#prism the colorful tales

[limoncats]

redrew this meme that @sillybillybelle made with @kiraprismart's OCs

og under cut

[ladykailitha]

The Last Dragon Slayer Part 1

Hello! I know everyone was hoping to see more Himbo Witch today, but I wanted to also get this story out so you can enjoy this one too!

Summary: Fifty years ago, dragons who had once been scarce had suddenly taken over nearly every mountain, vale, valley, and cove. Humans, frightened of their new neighbors fashioned and trained dragon slayers to rid themselves of the beasts. Sir Steffan, once a prince, is the last of these slayers. He roams the land looking for the dragon that killed his mother on the day of his birth. He's starved, cold, and homeless when he gets the call from King Richard to rid the king of the black dragon Edgewraith.

~

Fifty years prior to the start of our story, dragons became more prevalent they had had in the many centuries prior. No one was sure what caused it; population boom, force migration, them choosing to come out of their caves as it were. Whatever the reason, the dragons kept their secrets.

But soon there wasn’t a mountain, valley, vale, or fen that didn’t house one of the great beasts. They could be found on every terrain and in every color conceivable. Black, red, gold, silver, diamond, sapphire, you name it and there was a dragon in that color. Some of them came in multiple colors, prism, tri-colors, and dual colors.

But like humans came in different strips of good, evil, and everything in between.

That is where the dragon slayers arose from. Men and women trained in the ways to kill creatures that flew, breathed fire, with large teeth, longer claws, and tough scales. They learned how combat all of them. Their secrets were as dark and as deep as the dragons themselves.

Twenty years prior to our story, Steffan of Harring’s Town was born to King Dylan and Queen Mairwen. Shortly after his birth a dragon tore through the castle killing and eating the midwife and the queen.

King Dylan was so overcome with grief and pain, gave his newborn son over to the first slayer he saw passing through his town. A man by the name Iago. He was a gruff man, worn down from many battles and living on the road.

But he took care of young Steffan, treated him like he would his own, trained him in the way of dragon slaying. Told him the story of his mother’s death over and over to drive home the fact that not all dragons are good and that it was their job to take out the ones who weren’t.

Then as things usually do, dragon slaying fell out of favor as the evil dragons were killed off, forced to leave or go into deep hiding the need for these slayers waned. Iago retired and tried to convince Steffan to do so as well, but Steffan burned with the desire to slay the beast that killed his mother.

And now we begin our tale.

King Richard had a problem. A large black dragon with red underscales, eyes, and claws had settled in the nearby mountain range and began to demand tribute in the form of three sheep a month and no one was allowed up to the mountain. They were to tie the sheep down at the base of the mountain and leave.

This angered King Richard. Yes, his kingdom was known for its sheep, numbering the hundreds, but those were his sheep and he wasn’t going to give so much as one sheep to the slobbering beast.

So he searched around, looking for a dragon slayer. Someone who could take this beast out and return his realm to the glory it was before the dragon filled the air with dark fire. But wherever he looked, he could not find a single dragon slayer. They were all dead or retired to live out their days with their remaining limbs.

All but one.

Sir Steffan of Harington’s Town having been knighted but some poor lord who castle had been sat upon by golden hide dragon with diamonds for eyes and claws. Half the town had been charred and smoking by the time the battle had ended, but most of the town folk had survived and they could rebuild.

So King Richard sent for this last dragon slayer. The last vestige of a dying breed. Once Sir Steffan has sloughed off this mortal coil, there would be no more. But King Richard didn’t care, he wanted the pest gone.

He almost turned the sullen creature away when it came knocking on the castle wall. Sir Steffan, no doubt once of a proud countenance and lithe body was now given away to rough life on the road and most certainly starvation. His eyes were sunken with dehydration and agony. His frame barely held up his armor. And his horse was in worst shape then he was.

King Richard wasn’t sure how the animal held up Sir Steffan’s weight sans armor let alone with. But he brought the knight in, gave him food, wine, a bath, and a place to stay the night. All night the king had his bards sing tales of the monstrous beast who demanded tribute of young maidens and fattened calves.

Sir Steffan nodded. Such was the way with these things. Oh not the dragon. He had already spoken to the townsfolk and they talked about the three sheep a month and the desire to be left alone. No, this was all about the greedy kings and lords wanting him to take out good dragons to steal their hoards.

He would take their payment and ride out of town, never to be seen again, leaving the bastards to tell their people why the coffers were drained to deal with a benevolent creature. But even those were becoming rare these days. And with him being the last dragon slayer, he would be all too easy to find.

So he drank the wine, ate the food, and slept in a warm bed for the first time in ages after having taken a bath in something that wasn’t bracken with sludge. He took his fee and stumbled his way to the top of the mountain.

“Edgewraith!” Sir Steffan called. “I name thee! Come out and face me, beast!” He banged on his shield with his sword a few times to make himself as loud as possible.

The creature that came out was exquisite. His body was long and lean with black glittering scales on top and blood red rubies adorned his underside from the top of his long neck all the way to the tip of his bespiked tail. His head had two horns that curled like that of a ram’s and his claws gleamed red as well. His crimson eyes flickered with anger as he breached the cave opening.

"How desperate King Richard must be," Edgewraith hissed, smoke and spark spilling from his mouth, “to send me you."

Sir Steffan threw his sword and shield to the ground and ripped off his helmet. “I am the last of my kind. Kill me and your kind will never be bothered again. All I ask is that you make it swift. I cannot ask for painless, I do not deserve such boon. Just post my head at the bottom of your mountain, great one, telling all those that dare oppose you that there are no more dragon slayers!”

Edgewraith opened his mouth to laugh at such a request when the knight promptly fainted. The dragon tilted his head to the side and gently scooped the fallen man up between his deadly claws.

Sir Steffan was alive, but barely breathing, so Edgewraith picked away at the armor, flinging the piece over his shoulder. The man looked worse out of the armor, because at least in the armor he had mass. The knight was barely a twig, his clothes hanging off of him as if they once fit, but too little food wasted the man to nothing.

All it would take was a flick of one of claws and Sir Steffan’s head would pop off like a cork on the bottle of wine. It would be done. The last dragon slayer would be dead.

But looking at the pitiful creature in his hand, Edgewraith couldn’t do it. There would be no honor, no joy in killing this man. So with a heavy sigh and cradling the knight close to his body, the dragon slipped back into the cave.

~

Steffan floated in and out of consciousness, barely long enough to drink and eat. Every night his bedding was changed and slowly he began to be aware of his surroundings. He was a much smaller cave then the entrance suggested. He had piles of silken blankets over him and he was propped up on many soft downy pillows.

He struggled to sit up when the most beautiful man came hurrying through the entrance. He had long wild curls that reached right above his collar bone. An angular face that was softened by the dimples in both of his cheeks. He was slender, but Steffancould tell that real strength was in his bones. His deep brown eyes almost seemed to glow red in the low light of the torches.

“Don’t sit up!” the man called, rushing to his side. “You’re not strong enough for that yet.”

Steffan looked up him with utter awe. “Is this heaven? You are far too beautiful to be of Hell.”

“You can’t be very old,” the man said with a hint of amusement coloring his tone, “if you think there aren’t some pretty vile people in the world that have all the looks and manners.”

Steffan blushed and ducked his head. “I am young to be fair, only twenty and you’re right I was being naive. So am I in Hell then? Does Hell truly hold such beauties?”

“I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell,” the man huffed, handing Steffan the bowl of soup and a spoon, “so it can’t be either. You live though the world believes you to be otherwise.”

Steffan took the soup and began eating. Then he was shoveling it in his mouth. It was so good. It had dumplings and mutton and even a few vegetables. He was almost done when he realized what the man said. “What do you mean? Do people think me dead?”

The man blushed and cleared his throat. “The dragon, Edgewraith has the ability to glamour things to look different. There was a skeleton from before he set up residence that he used to make it look like your head; had me paint the pretty sign that said the last dragon slayer was dead and word has already spread to the neighboring kingdoms.”

“Thank God!” Steffancried and began to sob.

The man got up on the bed and sat down next to him. He placed his hand on Steve’s knee and waited for the crying to slacken.

“Why are you so relieved to be dead?” the man asked gently.

Steffan explained that all throughout his childhood he was told that he was meant to slay the dragon that murdered his mother. That he had no other purpose in life. But at aged twenty, not having another skills that would make him useful for those lean times between bounties had left him broken and wishing for death.

“Do you wish a new name?” the man asked. “You can have any of them for your choosing.” He waved his arm to indicate the vastness of his choices.

But he shook his head. “Steffan is a common enough name that no one would connect Steffan the commoner and Sir Steffan the Dragon Slayer.”

“Fair enough, Steffan,” he said with a gentle smile, “I am Edwin. The dragon Edgewraith has gone hunting and won’t be back until night fall.”

“Edgewraith and Edwin,” Steffan said fondly, “my rescuers. You have my deepest gratitude and once I am better, I will be on my way.”

Edwin blushed. “You don’t have to leave, if you don’t want to. Edgewraith won’t hurt you and I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“If the rest of your cooking skills are anything like this stew,” Steffan said with a smile, “you’ll be hard pressed to get rid of me. I’ve eaten in some of the largest banquet halls of this country and let me tell you, they have nothing compared to this stew.”

Edwin didn’t think he could turn redder, but alas, he was proven wrong with that little complement. “Thank you. It’s not much only what the dragon can hunt and what I can trade in the village. But now that the Dragon Slayer is dead, we’ll be getting a supply of sheep each month which should help with the food situation.”

“Greedy men,” Steffan said sadly shaking his head. “I will never understand them in all my years why they just couldn’t give up what? Three dozen sheep a year? That’s nothing compared to the vast flocks I saw riding up to the castle.”

“Total.”

Steffan cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Edwin chuckled. “The dragon doesn’t eat all three of them in a month. Even for a beast of his size, that is a lot of meat to get through. No, he eats only one a month and the other twenty-four will be the basis for a new flock. That he will tend to himself so as to not bother the towns people for much of anything.”

“Three sheep a month for only an entire year?” Steffan blinked his surprise away. “I knew King Richard was an idiot but good God, that really takes the cake.”

Edwin smiled. “That he is.”

“What will he do now?” Steffan asked, picking at a loose thread on one of the blankets. “Now that there are no slayers to take care of his dragon problem.”

Edwin held up one finger and then left with Steffan’s empty bowl. A minute or so later, Steffan heard a tentative bleating.

Sure enough, Edwin came with a beautiful black sheep. “They have decided their best option would be to give me their black sheep.”

Steffan threw back his head and laughed for the first time in literal years.

~

Tag List: TEN SLOTS REMAINING

1- @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[pmamtraveller]

ARTHUR EDMUND GRIMSHAW - SPIRIT OF NIGHT, 1879

Spirit of Night is an exploration of iridescence, the light effect that the artist cherished most. Grimshaw repeatedly tested prisms to capture the experience of viewing colored light, incorporating these effects into this piece. His daughter, Elaine, wrote, ‘My father was always fascinated by colour-iridescence. He would study the prismatic range in the beveled mirrors of candelabra; and if we children found in the big garden a bit of old glass, oxidized by age and weather, we would proudly take it to him, to add to his collection a box which lay open on a table beside his easel'

At the time of Grimshaw’s birth in Leeds in 1836, his father initially worked as a policeman but eventually took a job on the fast-growing railways in the region, while his mother ran a grocery store. Atkinson emulated his father's career and, at 16 years old, began working as a clerk for the Great Northern Railway. He learned painting and engaged in his craft during his free time. He could discover samples of the newest styles, especially those of the pre-Raphaelites, at exhibitions organized by the Northern Society (located in Leeds) and study art history using the books available at Leeds Library, a collection open to all through subscription.

Fairies and fairy tales offered Victorian artists an accepted medium to delve into taboo themes like sex, nudity, violence, and even drug addiction, while the Victorian public eagerly embraced these imaginative visuals. This particular imagery offered the Victorians a means of escaping the material realities of the increasingly industrialized society surrounding them. As Christopher Wood states, we ‘tend to think of the Victorians as stern and moralistic, staring grimly out at us from early photographs, in their black top hats and frock coats. But Dickens was right in his perception that underneath that deceptively utilitarian surface, the Victorians yearned for some ‘great romance.’

[schizosupport]

Psychosis and Schizo Spec Flag Time!

My dear friends of the community! For a community in which so many of us have been called a freak at some point in life, we've had a distinct lack of a coherent freak flag to fly!

Well, no more. There's a new flag in town, and she's a beauty!

The flag is preceded by a number of other flags. @psychotic-pisces collected a number of them, and proposed yet more, here, and there have been other versions and attempts through the years. There can be many flags, and no flag is more right than another, but we did feel that our community might be in need of a simple yet recognisable flag, that would still be rich with symbolism. This is our proposal!

I shall refrain from waxing poetic about the elements of the flag, but the references are as follows:

The symbol used in this flag was proposed by @actuallyschizophrenic here, and has seen fair use in the psychotic and schizo spec communities around these parts.

The colour stripes in the background match the current flag most commonly used for disability pride.

The background is purple, because 70% of all previous proposed flags were purple, suggesting a cultural connection to the colour in our community.

The symbol sits upon a waxing silver-lavender moon, referencing not only tales of lunacy, but also the dichotomous nature of our illnesses, negative/positive symptoms and more.

Finally, the moon acts as a prism on the stripes, creating a disjointed feeling, that we associate with psychosis and disorganization, among other things.

The flag doesn't have a name, I think anyone in the community can call it what feels right. Schizotypy flag, psychosis flag, lunacy flag - you name it! I call it the lunacy flag, but I have provenly bad taste, so call it what feels right!

This flag was a collaborative effort in a community discord for schizo spec folk and psychotic people. There's no way I could have arrived at this design on my lonesome, and I'm forever grateful to our loving, creative, smart and awesome communities!!

Special thanks to a very cool, kind and talented person who goes by 'Orange' in the server, who created the vector file of the finalized flag, which can be found (on Google drive via tumblr) here!

And a userbox template bc why not..

Let's go fly our freak flag! 🧠🔥🎉

(License CCO 1.0 Universal - this flag can be used anywhere, credit is nice but it's not a requirement!)

Other formats, color annotated version and image description under the cut

Long format:

Square:

Version of the flag with names of each colour for accessibility:

Image ID of flag: A rectangular flag. The background is purple, and in the middle there's a circle. The circle looks like the moon, with one side in darkness. The moon is dark grey and light silver-grey lavender. On the moon is a symbol commonly associated with psychosis and the schizo spectrum in white. A beam of stripes cross behind the moon from each corner. The stripes are light green, light blue, light grey, yellow and light red. They are similar to the stripes on the disability flag. The beam shifts position behind the moon, so it is parallel above and below the moon, but not directly connected. End ID.

[bonefall]

Clanmew Masterpost

Clanmew is a constructed language made for Warrior Cats that I, @bonefall, run with my buddy @troutfur! I make the vocab and he does the grammar. I hope that this post will become a good, central place to keep links to everything we've done so far.

CURRENT VERSION: 1.0 LAST UPDATE: 6/3/2023

Clanmew is an OSV-order language, made with the sounds cats make in mind. "Base Clanmew" is built around the Clan Culture updates of the Better Bones AU, which means it is made with the ecology of southwestern Northern England in mind and only contains words for plants and animals found there. It also has phrases for cooking and crafting.

(specific regions modeled: Lancashire, Chester, Manchester, Merseyside, Clwydd is modeled for river biomes specifically)

You are free to use it for your own projects! We encourage you to consider how this language would evolve in your Clan's history, and add or remove words to make a dialect that reflects the culture's feelings and needs.

THE BASICS:

Everything you need to know for basic structure is in CLANMEW 101. Start here.

We have a constantly updating LEXICON of all the words we have made so far.

Have you made a dialect? Let me know and I can link you here so others can see what you're doing with it!

Below the cut:

In-universe information; How Clanmew evolved linguistically

"Expansion Pack" posts where I discuss etymology

Pronunciation stuff (until I make that IPA chart I keep promising)

Working translations; Names, parables, OC submissions

Dialect submissions (These are manned by other people!)

Historical Trivia

The linguistic evolution of Clanmew from Old Tribemew and Parkmew

Animals are named for the sounds they make.

How pronouns for objects change based on how the speaker feels about it.

More, using human examples

there is a secret post about cursing but you have to find that on your own ;)

Through Time Travel Shenanigans, Hollyleaf's name evolves into the word "Scourge"

The Clanmew Play-by-Play of that

The word for Everything

How hard is it for speakers of the other in-universe languages to pick up Clanmew?

On nicknames!

Squirrelpaw and Crowfoot discover corn

The names of the three ideologies... also thistles.

The Invalid Five

Expansion Packs

Colors

Directions, way-finding

Spirituality terms

Rocks

Beetles

Follow up: some plant parts

Patch (pattern) vs Patch (plants)

Den, camp, territory, construction

The two violets

Shapes of flowers

Volume

Generic terms

Rollypollies and centipedes

Insults

Rain... because this is England

The Clan Clock; time terms

The four seasons

Clerics and Common Herbs

Roses

Water movement

BIRDS AND BATS

Finches

Texture

Dogs

Mint

Parts of fur

Forest terms

Foxes, parts of a forest

Cuckoo bird

DEER

Shade and understorey

Cedar

Waterside words

Pronunciation Stuff

Closest thing to an IPA chart I currently have

My process for coming up with words based on vibes

I was asked for more behind-the-scenes stuff so here you go?

How I hold my mouth when I speak

Trout Tips

How would Clan cats pronounce the Slavic TS, or the word pizza?

On the Double yy

Working translations

BB!Scourge's new warrior name, Iceheart, in Clanmew... and Nightheart!

Light, moon, wind, BB!Raggedstar's pre-honor title name

OC SUBMISSION: Flameshell, Fogwhisper, Willowsong

OC SUBMISSION: Lichennose, Mudthistle, Longpounce

OC SUBMISSION: Fallensky

PACK PACK KILL KILL

"I love you"

Baby talk

"What have I done?"

"Fool Tale"

How to Clanmew-ify a strange word

Dishonor Title for "Mudpuddle"

OC SUBMISSION: Riverrunner, multiple-word names, walking words

OC SUBMISSION: Firefang, Rabbitdash, Peachfeather, plus a bunch of words for weasel-like animals

Ivypool

The use of tense in names

PROPHECY SUBMISSION: "Dust and flame will combine to destroy home"

Skywatcher

OC SUBMISSION: The Caldwell Family

Foxheart

Runningnose

PROPHECY SUBMISSION: Six will come of every rank

OC SUBMISSION: Witherstrike

"I like this" and also parasitic worms

Prism, rainbow-color

OC SUBMISSION: Piebald Creature

Gayheart

Sneeze and Knockout

OC SUBMISSION: Penny-fitzgerald

OC SUBMISSION: Voidwhisper, Chalkwhistle

OC SUBMISSION: Poppyflare, Spikemane, Blizzardfang

OC SUBMISSION: Burning Hawk-fur

Mistyfoot

BRAMBLESTAR BUTCHERS THE BLOSSOMKIT NAMES

Dialect Submissions

Pfurr Clanmew (@troutfur)

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Tav finds a way to fed Astarion blood.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapter 17: Poison

Ao3

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word count: 5.7k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Language, Violence, Act 1 Spoilers

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

♫ Traveling under the sunless sea, We were both trying to breathe, Tied with an invisible thread.

When colors seem less monochrome, And the soul doesn’t want to roam, Emotions felt with everything unsaid.

Little by little it starts, Devotion of a once vacant heart, The dawn’s shard’s bringing light.

Moments of sweetness and inner strife, Holding on to each other like a knife, So that our tale will be worth the fight. ♫

— Tavelle Swiftchoir, a song entitled ‘Genesis

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

“Do you trust it?”

“Hmm?”

“The dream guardian. Do you trust it?” Gale persisted, biting softly into an impeccably made cheese sandwich.

Shaking herself from focusing on the shoddy stitch work in her lap, Tav amusedly spied a couple breadcrumbs becoming lost in his unkempt beard “No? Hells, I don’t know. It certainly told us a convincing tale. What about you?”

“I typically like to err on the side of caution, but I’m in agreement with you: it did tell us a convincing tale. The fact that it conveyed nearly the same story to us through our dream state, makes me think we are its only hope,” he pointed out, brushing away flakes of bread from his robes. “But this could be yet another trick. Let us carry on and see what comes of this protector of ours for the present.”

The bard took a deep breath, carefully mulling over their current state of affairs. “At any rate, we do have the creature to thank for us all still being alive.”

Around them, a chilled breeze in the late afternoon warned of the beginning transition into sunset. The day had been wrought with conversations surrounding the group’s mutual restlessness about where the lines of reality and dreams blurred pertaining to the abnormal guardian angel inside the prism. Dreamy’s narrative certainly seemed believable enough, but Tav was concerned that it appeared to each of them in a different form—craftily tailored in the guise of familiarity, blindsiding them to gain their trust. Yet, not a single one of her companions opted to reveal who’s shape it took on, as if they, too, had been unsettled by the imitator’s projected image.

And honestly? She probably understood the need to conceal such unbosomings better than anyone, given the shapeshifting protector’s introduction in Algos’s body. There was very little doubt that her companions would be understanding about why she murdered her husband, but what they didn’t know—what she hid—was that she would one day face extreme public scorn in the pillory before having her neck kiss the bladed edge of a guillotine, for misdeeds far graver than Algos’s demise.

They can’t know. They can’t find out. It would put them all in danger.

It terrified Tav, the knowing that time was running low before everyone discovered her real identity. That a condemned woman as she was on the path to possibly become a hero—unexpectedly following in her mother’s footsteps—except her accused transgressions would see her dead before the first opus honoring her deeds was composed. But she had, in some sense, accepted that she would offer herself up to Faêrun’s judgment when the bell tolled for her fate. Taking as much as she gave to the world by balladeering her final mortal liturgy, while still protecting those in need to the very end.

The wizard took another large chomp into his snack while he plopped down onto the crate, moaning in culinary bliss. “‘av, ‘o yoo wa’t ‘um? I’s ree’y goo’!” he excitedly said, pointing at the sandwich with his mouth full.

“I’m sure it does taste good—judging by how loudly you’re chewing—but I’ll pass this time, Gale. Thank you,” she hastily replied, growing more frustrated with the lapse of her sewing needle determined to create a crooked line.

“Ah,” he jetted out, swallowing more chunks of Waterdhavian down his hatch. “Honestly, all that’s missing is a bottle of Athkatlan clarry wine.”

The needle pierced the tip of her finger, making her wince. “Bollocks! I can’t deal with this right now,” she huffed out, tossing the tailoring kit and torn shirt aside.

Gale turned to her, a fair amount of worry dimming his bark colored eyes. “Want to talk about it?”

How could she ever possibly explain her constant hindrances to him? Whenever she began to dwell, she could feel herself packed to the brim, ready to burst through those seams at any moment. The tadpoles. Algos. Their journey. The dream guardian. Whatever the fuck her involvement continued to be with Astarion. Tav had taken on so much in such a short period, that she was wound like a rubber band ball about to unsnap.

The bard lifted her knees to rest the side of her face against them. Her hair unplaited, captured the last chirps from the evening songbirds upon each strand blown in the wind. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

“The beginning may be as good a place as any. After what you did for me—standing for my honor against the others concerning the Netherese orb—listening is the least I can do for our worrisome leader.”

Tav seriously pondered over his words, quickly electing to keep her sentiments to herself. “You don’t owe me anything. None of you do. Being here is sufficient.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Is it? Sufficient, I mean.”

“What are you implying?” she asked with a hint of unease in her soft pitch.

Gale raised his head to peer out towards Wyll and Karlach preparing the evening campfire. “You know, when I locked myself up in my tower for that fretful year, I had nobody except for Tara,” he proceeded with his thoughts. “One full year, waffling in my depression and consuming whatever magical items I could to stabilize this infestation in my chest. One full year of never reaching out to another to relinquish some of my misery, convincing myself it was my own burden to bear.

"Maybe I could have blamed some of my pride on my lack of seeking another’s sympathy, but I will say, after I was captured by the mind flayers and settled with you all, I realized just how starved I was to share my struggles with those that would have my best interest in heart.”

As she listened to the wizard’s voice attempting to lull her into a vulnerable place, Tav began to trace all their companion’s names in elvish Espruar letterings into the dirt. With each elegant curve she made, her index finger either thickened or thinned its script. She wondered if amongst her digit’s fluidity imprinting these names into the ground, which of them—if any—could lay their hands over her metaphorically slumped body in an act to invoke a holy dove for her healing. Yet, her impulse to safeguard what was still left within her reverberating heart took precedence, leaving her with bouts of emptiness where trusted connections should form.

Astarion had been right all along: nothing was holding her hostage except herself.

“What I’m trying to say is that perhaps it’s not me you wish to unload any of this haul of yours onto, but I have zero doubt that a single one of us would turn you away if you wished to do so,” Gale ended, fixing his gaze on her.

Tav froze her mindless scribbles in the middle of drawing Astarion’s name. She lifted her head to gently grin at him. “You are singing to the bard here, Gale,” she replied, laughing at her own corny joke. “But know that it is never something to take personally. Maybe after I’ve found time to think more clearly? Would that suffice?”

He patted her on the back, grunting a noise resembling a throaty “yes.”

Familiar post-mortem gouge, A skewer through her vitals. Rearing bestial head, With another cycle.

Scraping and howling, Blow down the bricks to her castle walls. From high above the turrets, Tearfully shoot the animal until it falls.

And then mourn its lifeless shape, For the offense of trying to see inside.

“Ahem,” an unreserved voice cleared itself, announcing himself specifically to the bard.

Leisurely strolling by with his impossibly straight nose pointing down into a book, Astarion sank in his cheeks to follow up his known presence with a “tsk.” His loose curls relaxed along the nape of his neck as his chin tucked a little further into his chest.

Gale sat up straight in his seat, running a hand through his brown hair to find relief from the assaulting tresses tickling his face. “How many times has he passed by us now?”

“Three. He’s pouting and hoping I’ll change the terms of my arrangement with him,” Tav responded, sighing. If Astarion meant to hold up his boisterous charade, she was resigning herself to her bedroll for the rest of the evening.

“Arrangement? As in feeding or…um…something…well,” the wizard inquired, shooting her an embarrassed glance.

Her lower lip hung open, the sound of a forced dry chuckle leaving her diaphragm. “Are you asking about my sex life, Gale?”

“WAIT, I ONLY MEANT—” Gale held up his hands, face turning every shade of pinkish red one could imagine. 

She casually covered her mouth, hiding her raspy titters. Gale reminded her of jam spread upon a biscuit: reliable, easily abashed, and sweet at the same time. 

“Do I simply not exist?” the vampire sneered, keeping his garnet view studying the pages in his book. “You do realize I’m able to hear the two of you gossiping hens from here, don’t you?” 

“Hello again, Astarion,” Gale called out. “You’re sounding rather optimistic tonight. Is there anything we can do for you?”

“Oh, Gale, you really need to stop flirting with me—I’m not interested,” Astarion scowled, turning a page in his book.

He’s more agitated than usual, Tav reflected. And his skin…is it possible for him to be any paler? Unless he hasn’t—damnit!

Tav jumped to her feet, giving the ties on her stays a quick glance over to check for their support. “When’s the last time you fed?” she asked aloud.

Astarion lifted his head to peer over at her. “Does it matter? I think you’ve made it perfectly clear where you stand on that particular concern.”

Gale nervously lurched his nutty eyes between the two ex lovers, seemingly deciding it was better to stay clammed up on the subject by the way he pursed his lips together.

Slowly approaching, she nibbled at the inside of her cheek, ruminating on her last interaction with Astarion during their spar. Did he believe she was trying to punish him with the boundaries she set? Of course she was undeniably irate over how he treated their riptided companionship, but she refused to be held responsible in any way for his fickle stubbornness.

“You need blood,” she composedly pressed, stuffing her hands into her pant pockets. “This isn’t healthy, especially with us facing the gith tomorrow.”

Astarion waved her off disdainfully. “Sorry darling, but I think my palette is evolving to a taste that’s less…stale.”

“So, you would rather hold out for a different ‘thinking creature’ than the woman standing in front of you still offering her neck?” Tav frowned, knitting her brow. “I’m not going to chase after you about this.”

Yes, you will.

“Don’t mislead yourself.” He gently closed the book, skimming a hand over the front cover before fully regarding her. “We both already know that you have quite the tendency in refusing to give up on anything.”

Astarion knew exactly how to rile her up, sucking upon her good character like he was the village witch. With pitchforks and orders of decree, town riots were held because of men like him. There had already been plenty of occasions when he knew she couldn't turn away from his dilemmas, premediating he wouldn't even have to ask. Killing Gandrel. Drinking her blood. The promise to fell Cazador. Examples upon examples of the way this captivating rogue had kept her within his apocryphal sepulcher.

“And you’ve taken advantage of that knowledge, haven’t you?” she retorted.

Astarion took a few steps closer to her, tilting his head to the side. “Haven’t I? Don’t you mean, haven’t we? I’m not the only one that’s pursued a special interest amongst the two of us.”

The bard narrowed her eyes. “Y-you think I used you only for intimacy?” she choked out, fighting back the watery spouts in the nooks of her eyes. “...Astarion, that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“Again, don’t mislead yourself. Everybody wants something from someone else,” the pale elf goaded, slanting his body inwardly to gawk at her underneath his black lashes. 

A dull ache unspun in her chest as it began to propagate from the words of Astarion’s morose piano sonata he unexpectedly disclosed to her. Her previous fears had come true: he honestly thought she was using him for little more than sensual rendezvouses. 

“I want to talk more in depth about this,” Tav murmured, staring at the tome in his hands. Was it just her imagination or was it lightly trembling?

“And I want to leave,” Astarion shot back, abruptly turning away from her, unwilling to share any further exchanges. “I bid goodnight to everyone not named Gale.”

“Yes, well, please do let us know how we can inconvenience you yet again on your fourth stroll around here!” the wizard shouted as Astarion roamed away towards a set of ruins overlooking the mountainous valley.

Tav started to sluggishly pace, thoughts scattered as she ran the risks of martyring her self appointed walls over and over again. Usually, she would pay no heed to his sarcasm and mockery—which was half of his personality—but the steady quakes jumbling his grip around the book, nettled its way beneath the five million nerve endings of her skin. What was he hiding? 

“Tavelle,” Gale said unevenly. “Are you okay?”

An idea struck her. Impulsive and dangerous. She laughed at herself for the mere consideration of it, and furthermore, at Astarion’s prediction of her defiance to throw in the towel. He surely must’ve laced his fangs with poison with the way he continued to seep into her veins.

Wiggling a dagger out from its sheath tied to her belt, she placed the sharp blade against her right forearm. “Gale, do you think you could find me an empty bottle?”

Confused, he observed her impromptu actions. “Let me jot down that bloodletting is an active interest of yours. Whatever are you doing?”

“If Astarion continues to be stubborn in his feedings, I’ll just have to concede to a different way in helping him. He’s not the only one that can tempt another,” she half-jested, discerning on the proper area to slice. 

Mouth agape, pupils larger than copper coins, Gale ran off to retrieve her request with his robes swishing fastidiously behind him. Almost instantaneously, he returned stumbling over his feet with an empty bottle, clean bandages, and a quartered-filled healing potion.

“Here, this should do. The healing potion should stop most of your bleeding, but not right away—hence the dressings.”

“Greatly appreciated,” Tav beamed. “Actually, this may go better if you could hold the bottle for me. If I die, lie to Shadowheart and tell her I forced you to help with a charm spell before she resurrects me.”

Gale silently assented, standing close enough to hold the container under her arm. “I realize this may be none of my business, but why even bother? Is he really worth continuing to sacrifice your own health for? You and I have had this disagreement before and I can’t help but think it’s best to still leave him be. Nobody wants to see you hurt; we need you just as much as you need us.”

The bard grit her teeth together, slowly cutting through several blood vessels in her arm. As her crimson dripped in hurried rivulets, she positioned the wound over the glass.

“I-I care about him, Gale,” Tav weighed in, starting to feel lightheaded. “There is something inside my gut that tells me not to abandon him, no matter how much of a pretentious asshole he can be. I don’t think he understands what living a good life means and, gods help me, I’m determined to at least help give him a real chance to do so.”

He took a deep breath, careful in the way he spoke his next words. "Do you think this could just be your affectionate emotions speaking and not your logic? It's evident you have a strong bond with Astarion, regardless if you feel something deeper with him or not. I'm not trying to deter or judge you, but I went through a similar situation with Mystra. I loved her and it cost me everything."

Tav elevated her head, taking in the warmth of his stare. "Isn't that what life is all about? Putting your heart on the line and hoping everything works itself out," she proclaimed, sheepishly smiling.

A sympathetic expression washed over his face as he held tighter onto the small container while it filled with her blood. “I didn’t before, but I think I slightly understand now why you protect him—us—as you do. You’re too good for this world and I pray Astarion sees what your compassion is capable of doing.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,“ she timidly blushed, resheathing the blade as she scrambled to unravel the bandages to tie around the gash. “Mayhaps I am being preposterous, but I want to believe Astarion has something good inside him that’s been suppressed in growth for 200 years just so he could survive. Would it be so terrible of me to help him search for that?”

“Terrible? No. A damned lunatic? Yes.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Rosymorn Monastery Trail was a location that appeared suspended in time. Vast jagged mountainous rocks reaching high into the heavens above. Overgrown trees refused mercy to the ridges they shoved their roots into, leaving behind a surreal sight to behold. Built alongside the trail were shrines and statues dedicated to the dawn god Lathander—some in literal ruins, others standing proud. All forgotten, left to nature’s decay.

The dusk showed the first presentations of celestial bodies over the breathtaking scenery, dimly twinkling as they labored to shine brightest through refracted streams of light. They reminded Tav of the vampire she was on foot to visit, peacocking his demeanor as if he wanted to be noticed while a preferred distance remained a tumultuous comfort.

In her hand, she clenched the bottle of her prepared blood, wondering how Astarion would receive the expiatory truce. Gale’s woes weren’t without merit about the spawn’s needs extending beyond her remediable efforts, but her memories of the past decade were a potent drug denying her withdrawal from him. She had been alone. Frightened. Traversing the lands with no support. Her name: a stain on her people and her family’s triumphs. Because of this, Tav vowed to herself and the incorporeal buzzards circling overhead waiting for her collapse, that nobody else she knew would have to face their suffering alone as she had.

The tiniest granule of real unfettered hope could change everything for Astarion. 

Hope. A word Algos used to berate her for even suggesting the power it could wield, contrarily believing fear held more dominance. A decade later, she could still hear his voice echoing in leftover thoughts germane to him. Though, she was confused as to why her recent trances were constantly enthralled by him, hounding her into turbulent—sometimes insomniac—nights. Could it be her mind trying to warn her of the similarities between Algos and Astarion? Both had exhibited behaviors of egotism, manipulation, cruelty, and concerns that were border lined obsessive with outward appearances. Comparative personality quirks, yes, but didn’t they hold their differences?  

Astarion was the only one between the two men that had treated her as an actual human being despite his historical flaws. He respected her autonomy, although he loved to disagree with her. When she announced her boundaries, he didn’t barge through them to try and control her. Most of all, he never took anything from her unless she first offered. To Astarion, perhaps these actions meant naught to him other than some part of his personal compass he routinely enacted. Whereas for Tav, these were exhibitions of consideration for her well-being that he may never understand what they truly meant to her.

Still, the songstress couldn’t shake the parallels betwixt them. 

Maybe she really was a lunatic caught within her own patterns, blinded by her feelings. Maybe she was some idiot who couldn't help but to throw herself into another man’s haunted house. Or maybe her muddled head was overthinking so many disorderly thoughts, that she failed to notice her arrival at the wrecked archway attached to what was left of an abandoned sanctuary.

Shivers prickled down her spine while she briskly searched the area for any evidence that the spawn was closeby. “Astarion, are you here?”

Over crumbling and desolate blanched stones, she berthed herself with the foundation of her lower body. The bard’s eartips perked up, attuning to the awakening eve’s sonances. Save for the mating cricket chirps, it was pleasantly silent. She walked through the open arch, peering out towards the empty cliff behind the building.

“‘Starion?” Tav whispered.

“Ah, and thus does the bouquet arrive to offer unto me chastisements for biting words,” a nasally voice odically narrated on the other side of a neglected wall holding the arches afloat.

“Oh my gods!” she yelped out in surprise, nearly dropping the vessel of her sanguine fluid.

He was leaning back casually against the ruinous wall with his eyes peacefully shut, letting her ogle bluish thin capillaries webbing his lids. The black and plum coat he often wore was unbuckled, opened wide, revealing a plunging neckline above his usual ruffly shirt underneath. And, oh, did the moonlight ever decide to accentuate the forbidden dips of his collarbone and pointed jawline right when her gaze fluidly crossed his path.

Tav’s view dropped away, cheeks reddened as if she had caught him in a private moment. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over vampires' corpselike stillness,” she noted with a jittery chuckle, coming down from her adrenaline spike.

The vampire’s right eye opened, appraising her gestures as he inhaled heavily through his nostrils. “Are you wounded? You smell like you’ve been doused in your own blood.”

“Something like that,” she confirmed, lifting up the bottle and confidently pushing it in his direction.

“A potion? Darling, you shouldn’t have! How did you know this is what I’ve always wanted?” Astarion mocked in annoyance, pushing off the wall to grip the bottom of the glass.

Tav shook her head. “Not a potion. Open it.”

He skeptically gaped at her as he popped the cork out. A single sniff into the dense bottled air, bathed his expression in euphoric and ravenous delight. The tips of his fangs glistened with a string of saliva connecting one of them to his tongue when his mouth fell open. Low groans, short and reverberating, slipped out, leaving the woman’s heart fluttering.

Seconds passed before he spoke, his accent thickly laced with hunger. “What did you do?” he mumbled, bringing his sight to level with hers.

Tav removed her hand from the object, allowing its heft to nest in his grasp. “The day after you told me you were a vampire, we made an agreement for you to drink my blood as needed. I mean to uphold what I promised to you regardless of what’s going on between us.”

“Where?” he breathed out.

“Where what?”

“Where did you cut yourself open?”

She held up her forearm, swathed in fresh bandage strips. “It doesn’t hurt much; I drank half of a healing potion to stop the bleeding. I wanted to catch up with you before it chilled.”

Astarion narrowly squinted at her arm, then back to her shy simper.

“Don’t do this again. Not for me; not for anyone. If I need your blood, I’ll feed from you when the others are around—per your suggestion,” he firmly stated, frowning.

Like a hallucinogenic taking effect, there was a waxing vagrancy in his eyes. Tav assumed some recollections of his chronological life, where the electric wirings in his brain became polluted, had swam through his cerebral nerves.

That was not the reaction she had anticipated. Tinges of guilt cratered themselves in her stomach, like bombs being dropped onto the ground. Amid their last tiff, Astarion had been absolutely resilient—dubious even—when Tav proposed a new feeding arrangement due to his disassociating incidents. Why did he suddenly change his mind?

She resisted sinking her teeth into her lip. “Have I upset you? I’m sorry if—”

He combed his thieving fingers through his fluffed coif, ending with a sigh. “You haven’t upset me, songbird.”

Tav clasped her hands together, avoiding his unreadable guise. “Okay, good. That's good."

Loud barking at the camp’s site saved her from the awkward silence they were wallowing inside. Someone shrieked—possibly Wyll—at Scratch for stealing their underclothes off the temporary clothesline they erected. The distracted bard merrily puffed away a chuckle, imagining the feisty dog darting through their tents with a pair of shorts in his muzzle.

As she directed her attention back towards Astarion, swift torrents from her bottled crimson cascaded into his gullet as he swallowed. Her lips were consumed with a summery smile as she watched visible glowing pinks tint his pallored skin from her blood filling his body. Engrossed by the sight of him, Tav allowed a single memory of teeth marks and tongue frisks branding her. She introspectively touched the side of her neck, finding that she missed the two punctures that had mended.

But then her yearning was replaced with antipathy aimed at herself, remembering how mortified she felt when he inferred she was only using him for sex. 

Astarion wiped his mouth, gingerly swiping up blood droplets. “Something wrong?”

Tav swallowed the constricting ball in her throat. “What you said prior, it isn’t true.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

“That’s not why—you know I didn’t sleep with you because I only wanted sex, right?” she replied.

“Are you actually sullen over that? I only said it to make a point, not to have another one of our famous parleys,” he threw out, obviously deflecting. “In fact, I’ve already forgotten most of what I told you.”

Her vision roamed to his fingers tightly wrapped around the bottle, thinking back to those faint tremors from earlier. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend that you’re unbothered by things when they do bother you. I would never be upset with you for expressing your wants and needs."

Seconds flew by without any movement from Astarion. She observed as his pupils dilated and undilated, battling through miles of his ageless carnage until he finally blinked at her.

He raised the blood-filled container to his mouth, muffling behind the glass. “I highly doubt you’re done prattling on, so do soldier on.”

“Right.” She studied him under gossamer lashes as he ingested another red mouthful, unsurprised by his interpolation. “Us being intimate came as a bit of a surprise to me. You see, you were also my first—“

“What?!” he coughed up after gulping a huge liquidly glob.

“In a decade!” Tav giggled, obliviously fixing her bangs. “I’m sorry! I meant that you were the first man I’ve slept with since my ex.”

“Bloody hells! Had I a functional heart, I think it would have seized just now.”

It wasn’t that she hadn’t been propositioned during her ten year drought. On the contrary, plenty of men—sometimes women—pledged marriages, endless wealth, distinguished titles, even rare treasures, to have her in their company since her last relationship flatlined. Compelling words they undulated into the flue of her ear about tasting her skin until she would give her heart to them. Oaths were recited about helping her to become the most famous bard in Toril, like enticing wildfires from treacherous tongues.

But, none of it mattered. Tav already knew she couldn’t trust them. They never offered her what she wanted—what she needed. Never bothering to unfasten even a fraction of her armor to see what was moored underneath. All her fragility and sorrow waiting to be exposed like a creature sliced open upon a taxidermist’s table.

Until she met Astarion and he saw right through the remnants she tried to mask.

Astarion swigged the rest of the bottle’s contents, releasing a pleased keen. “Call me a scamp all you want, but if you had asked me to deflower you, I would have at least treated you to a romantic dinner of half-eaten apples and stale bread beforehand,” he teased, spryly reaching out to brush the back of his knuckles along her jaw.

She playfully pushed his furled fingers away. “Knave!”

“Oh, forgive me. Would you have preferred tenderized lamb shank and white wine?” he taunted, examining his spread fingers out in front of him. “Our options are clearly limited to a more—bleh—provincial lifestyle.”

Laughing, she lightly thudded her back against the wall, pulling fountains of hair over her shoulder. Astarion mirrored the elf, resting his body next to hers, shoulders inches apart. Their breaths tapered into steady and mellow flows, each trying to match the other.

“So, was your ex love your first?” he curiously asked after a time, wiggling his brows.

“No, thank the gods,” Tav informed. “Aah, my first was a young elven man. A sailor visiting his family in Highmoon. It happened so fast, I barely remember anything from it aside from the—ahem—initial pain. He was sweet and a gentleman, so I suppose it could have been worse.”

“Tsk. Had it been me, I would have taken my time with you," he boasted.

She blushed, crossing her foot one over the other nervously. “What about you? Who was your first?”

Astarion’s face tensed. “I can’t remember,” he said softly.

The songstress looked at the ground somberly, simultaneously saddened he may never regain his memories and confounded that the person that had hurt her the most amongst their group was also the one she felt the most comfortable with.

The spawn shifted, placing a loose fist under his chin in thought. “Ten years without so much as a single caress, huh? No wonder you were so…” he trailed off.

“So, what?”

“...sensitive.”

“Oghma’s right nut! I should’ve taken that one to my grave,” she lamented, florid embarrassment heating tender skin down the length of her ear from pointed tip to lobe.

Astarion laughed at her, showing his upper row of teeth. He rotated his head, focusing on her with roguish eyes aglow. “If you would like to do the honors of fluffing my ego, why choose me to be your first after all that time?”

Under the cosmos, they connected by flesh. Lonely wanderers: drifting, searching, waiting to be free. Under the cosmos, they did part. Runaways still enslaved by scars of old stones.

Though she discovered through their brief reverie that they may not have been meant for each other, the bard confessed she had wished for more with Astarion. Yes, she had every justifiable reason to abhor the man—especially with how he had caused her immense grief—but Tav could not forget how he made her feel that her heart could stir once more, even if he didn't feel the same.

There lay something bittersweet in that insight as she clung so tightly to her whirl-winded emotions. The former lovers were both guilty of different failings and with everything they had already been through, Tav knew death's hand could claim their lives at any moment with no pardons for final contrition's, unless they meant to absolve their mistakes. Which begged the question: would they be able to give themselves over to forgiveness and acceptance in order to move forward?

She gazed up at the stars, focusing on a smaller troupe overhanging them as she gathered the courage to bare a part of herself to him. “Do you remember when I said we needed to get to know each other better before we had sex?” 

Astarion gradually nodded, quelling his expanding lungs. “Yes.”

“I said that because I wanted to learn more about you as a person. You are attractive. You are a fantastic lover. But, that’s not all you are. And if I ever made you somehow believe that wasn’t true, then I wholeheartedly apologize."

Twisting her neck, Tav swept her overcast dewy-filled eyes up the scope of his neck, directly meeting his widened ruby stare. “You’ve hurt me, Astarion. Badly. Some of the trust I extended to you has been broken and I’m admittedly struggling with that. Yet, I can’t help but feel like maybe you’ve harmed yourself too.”

“How so?” he inquired, leaning away from her.

Before she could dab them away, a few tears sprung free, seeking shelter in the crevices of her nose. She placed a flimsy hand in the middle of her chest, above her troubled heart. “Pushing yourself to have sex with someone when your heart doesn’t truly desire it, is wrong. It’s a complete violation to your body and soul.”

The weary creases between his brows deepened as he evaded her eye contact by squeezing his eyes shut as if he was in pain. He was deathly quiet, drooping his shoulders so he appeared vaguely hunched over. Perfect white hair waves subtly moving along with the clouds above, were the only indication that he hadn’t left for the land of the damned.

“Please say something,” she weakly begged.

He opened his eyes to glare at her. “I certainly wasn’t expecting us to be acknowledging our sins in the god’s acres, but what do you want me to do?” he hissed.

“This isn’t only about what I want, it’s about what we want. About what you want,” Tav intently replied.

Astarion flaccidly touched his forehead as if to nurse an oncoming migraine. Mouth opened, he audibly exhaled mid chafing laugh. Whatever vagrant demons were crusading inside his head, he seemed to be frantically fighting against them gaging by the rapid shifting in his sight.

The bard waited patiently for the darkness blotting out his thoughts to disperse. Periodically, his chest inhaled, presumably using the scents around them to hook him away from the undertow.

After a couple of minutes had passed, Tav reached out to graze his arm with a feathery touch. “If you’re unsure, maybe we can start by actually trying to be friends this time? No sex. No forcing yourself. Just looking out for each other and maybe a fist pound or pat on the back here and there,” she suggested, unearthing a compassionate smile. “And if you discover I’m not your cup of blood, then that’s perfectly fine. We can get on without being anything other than occasional allies.”

The vampire peeked at her through his fingers. “Gods, am I ever glad you didn’t decide to try taking up being a comedian as a profession,” he retorted, lips curling impishly. “But a fist pound? Really, Tav, how pitifully atrocious! Sometimes I forget you’re a country bumpkin from the Dales.”

Tav beamed stupidly at him, laying her index finger against his lips to quiet him. “Could we sit here in silence for a little while and watch the stars?”

Astarion nodded, depositing a faint smile she couldn’t see, into the heavens above.

[klbwriting]

Broken Prism

Chapter 2

Fandom: Red Hood

Pairing: Jason Toddxfemale!Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Jason dies and then comes back, tale as old as time

Jason had heard stories about what happens right before you die. You see a white light, hear angels singing, everything goes black, you see your life flash before your eyes. What he didn’t know was that the only thing that you really thought about as you lay, body aching, blood pooling around you, was your regrets. He could see the bomb ticking down nearby, 3, 2, just before the 1 it felt like time stopped, his brain trying to process everything inside it at once before clocking out forever. He processed each image going through his head, not being able to stop his dad leaving, save his mom from ODing, times he couldn’t control his anger, times when he should have spoken but instead stayed quiet. It was maddening realizing how stupid he had been over the last 17 years. But the worst, God the worst images were the ones he had of you.

Jason hadn’t stopped watching over you after that hospital room visit. You hadn’t known but he had found you, when you were working your high school job, when you were sitting in the library, wondering why that boy a few tables down kept staring at you. You would put your book away and go to speak to him and Jason would be gone. He watched you when you walked to school, forgoing getting in early from patrol just to make sure you were safe. He should have used that time to talk to you, find out your name, your interests, your heart. Why had he let Bruce get into his head and stop him?

It hadn’t taken long for Bruce to figure out why Jason had hesitated, why he had followed the girl to the hospital after the attack at the high school. He had thought at first the boy just had a crush, it was the first time he had saved someone his own age and Bruce remembered how he had followed his first rescue around for a time, wanting to make sure they stayed safe. However, it didn’t stop. After a month of Jason losing sleep, skipping trainings, Bruce had went snooping. He talked to Dick who tried to skirt they question but he couldn’t keep lying and told Bruce about giving Jason the flashcards. That complicated things. Bruce tried to talk to Jason, telling him he should stop following this girl, wait until he was older and more controlled before seeking her out. Jason had rebelled at first, claiming he could do both, that he was in complete control, until he had been following YN home from an after-school activity instead of patrolling with Dick. Batman had to fly in and keep Nightwing from getting a broken skull and not just a broken arm. Beyond the guilt he felt Jason also felt pain from getting worked over by Bruce for so long. Extra drills, extra studying, extra sparring, his body and mind were drained completely for nearly a month. He stopped following you around, held himself back. He expected to be able to get older and find you again. He didn’t expect Joker and a crowbar and a bomb.

His blood was red, he knew that, but now he wished he didn’t. As he lay watching that timer tick to 1 he wished he couldn’t see that the numbers were red. Wished he didn’t know what any of these colors were. But instead of black and white he just saw the red and when the timer finally clicked 0 he saw the brown of your eyes before seeing nothing at all.

The rainbow was back. Green, lots of green, browns and blacks, rocks, red and orange and yellow, fire, bronze, the hand currently helping Jason out of the warm, acrid water pit he was in. He stood, legs shaky, feeling a blanket being put on his shoulders, which was nice considering he was naked and now could see several people in the room. He wasn’t sure what was going on, his brain muddled entirely. He remembered pain, almost nothing but pain, but there was something else, eyes, brown eyes, when he remembered those, he felt peace for just a moment before the pain came back. “Jason Todd,” he heard the woman who had pulled him out of the pit say. He didn’t look at her, wasn’t sure who she was talking to. Her hand grabbed his chin, and she pulled him to look at her. “Jason Todd, that is your name,” she said. He stared at her and then saw green, teeth baring as he moved without thought, throwing kicks and punches, anger surging through him. He was able to get past a couple of the other people in the cave before he felt a prick to neck, then he saw nothing again.

Unlike death, sleeping allowed Jason to dream. These dreams were violent, angry, a bat diving and soaring while he tried to attack it. It hurt him, it healed it, it hurt him again. There was some kind of blue bird, diving at him, sometimes helping the bat attack him, sometimes scaring the bat away. Jason wanted to spread his red wings and fly away, get far away from the bat and the blue bird, but he felt trapped, something holding him to the ground. His cries were drowned out by the screech of the bat as it came in for the kill.

Cold water rushed over Jason, making him sit up fast, head spinning. He tried to attack again but was immediately put under by whatever had subdued him the first time. By the time they woke him up again he had realized he needed to contain whatever this green rage was the filled him. When doused with he ice water this time he sat up and looked around slowly, observing. He didn’t know why but he paid close attention to the tiny details, the way someone stood, how the cave was laid out, exits and rocks that appeared loose in the walls. He knew, muscle memory, what to do if he needed to escape.

“Jason Todd,” the woman from before said. He looked at her, the name registering this time. Yes, his name was Jason Todd. He was from Gotham. He was Robin. Some pieces were starting to come together in his head.

“Where am I?” he asked, voice hoarse and scratchy. He didn’t remember sounding like this before. He cleared his throat but still felt the burn and itch, like he was growing new vocal cords. He coughed.

“You are with the League of Assassins, my father, Ras Al’Ghul, has decreed that you be brought back and returned to the Batman,” the woman said. Jason visibly recoiled at the mention of Bat. No, not the Bat, no more Bats.

“No,” he said. The woman looked at him hard, seemingly seeing through to his very soul, before she nodded. She said something in a language he couldn’t identify to another in the room. This person approached, helping Jason to stand and led him deeper into the cave, emerging on the side of a mountain. He was guided up roughly hewn steps to a large compound on the top of the mountain. The person was silent as they showed him a room and left him, locking the door. It was small, change of clothes on a very uncomfortable looking cot, but he wasn’t sure he had a choice at the moment, so he changed into the clean clothes and settled in to sleep again, his dreams still of being a red bird with a bat on attack.

Jason spent the next five years with the league of assassins, training, learning, and carrying out missions for their creed. He moved up their ranks but never reached the top, always a few rungs down on the later because he couldn’t always control the rage he felt. If he saw green, then everyone suddenly stopped working towards the leagues mission and just started working on getting him subdued. He was a liability until he could get it under control. That was, until Ras Al’Ghul himself met with him in his study. The room was finely furnished which always itched Jason the wrong way. Why did the man who said they were working towards a greater world for all, be so rich and mighty above his league? Jason also didn’t understand why Ras kept getting brought back from the dead. Ras had been in the pit several times, he knew the rage that Jason had, had been personally training him to control it, however, Ras didn’t seem to control it as much as he mastered it. He was able to use the rage to help him reach his goals, but he told Jason to contain the rage, not use it. It was hypocrisy and Jason hated it.

“Do you know why I have asked you here boy?” Ras asked, standing behind his desk, hands folded behind his back, appearing casual. Jason wasn’t an idiot, this wasn’t casual, there was a knife back there ready to go through his heart if he would step out of line. Jason shook his head.

“I really don’t,” he said, folding his arms, defiant. He wasn’t afraid of death anymore. He couldn’t imagine why he would be. He already had seen his regrets move through his mind in slow motion, he didn’t have a lot more to add. Nothing was worse than his regret of not finding you when he had the chance, so why would he be afraid now?

“I believe it is time for you to leave our ranks,” the master said. Jason wasn’t all that surprised. He was dangerous to anyone and everyone. He still had his triggers and if he was being honest, he didn’t try to fight against them in the field. He didn’t really care who lived or died, except for children. No matter what, children had to survive. “Do you have any argument?” What was the point?

“No,” he said, letting the word fall between them. Ras nodded, unsurprised, but disappointed. Somehow, despite death and years with assassins and barely any decent memories Jason remembered that face on Batman…Bruce…Batman…Bruce. He took a breath and stopped his mind racing. Jason didn’t wait for anymore from Ras, turning and heading to get the few things he had. He found them already by the door of his room, packed and ready. Least he knew where he stood here. There was no fanfare to his departure, no one even looked his way as he walked out into the world.

He hitchhiked to the nearest town, finding the first bar, wanting to drown himself in anything he could before he found what to do next. He glanced at the TV, not really listening to what the broadcast was saying, focusing only on the two caped crusaders soaring on the screen. Batman and Robin. But…he was Robin. Batman…Bruce…Batman, had replaced him? The glass shattered in his hand, but he barely felt the cuts from the shards. He threw down the little bit of cash he had and headed out. He had something to take care. He needed to get back to Gotham.

[oldguardleatherdog]

For Father's Day:

"The One Decent Thing I Ever Did"

This is a monograph from 2015, previously posted here some time ago, a tale of my maternal grandmother, a below-zero winter night, the New York City subway West Side express during post-9/11, that mentions my father only in passing... and it's about my father.

THE ONE DECENT THING I EVER DID.

I.

A long time ago, during a time of struggle, I did one decent thing:

I'd just gotten on the subway in Midtown Manhattan on a brutal winter night, the No. 2 uptown express, when a couple with a small child boarded the car I was riding.

They were having a very loud conversation with their child (about four years old, I think) who was crying or somehow behaving in a way that was "bad". The mother took the belt from her jeans and raised her arm to strike her child with it.

Don’t ask me why I did this, but I rose from my seat, grabbed the mother’s arm mid-swing, and said, “As long as I am on this train, you will not hit that child with that belt.” She and the child’s father were stunned into silence for a moment as I made my way back to my seat.

Immediately after I sat down, the mother and father began leveling all kinds of vitriol my way, calling me every name in the book, including all the variations of “faggot” in use at the time. I just sat there, smiled wide, laughed loud, and shined ‘em on:

“You can call me ‘faggot.’ You can call me anything you like. Because every minute you focus on me, you are not beating that child with that belt.”

The crowded train car fell silent.

II.

Yuletide, 1982. I was in the service in Germany and took leave to see my grandmother in Florida. My grandfather had passed away the previous March, and something told me to seize the chance to see Grandma while she was still with us. I was only 20, born late in life to my parents, and never got to know my grandparents in the way my older brothers did.

We were in my Grandma's airy, air-conditioned Fort Lauderdale kitchen having coffee one morning when the rest of the family had gone out for breakfast. “Would you like a little pick-me-up in your cup, dear?” I laughed. “No thanks, Gramma, it's a little early for me.” The joys of Florida.

I'd had a rough upbringing by any measure - my father was first-gen shanty Irish born in the early 1920's with a mean spirit and a violent edge, mother not Irish but still violent - but at age 20 I hadn't yet realized just how rough it had been.

“You know,” I said to Grandma, “Harold and Evelyn did the best they could. I mean, I turned out all right, right?”

Grandma leaned back in her chair, took a nice drag off one of her unfiltered Camels, and said in her declarative New England way the words that always meant Listen up, you're about to hear gospel truth:

“Well, I'll tell ya, Joe.” I was all ears.

She took another hit off of her cigarette. “I held my tongue. More than once, I held my tongue.

“But one day, your mother and father were in the front yard with your grandfather and me, and I walked up to your father and said, “Harold, I just want to tell you something. It takes a real man to beat a child with a belt.”

...Wow.

I only wish she hadn’t held her tongue!

I sipped my coffee, looked for palmetto bugs on the lanai. “Grandma,” I said, “I'm all right.”

She looked away, and I saw the colors of the rainbow in the prism of her pendant.

III.

What was I doing on the 2 train heading uptown in the bitter blistering freezing cold New York winter?

Heading “home” – that is, to one of the many rundown firetrap SRO hotels paid by the City of New York to house homeless people with HIV. The City's AIDS regulations set the policy: if you showed up at the HIV center at 30th and 8th before 7 PM on a given day, New York City was obliged to find you housing for the same night and for the next 30 days in a row at the very least.

Strange - in those days, New York would house you but not feed you, and San Francisco would feed you but not house you. Come to think of it, that's the way it is these days.

My dank, filthy, crawling with roaches and vermin crack-house "shelter" was way uptown, near 96th and Broadway. (I had always dreamed about making it to Broadway, ha ha.)

96th Street and Broadway stop was next. The train car was still silent as the parents sat sullenly and the child - Jesus, he can't be older than 3 or 4 years old, I thought - was staring at me, no expression on his little face, but eyes wide as saucers.

The train screeched to a stop. I got up and headed to the door, passing the couple with the small child and the loose belt. They were silent and did not regard me as I passed; the child, I think, might have glanced at me, but I’m not sure. I knew that after I got off the train, or after they got off the train, that poor kid was probably going to get beaten. Severely.

Out the door and onto the bone-chilling platform at 96th Street. A young woman who had witnessed the mother wield that belt came up to me and said, “I’m so glad you did that, I wanted to say something, but I was too…” Her voice trailed off as the pained look on her face finished her thought.

“I understand,” I said to her as our eyes met in that New York way of speaking the unspeakable, then made my way up the stairs into the below-zero winter breezes of the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

What the hell, I thought as I made my way out of the station, I had nothing to lose. Those were dark times, desperate days. I'm no angel. But just once, on that long-ago Number 2 train, I was granted the grace to do one decent thing.

Animal J. Smith San Francisco, California July 22, 2015 and June 18, 2023 v2.0

My maternal grandparents, Ed and Ethel (Schirmer) Olson, Fort Lauderdale, Florida, c. 1980

[mishalnasir]

pastels

rainbow and in the color blue,

i think of you, i think of you,

in the leeway i have found,

nothing is wrong, yet nothing is true,

the broken glass falls on the floor,

in the prism, all i see is a hue,

strawberries and untouched champagne on the table,

you wait for me, but i wait for you,

there's a fountain of glitter and pearls,

there's hope, dreams, but just a few,

in the forest of nightmares and fear,

i paint a horizon and i drew,

the tale of a long lost girl,

who was told to stay silent and mute

[limoncats]

Ruby with her hair down!!!! ft. Ghostie thinking she's cute (me too bestie) don't mind the hand

@kiraprismart @secretlykoishi

[kiraprismart]

totally legit anime screenshots peeps like real

[purcaholic]

In a world where laughter dances like sunbeams through a prism, the skies are awash in watercolor dreams. Whimsical creatures weave tales in hues of cerulean and rose, as joy spills from their hearts like ink on canvas. Gossamer-winged beings flutter amidst blooming meadows, their mirth blending with the soft splashes of color, painting a realm where happiness is the ever-blooming flora of fantasy.

[best-underrated-anime]

Best Underrated Anime Group B Round 3: #B8 vs #B2

#B8: Middle school idol drama

#B2: Girls aiming to become top stars in a Takarazuka high-school

Details and poll under the cut!

*#B2’s tagline has been changed.

#B8: Pretty Rhythm: Rainbow Live

Summary:

Naru Ayase is an 8th grader who can see the colors of music when she listens to it. For Naru, who is extremely good at decorating, becoming the owner of a shop like Dear Crown was her dream. One day, she finds out that the manager of a newly-opened shop is recruiting middle school girls who can do Prism Dance, and immediately applies. Naru begins to Prism Dance at the audition, and an aura she’s never experienced spreads out in front of her. At that moment, a mysterious girl named Rinne asks her if she can see “rainbow music.”

Propaganda:

WHERE DO I START.

First off: Lesbian activities. Ayase Naru and Rinne Amagi are very close friends and even end up living together. Naru is also only one of the few characters without a proper love interest which really helps further the Naru/Rinne ship.

Otoha Takanashi: often talks about fairy tales, but the only characters she ever sees as Princes are women. Baby lesbian, I love her.

Second: DRAMA. So two of the characters (Ito and Kouji) actually start dating, but their parents do not approve for reasons they are evasive about until it is later revealed in the story—[This part of the propaganda has been cut by admin due to possible spoilers]

Third: banger music. This series includes many covers of popular 90s dance tracks from band TRF, which I am fond of. It also has a lot of unique music written for the show itself which is also good, especially for a children’s show.

Trigger Warnings: It might need the emotional abuse tag for specifically one of the characters’ parents, who is a pretty extreme perfectionist when it comes to her daughter. But nothing else aside from that. It’s a kids’ show, so it never goes that far in terms of actual harm. Most things also get resolved peacefully.

#B2: Kageki Shoujo!!

Summary:

After being forced to graduate from JPX48 following a controversial incident with a male fan, Ai Narata swears to never interact with another man ever again. Using her talents and strong desire to get away from men, Ai auditions for the exclusive all-female Kouka School of Musical and Theatrical Arts. The school is renowned for producing the best actresses that go on to perform in the famous all-female Kouka Theatre Troupe. Coming from the idol industry, Ai is the perfect candidate for the school’s hundredth generation class, but her aloof demeanor alienates her from her classmates. The eccentric Sarasa Watanabe is the only person who wishes to become Ai’s friend. She enters Kouka with the goal of becoming a top “otokoyaku” performer—an actress that plays traditionally male roles. After seeing a Kouka performance of The Rose of Versailles when she was younger, Sarasa dreams of performing as Lady Oscar one day. Unfortunately, Sarasa's inability to read a room causes friction between her and her classmates, including Ai, who reluctantly becomes her roommate and partner in many of their classes. Succeeding at Kouka will involve more than just raw talent for these young girls as jealousy, deceit, and the harsh realities of show business put their mental fortitude to the test. Will Sarasa and Ai be able to rise to the top and stand on the silver bridge?

Propaganda:

If theatre setting/schools is your thing, you’re probably going to love this series! We follow our protagonists and their schoolmates following their dreams to become actresses for the prestigious Kouka Revue. Not an easy road as they will have to face and overcome many challenges, the hardest ones coming from themselves. Indeed, the story is not afraid to address sensitive topics and their resulting traumas (see TW list) always rightfully handed. These episodes may be a bit hard to see if you’re sensitive to these topics, but the show never leaves you in discomfort: everything is properly addressed, and characters are cared for realistically.

The characters are all very well-written, portraying individuals with way more depth than they may appear at first glance. We follow their growth—or its start—during the series. Sarasa is a walking sunbeam, and her blooming friendship with the withdrawn Ai is a delight to watch. We learn to know—and love—all their classmates as well, as episodes switch focus to one or the other.

The OST is really good, with a catchy opening, and no less than five different versions of the ending song, a fabulous duet voiced by the cast! The animation features really pretty art with iconic details like the stars in Sarasa’s eyes. The series is a homage to Takarazuka and scatter references to famous real-life Revues and older famous shôujo manga series like “Versailles no Bara” or “Glass no Kamen”. Actually, it feels like a modernized version of their essence: roses, sparkles, spotlight, drama, all while staying safe!

This anime is like candy for eyes and soul, and I really hope we'll get a season 2 to explore the girls' voices further!

Trigger Warnings: Child Abuse, Pedophilia, Self-Harm

Nothing is too graphical nor explicit, just the right amount to let the unsettling situations be clear enough to watchers, and they’re always addressed correctly.

Child abuse/ Pedophilia: episode 3 (+4), about Ai’s traumas

Self-harm: episode 5 focuses on a girl with an eating disorder, forcing herself to vomit (not sure if that really counts as TW?)

When reblogging and adding your own propaganda, please tag me @best-underrated-anime so that I’ll be sure to see it.

If you want to criticize one of the shows above to give the one you’re rooting for an advantage, then do so constructively. I do not tolerate groundless hate or slander on this blog. If I catch you doing such a thing in the notes, be it in the tags or reblogs, I will block you.

Know one of the shows above and not satisfied with how it’s presented in this tournament? Just fill up this form, where you can submit revisions for taglines, propaganda, trigger warnings, and/or video.

[putrescentpoet]

memories aglow.

In the tranquil moment before twilight’s soft caress, a familiar symphony stirs the depths of my soul, summoning the echoes of ancient melodies. At the threshold of an eagerly awaited festival, nostalgia’s ethereal glow tenderly envelops my being.

Memories of childhood materialize, cast in the warm radiance of a myriad of lights—radiant flames pirouette, painting a gentle luminosity across the canvas of the past. The laughter, an ageless melody that once adorned the walls of my youth, now breathes stories of Diwali’s arrival.

The festival beckoned an immersion into the cradle of cherished traditions. Rangolis, intricate and resplendent, etched vibrant narratives upon the threshold, a vibrant invitation to gather friends and family. Each delicate stroke bore witness to the unyielding dedication, a testament awaiting collective adoration and joyful fellowship.

Guarding the rangoli became a sacred ritual, a labor of affection – carefully shielding it from heedless footsteps, chiding all who passed by to veer from its path: a miniature masterpiece, a symphony of colors and shapes that spun tales of their own.

The fleeting nature of this art provoked an internal tug-of-war; the longing to preserve its beauty, to savor those treasured final moments of the season. A tacit disagreement with Mumma ensued – a plea to let it linger a touch longer before customary tidying commenced. For within those grains of vibrant sand lay the very essence of love and warmth, encapsulating the ephemeral core of the festival.

The essence of this revered celebration lies not solely in the luminance of clay lamps but in the chorus of shared joy – a fragrance that dances through the air, mingling with incense and marigolds, evoking narratives, laughter, and familial warmth.

Each flickering flame within softly lit clay lamps encapsulates a myriad of memories, weaving shared smiles, stories, and the profound essence of familial bonds. It’s not just the brilliance of tradition but a collective embodiment of eternal light, symbolizing unity, harmony, and the grandeur of togetherness.

As I ready myself to revel in this celebration once more, I am transported back to an enchanting era of my past. This festive tale isn’t merely a notation on the calendar but an art form, woven with threads of nostalgia and echoes of laughter, promising the rekindling of cherished reminiscences, the rhythm of crafting intricate patterns, and an immersive embrace within familial warmth.

The luminous shades of this festivity, seen through the prism of my youth, have etched an indelible impression upon my spirit. Each passing year testifies that this celebration doesn’t wane; instead, it amplifies the echoes of love and weaves an ever-evolving tapestry of unity and enduring joy.

As the festival approaches, the echoes of ancient melodies and the vibrant glow of Diwali cast me back to cherished recollections. The festival isn’t just a celebration marked on the calendar; it’s an evocation of the heart, a tapestry interwoven with threads of nostalgia and laughter. It’s a tale that promises the revival of fond memories and the embracing of familial warmth, each passing year serving as a testament to its enduring essence. The anticipation of Diwali’s arrival grows every year, an annual embrace that weaves the echoes of love, illuminating the tapestry of unity and joy once more.

[sonicasura]

Tales of Father Rung: Sonic

The second part of Father Rung. For this one, it's Sonic the Hedgehog specifically his movie variation. There will be some changes to him though. Let's get started.

Rung finds little Sonic one week after the hedgehog ends up on Earth. The bot is heavily concerned not only for the toddler's condition but also the fact he's being hunted down. Rung takes Sonic intobhis care.

It was bit of a rocky road at the start. Rung knows what a humans needs but not an unknown hedgehog species. He can't forget that Sonic is small enough to fit in human pockets. The trauma the blue blur has was something Rung could tend to.

Absolutely got dragged despite Sonic being small and on a leash. Child harness was the only way. Sonic likes laying on his chest when Rung is lying down or in recharge. He does it less once he's older but never fully stops.

Sonic grew deathly ill when he was 6. Rung looked desperately for anything to save his ailing son. He finds a shard of the Paradox Prism which binds itself to Sonic. The hedgehog recovers but now has transformations utilized by other Sonics. Except for Werehog and Colors, Dark, Excalibur, Darkspine are weaker without a proper conduit.

Knuckles joins the family when Sonic's seven years old. An unintentional encounter between the hedgehog and echidna while Rung was out gathering supplies. Or therapist comes back to an impromptu adoption.

It took time for Knuckles to adjust into their peculiar family. Learning things outside his tribal warrior background was slightly less difficult. The echidna is not the type for sudden hugs at least by strangers.

Tails appears around a week after Knuckles' 9th birthday. Rung was absolutely not prepared to find the infant fox mobian outside the den. Much less raise him. The therapist still took up the task.

No letter was left behind when Tails been abandoned thus his nickname became his actual name. His unique two tails were loved and never seen negatively like in canon. Rung nearly had a spark attack when Tails taught himself how to fly. Even moreso once the fox acquired a plane.

The last member to join the mixed family (before TF shenanigans) is an amnesiac Shadow the Hedgehog. A warp ring malfunction dropped the family of four to where he was held on Tails' fifth birthday. The fox opened up the pod and brought Shadow to Rung. Poor bot couldn't withstand the birthday boy style puppy dog eyes paired with 'Can We Keep Him'.

It takes at least two years before Shadow gets his memory back. The hedgehog is still a bit closed off but shows his soft side around his family(and later close friends.) Search for the Master Emerald and clashes between Dr Robotnik(intruder from different universe) still occur. Hyper Sonic alongside Super Sonic are acquired in the aftermath.

G1

Rung was completely unaware of the Nemesis and Arc being on Earth much less the war being present here. Learns about the situation as their family home is next to where the Decepticons' spacebridge being built. The Cons discover Rung who been coming back from a grocery run.

Autobots get front row seats to Team Sonic go into protective mode and chase off the opposite faction. No one messes their dad. Rung can only sigh knowing the war is back now with his kids involved.

The family are taken into Autobot Protection which leads to moving in as their home isn't safe anymore. No bot knows the war is gonna get fully flipped over its head. Team Sonic guarantees that.

Rung prepares to profile the Decepticons. If their personalities are similar to those from his universe, getting them to stop the war is a viable strategy. Tails helps with the task.

New Challenge unlocked: Beat Sonic the Hedgehog in a race! The speedsters of Team Prime eager to try and outspeed the Blue Blur. A challenge happily taken in stride by Sonic although he ain't going easy on anyway.

Science bots get an assistant in the form of Tails. Wheeljack is quite ecstatic to teach such a young clever mind about Cybertronian engineering. Explosions are kept to a minimum thanks to Tails(and Rung's threatening parental aura.)

Wrecker style roughhousing with Knuckles. Shadow wants a nap but everyone is too loud especially the Wreckers. He often leaves to vibe with the Dinobots who like the tiny hedgehog creature alongside strange eyebrow bot.

Autobots and human companions get father treatment from dorky therapist. Everyone chuckles when Optimus gets forced to take a nap. Leaders need their rest too.

Transformation mayhem or how alien robots learn that the small blue hedgehog can transform too. Dark Sonic terrifies everyone with Darkspine in second place. Werehog being loved by Dinobots and Wreckers. Colors wreak havoc on Starscream while Megatron is forced to clash blades against Excalibur. Super Sonic and Hyper Sonic defeat Unicron.

Animated

The family of five's home had been near Detroit's outskirts. Until construction began to expand closer. Not wanting to lose their home, the kids begin to sabotage the construction whether by messing with the equipment or creating obstacles such as trenches and even walls.

This results in Team Prime being called in. Bumblebee gets taken by Knuckles so the rest of the team would follow. None had expect their friend being fine or Rung alongside his family. It became clear to Team Prime that they were just protecting their home.

The construction is cancelled under the clause of 'Endangered Species' in the area. (Actually true upon accidentally discovering a critically endangered deer species nearby.) This didn't stop the visits to come from Rung's family.

Sari gets some non-mechanical friends for once. The five play games and chat whenever they can. Rung is happy his sons now have more friends whether it be Sari or the young bots.

Night of the Werehog aka Sonic decides to be a little shit and scare his new friends. Successfully spooks everyone but Prowl who got the last scare. Fuzzy werehog later gets his fur ruffled by a curious Sari, Bulkhead, Bumblebee and Prowl.

Tails makes a lab underneath the Team Prime's home. Ratchet now has more efficient tools to repair his fellow bots and a fuzzy assistant. Grumpy medic gets to take more naps.

Rung casually dads Team Prime. Optimus is very awkward when it comes to positive words and hugs. Shadow just tells everyone to get used to it as he knows his father won't stop.

Mystical communication between dorky therapist, ancient life giver, robotic ninja, large green emerald and young echidna warrior. Knuckles feels a bit overwhelmed but becomes accustom to it overtime with Prowl's help. Both meditate in their spare time.

Decepticons and villains of the week get menaced by incredibly strong fuzzy animals. Detroit alongside Elite Guard are utterly confused with Team Prime's companions. Befuddlement increases when Rung gathers newly born bots like lost sheep and guide them.

Cybertron

Rung is immediately awakened one night by the destruction of Unicron. Tails discovers a massive black hole upon accidentally hijacking an Autobot video feed from Cybertron. Familiar of five gather info on how to stop this massive threat.

Red Alert uncovers a data transfer from Tails and sends the info to Optimus' team. Vector Prime immediately senses Rung once touching down on Earth. The sudden connection causes the therapist to collapse but also release a powerful signal when he was coming back with gifts for his four sons.

An accident that leads to an attack from an investigating Starscream, Thundercracker and Megatron. Team Prime to see Team Sonic defend Rung but also force the three Decepticons to retreat. Both now work together to stop the black hole.

Rung requests Vector Prime to not speak of his true identity. If he has to tell truth then it'll be on his terms. For now, Rung just wants to be treated as a father of four sons. Vector Prime respects the therapist's decision.

Minicon and human shenanigans increase with the addition of four Mobian siblings. Jetfire wants a break from energetic children but Tails always snares him via cuteness. Shadow pities the bot.

When a certain blue blur accidentally adds a fifth course to the Planet Cup: Sand Oasis. Or Sonic slips away to the Speed Planet for Darkspine practice. Everybot except for two factions are confused at seeing this strange hedgehog creature. Confusion later becomes shock when Sonic outspeeds Override.

Massive rumble on Jungle Planet as Big wolf Snarl meets small werehog Sonic, and smaller fox Tails. Protective instincts activate in lupine Beastformer while his rhinoceros teacher is amused. Knuckles doesn't like Scourge so much and Shadow hates mosquitoes the size of corgis.

Super Sonic vs Empowered Starscream followed by Super Sonic + Super Shadow + Primus + Rung vs Empowered Starscream 2.0. Battle of Five Titans while everyone scrambles for safety. Vector Prime is the only one watching in amazement.

Small Mobians on Gigantion leads to hysterical chaos. Massive bots are utterly awestruck at these even tinier visitors being so fast or powerful. Knuckles gets dubbed a 'Mini Wrecker' in the process. Rung struggles to wrangle his curious kids.

And that's it for now! Until next time folks, I'll race you back to Cybertron at super sonic speed!

[sophieswundergarten]

you know I hadda do it, soph. You know I HAD TO!!!!

Fractal Patterns My Beloved <3

"Reynie was nine years old when he met Miss Perumal, and suddenly it was like a whole new spectrum had been added to the rainbow.

There was the soft, mellow tone of her voice when she first shook his hand, skin smooth like a sun-warmed rock. The high, swooping sound of her laughter, always bouncing from place to place like a sunbeam through a prism.

It was as if there were sunlight leaking from every inch of her, and he couldn’t help but drink it up like a starving flower. There was honey in her voice and her soft smiles felt like a puff of dandelion seeds. Most people at the orphanage called him “Reynard”, and it came with a thick, mottled green of disgust. He had been trying to get them to switch to “Reynie” for years now, in the vain hope that it would come with a slightly more positive connotation."

ALSO:

"Reynie was eleven years old when he learned that Miss Perumal was there to stay.

He had just been through the most harrowing experience of his life, and as terrifying as it was, he had his friends to get him through it. Bonds forged in fire are stronger than most other things, and even in the chaotic swirl of fear and anger and jealousy that had been on the island, the small light of his friends’ love and care and bravery had helped.

That tiny flame, the little flicker of hope that mimicked the sun, made him realize how much he missed Miss Perumal. The warmth she carried everywhere with her was absent in all the students at the Institute; in the Messengers and Executives and teachers and there was definitely none of it in Mr. Curtain."

BLESSINGS BE UPON YA *bows to your greatness*

Okay! *cracks knuckles* Here we go!

I wanted to use the style of repetition that you have in a lot of your stories, but the first bit of that that I wrote was actually the descriptions!

It was from "and suddenly" all the way to "through a prism", and then I spent a good deal of time mulling over how, as you've said before about these two, "they are each others' sunshine" and most of the second paragraph spawned in my Notes app. I was really happy with how the imagery was sounding at that point, so I just let myself go all out with the descriptions. Usually I try and hold back, but I was fully in "go for it" mode at this point, so that's where all the descriptions of emotions and words as colors came in.

For the second part, I had fallen into more of a rhythm so it was flowing a lot easier. This whole fic was an attempt to slightly mimic your own beautiful way of writing; in that almost fable or fairy tale way you have. So I was really happy to lean into the descriptions.

Your fic has Reynie thinking about what exactly the emotion that the others feel for him is, and I wanted to capture that while still likening it to the sun. So, I thought fire was an apt metaphor; flame and flickers of emotion being a candle in a dark and frightening storm.

There's also the way Curtain and some of the children are described (Thank you again for picking up on that, by the way) as smoldering and burnt out coals. People who once held love but are now bereft of it, maybe due to circumstances beyond their own control, maybe to protect themselves, being represented by something that could hold a small facsimile of the sun seemed to have a good poetic balance to it.

But the children at the Institute are all alone; either they don't remember their family or their family doesn't seem to care enough to come back for them. It just seemed as though it would feel like a vacuum to those who still held fire in their souls.