathy, following his train of thought. She rubbed a comforting hand over his arm.

“We have to go, Jughead. Joaquin said he’d be fine, that he’d try and follow as soon as he could,” she assured him, but he could see the doubt in her eyes, feel the hesitancy in his own. With gritted teeth he nodded, mounting the horse, only looking back to help Betty up behind him. He had to have faith in his friend’s abilities. Either that or try and convince himself that the only way he could help him was to move forwards.

“The Blossom’s faction is to the west, the Andrew’s to the east. If we head towards the latter we can make it to Polly’s farm around noon,” she instructed him, pointing in the right direction before wrapping her arms securely around his waist. Jughead nodded, sighing as he relaxed against her touch, gripping the reins firmly to start their journey.

Betty filled him in on her mother’s story as they rode, understanding finally dawning on Jughead as he heard about their parent’s pasts. In return, he told her everything he knew about the Whyte Wyrm.

“The Blossoms,” Betty whispered against his shoulder. “Of course. Mother said she didn’t trust them, that they’d had a hand in bleeding our faction dry with bad investments for the past few years,” she told him dejectedly. He stroked reassuring fingers across the hands locked over his stomach, as much as he could reach in their current position. He felt her responding kiss against his shoulder blade.

“I think that’s where they must be heading next, and if they have more members of their group riding up from the south it would make sense for them to have a meeting point halfway between the two,” Jughead mused, referring to the house they’d departed from. Betty hummed in response.

“If they’re moving on to the Blossoms we only have so long to gather a resounding army. Castle Aeris is the weakest its ever been, its defences completely down.” She took a breath. “I say we head on to the Hounds as soon as we’ve rested at Polly’s, warned her what might be coming. They already have an alliance with the Ravens which makes them twice as strong as they already were and they should be willing to help us. No one wants a kingdom entirely run by Blossoms,” she muttered in disdain.

Jughead didn’t reply, too lost in thought. Something Betty had said struck a chord within him, manifesting itself as an idea that was rapidly growing by the second.

“Jughead, what is it?” Betty asked in concern, sensing something was off.

“What you said, about the Hounds already having an alliance… well, it makes sense. To try and strengthen the factions as much as possible while we still have the chance,” he began slowly. Betty saw the flush creeping up his cheeks as he spoke, confusion causing her brow to crease.

“What do you mean?” she asked again, stroking encouraging fingers across his stomach. He swallowed visibly.

“If there’s a legal tie between the Serpents and the Swans it might incite pause, make some people reconsider which side they want to fight for.” He took a breath. “We should get married, Betty. As soon as we reached your sister’s village I want to marry you. Partly for completely selfish reasons, like the fact that I’ve never been more certain of anything as I am that I want to live out the rest of my days by your side. And… with everything happening those days could be limited.” Betty frowned, not wanting him to talk that way but she didn’t interrupt him. “Like I said, the union might help us strategically but… also… I want you to be mine.”

Betty wished she could have seen his face more clearly as he spoke, desperate to see the way he would look at her with that unmistakable sincerity that she had grown so used to seeing emanate from him. She bit her lip against the grin that threatened to split her face, trying not to focus on the twinge of guilt that plucked at her stomach for feeling so happy and contented in their current circumstances. She just couldn’t help it.

“Yes,” she whispered, stretching up to plant a quick, promising kiss to any exposed skin she could reach. “Yes, Juggie, a thousand times,” she continued despite the emotion clogging her throat. His relieved laugh filled her with an overwhelming hope, that they could make it through this, and that they could be together. She clung to him tighter as they headed over the fields towards their next stop.