#propeller knight kin

[urbodymytemple]

you evver like. havve thiz zhip, and. you kin one of the characterz. and you lovve the other one. zo you project that kin to imagine romantic zcenarioz wwith that other character— thuz filling up ur zelf-zhipping, kin-zhipping, and zhipping-in-general fuelz?

[llondonfog]

For the fic meme thing maybe some angst like Lilia protecting an injured silver maybe?

[✐meme] three sentence fic meme

As a soldier, there are certain limits to compassion on the battlefield. A moment's pause of sympathy could mean the difference between survival and a falchion in the throat, the choice to defend a companion gravely wounded bearing the cost of two lives instead of only one. Lilia has grieved this lesson in the blood of the dearest friends unsalvageable, forged it in the hardness of his battle-weary furnace heart; in wartime, duty can be all that matters.

( "Nothing else but Malleus' safety can be of importance when you're protecting the prince. Should anyone other than him be harmed, even yourself, you are to never waver in your duties— that is what it means to be his knight. Do you understand, Silver?" )

He has spent over five hundred years upholding the rules of war; one does not become Briar Valley's most celebrated General in acts of kindness and salvation. He has allowed the deaths of countless fellow fae standing by his side because he knew he could not save them, no matter how they may have screamed and pleaded otherwise. He is not some fledgling thrown into a world he does not understand, he knows how the game is played, the sacrifices that must be made.

So how is it, that as his son, his one and only darling, dearest son, crumples to the ground from a vicious strike of blinding viridescent lightning, Lilia finds his body and mind acting as one despite centuries of discipline to propel his limbs forward with a fear the likes of which he's never known?

Malleus still rages blindly before them, the shouts and desperate commands of those who had foolishly come to help echoing dimly above his head, but Lilia's awareness has been reduced to a wide expanse of Silver's torso that's been horrifically burnt away by the lightning bolt, the colors of his skin wrong and flesh mangled with melted uniform as an ugly stench begins to build in the air between them. And the boy, the blessed sweet child, is trying to fight against what must be a howling pain to fulfill his wretched father's ridiculous guidance, teeth clenched to stifle whimpers that pierce Lilia through the gut as if each one had been specifically designed to maim him in the worst way possible.

Lilia has never once turned his back in battle, but he falls over his son now, heedless of the streaks of colored lights crisscrossing the sky as spells are cast uselessly against the thick hide of dragon scales. His boy, his child, is lying injured in his arms, and Lilia has not one drop of magic to heal him.

"F—Father, you have to— Malleus-sama—"

"I'm afraid I will have to beg the prince's forgiveness, but to lose two family members in one day is simply something I cannot allow!"

It's only fitting then that he becomes Silver's shield while Kalim takes one look at the expression on his face and shouts desperately for help, altering the course of their battle as he's forced their friends to choose between the saving of their own. Only fitting that for Silver, for his chosen human child, he throws away the most callous of rules that had allowed him victory over the boy's kin.

Lilia's always known he'd go to war for this child; now, he supposes he'd stop one for him too.

[greysfic]

Stormspire Politics

The Stormspires, as you might infer, are mostly run by Stormlords; Magi whose powers concern electricity, air, and magnetism. There are three broad trends in their society; Traditionalists, Liberals, and Radicals.

The Traditional spires are effectively monarchies - an autocratic ruler who must be a Stormlord inheritor to the role. If no scion of the main dynasty is a Magus - and in some Spires, even if a Magus of another Pattern - a Stormlord from a cadet family may be elevated to rule. Cadet Magi are afforded positions of bureaucratic oversight for Spire territories, or military roles. Non-Mage kin are given enchanted arms and armour, and serve as knights. Traditional militaries tend to be smaller than their peers, but make up for it with a deep armoury of potent enchantments and raw magical might. Stormknights are not merely capable warriors and battlefield commanders; they are also puissant Magi.

For Traditionalists, old-fashioned enchanted gear, raw magical skill, and bloodline count for everything. Ordinary humans in their territory are little better than serfs and in this way our next subject diffuse their wickedness further.

Liberal Spires are ruled by a democratic committee... of Stormlords, other resident Magi, and owners of large businesses. Only Magi and their relatives have a vote or can run for a seat, with major trade partners effectively buying seats.

Liberal Spires defray a lot of admin to private enterprise; the Stormlords maintain the overall tower infrastructure, maintain law, collect tax, liaise with other powers, but anything else is largely left to businesses.

This is how business owners buy votes and seats; they procure food, raw materials, and so on from Trad Spires where workers are practically slaves, or exploit their own employees in territories with no labour protection. They buy land to mine or farm from the Liberal Spire councils and baffle attempts at regulation or inspection (bribery is as good as forging documents).

Then they sell their produce to the Liberal Stormlords at knock-down prices, or buy permits to sell to Liberal Spire inhabitants. In this way the Liberal Stormlords can claim to be enlightened democracies where non-Magi enjoy freedom of opportunity. They have a choice of merchants to buy from! They can start their own business!

"Where does Rybis Ironworks source their ore? Why, that's not our concern. Rybis simply ensure Valdis Spire's steelmills remain fed at a very reasonable cost, which in turn ensures all Valdis citizens enjoy the amenities of the Spire in peak condition."

Where Trad Stormlords like being old-school wizard-kings, Liberal Stormlords tend to be technocrats - they like working with manatech and theoretical thaumics over flashy displays of raw Magic or enchanted swords. In terms of military, they split their forces between private companies, small standing armies of Dims armed with manatech weapons, and powerful skyfleets of heavily armed airships.

Finally, there are the emerging Radicals. Stormlords born outside the Spire hierarchy, disaffected cadets, rebellious nobles. They spike their hair, pierce their tails, build their tools from scavenged parts, hang out with Dims in the lower decks smoking imported herbs and drinking exotic teas.

So far the ruling powers of the Spires don't take them seriously; arrogant and misguided youths who will return to the fold when they mature a bit. But the Radicals take manatech a step beyond the failsafes of the Liberals; they build it so you don't have to be a Mage to use it or need a Magus to power it.

One day, a Spire King is going to be very confused when he can't disenchant or break the strange tube that treasonous Dim is carrying, and then promptly nothing at all when a magnetically propelled slug ventilates his enchanted breastplate.

[blxxditout]

: ̗̀➛ @ofurizen liked for a STARTER .

It could only be described as second nature. He'd seen through the bramble of thorns that the stranger had gotten caught between a few other devils. Bearing their weapons and their claws, approaching as he was without his familiars, the bird and the panther he'd caught only glimpses of previously. This mysterious figure, whom he'd only encountered recently, was strong. Strong enough to exist out on his own, or whomever else he traveled with. But automatically, he had climbed over the iron fence keeping him from intervening. Ah, who was he anyway?

He was nobody, as the other was nothing to him, but he didn't want to see him get hurt. He seemed to strongly disagree with that notion as he came rushing in, nearly tripping over himself as he propelled forward at the knights in shining armor of whom he'd never be. He'd seen these before too, although he wasn't a big fan. Armor was harder to pierce, not as easy to bend and break like the other lesser demons were. It didn't stop him from trying, or from slamming himself into the closest one to Shakespeare. His arm was sore, and a bruise was sure to form, but what did that matter?

Eyes and blades redirect themselves to him, it'd seem they'd have another victim to cut into. One runt after the other. How precious.

Sid flexes his hand, knuckles cracking as he forced his hands to become more than what his flesh would allow. Skin breaks as energy ripples up his arms, with thick plates sprouting over the nerves of his hands. Claws form over the tips of his fingers as he catches a sword aimed for his head. He drives the Angelo back, pushing hard as the blade scrapes along his palm. It always hurt to do this, but it would've hurt more if he had tanked the blow another way. Though the sudden change has caught their attention now. This mere human--, no... for a mere human could not do this.

A human could not bleed the blood of their blood, nor bear the markings of their kin. The red veins along the carapace was of human blood, but so clearly was that the hide of a devil. Sid kicks it back, releasing the sword just as the blood on his hand curdled to hardened crystals. He had a growl in his throat as he moved back, splaying his hands and glaring at anything that tried to come between him and the summoner. They're closing in, and it forces the plates to start growing further up his arm, tearing at his sleeves as they jut out at the forearms.

A pitiful attempt to activate a devil trigger, but he didn't have the proper means to do one. Not even if he wanted to save himself and V.

"Are you okay?", he asked, lifting his arms to try and form a better barrier between himself and the other.

[kin-dice-recs]

Hey, how abt some dice for Propeller Knight from Shovel Knight? Thank you so much!

There’s a set that comes to mind immediately for colors that’d suit you--the Chessex Gemini Green/gold. I have this one, and like all Gemini dice, it's great to turn around in your hand and look at all the patterns!

-Mod Ash

[findingkinpartners]

Hi! I'm Plague Knight from Shovel Knight and I'm looking for Tinker Knight, Specter Knight and Propeller Knight. I was together with Tinker and Specter, and Specter Knight was also with Propeller Knight in my canon! If any of that sounds familiar, hmu!!

♥♥♥

[bloodytempest]

Out in the grey stone courtyard was the hunched figure of pale matted tangles. If something lay beneath the heap it was difficult to ascertain. The smell was repugnant, offensive to even the most desensitized, causing all four that had gathered to sneer at the beast; one dramatically placing the back of her hand to her nose.

“What is it doing here?” “Why did it come?” “How did it manage?”

They chattered amongst themselves gawking out the window, buzzing with curiosity. The clicking of their gathered tools against the window seemed to grab its attention as frosted irises clouded with malignancy could be seen through the snarl of white surrounding its face.

A slather of coagulated gore drooled from its jaws and splashed onto the cobbles, causing a stir amongst the hidden, pensive monsters that gathered in the shadows eager to rend the intrusive flesh— held only at bay by one. Her once knitted brows slackened some, one crawling upward with suspicion.

“Girls. Hush”.

She commanded, firmly, but devoid of scolding, they obeyed immediately, still grinning and fluttering about as they flitted from window to window hoping to see it better. The hulking mass, as if sensing the excitement it stirred, gave a few throaty, heaving breaths and proceeded to drag itself further into the center of the courtyard, dragging behind it the ruined cruel twist of metal that was meant to resemble a blade.  It was as caked in viscera as the creature, surely rusted, though it would be impossible to discern. Twisted, muscular limbs rippled through the mange like gaps in its coat, billowing clouds of steam issuing from jaws that seemed painfully contorted.

“Stay here”.

The girls stopped immediately and stared up at their imposing mother, respect and cruel hunger in their eyes. Alcina acknowledged them not, instead moving past, gesturing them further from the door, then pushing it outward into the mild, but still chilled outdoors. Harsh light reflected off her white gown making her a beacon, either reverent salvation, or damnation, but just as the bent beast stalled, so did the lady of the castle, each gathering the other’s measure.

With a gesture of her hand long, black needle like claws extended from her fingers, length enough to skewer the intruder where it panted, drooling before her, yet still she hesitated, an innate curiosity just as persuasive as the girls’ driving her to seek answers. As if sensing that the moment for revelation was nigh the creature leaned back, exposing its chest and prominent rib cage, revealing a horrifying mess of riveted metal plating and sparking wires soldered to a blinking component somewhere in the region of where its heart might be.

At first Alcina was sure it was a trap and made to attack the beast, but she faltered as it dug its claws into its own chest, wrenching and tearing at the metal bolted to its decaying flesh. Steam surrounded it thickly, gouts of blackish ooze bubbling and splashing out of its mouth and the surrounding area, jettisoned streams from its chest propelling the fluid-like substance as it tore itself apart. It had been some time since Alcina felt herself horrified, but this sight was shocking in its strangeness if nothing else. When it had started upon the business of freeing itself form the contraption an invigorated strength had come into its limbs, now, however, it seemed to be waning and though the light had finally fizzled and died, the plate was still bolted fast and the creature was no longer able to stay upright.

It dropped, defeated, one hand still caught under where it had gained purchase, the other claw fastened tight to the weapon it had been assigned.

Mercy was something Lady Dimitrescu did not cater to, the extent of her maternal care ending at the concerns of her daughters (all three now staring raptly out the window). Perhaps it was the idea of this one escaping its master and seeking freedom, or perhaps just the petty idea of turning this one against its repugnant creator that drove her to assist in its plight. Whichever influenced her to shear the fabrication from its abused body, it mattered little in the end. As it reared up to expose its abused form to her in one last burst of vivacity, a desperate, triumphant howl burst from the beast’s jaws; reverberating off the stone walls, deafening the sound of the metal clang as the defeated construction fell away. Involuntarily the creature collapsed in a heap of rapidly staining white, reaching its claws out to the lady of the castle, tongue lolling outside the contortion of its mouth.

Unconscious, it could not recount the gleeful cheers of the eager women inside as Alcina drug the heft of its mangled corpse inside. Her biting remarks about its stench and how it had stained her cream colored dress irreversibly falling on ears deaf either from unconsciousness or flighty excitement. This beast would have no memories of having a second Cadou stitched into the gaping cavity of its chest; nor few others of what had befalllen it much before its--his capture and subsequent torture in the factory. He was merely complacent to the cheers from Alcina’s daughters asking if they were going to keep him, no matter how many times the giantess reminded them that he was just as likely to die again at any moment.

Despite all this, something resembling personality did resurface, though great damage had been done. Mute, sluggish, metabolism reduced to the point of needing a bare minimum to sustain himself, capable of savage destruction should he feel defensive, yet with some show of care toward Alcina and her daughters. The girls eagerly busied themselves with tidying up the creature, combing out its long wild mane. Shearing away matted fur, digging shrapnel out of his flesh and cleansing the fetid skin to reveal a scarred over tissue.

While he slowly regenerated with the help of the Cadou securing its place inside him, feeding off of its kin which had festered, some of his more monstrous features began reducing; remembering their formerly human shape. He still bore a wolfishness and his pale eyes retained their pallor, pigment long since absent from his system, but there was a humanity to his face, the major extremities to his features smoothed. They dressed him what rich garb they could find, as long as plated armor and called him their knight, laughing as he complacently obeyed their whims, whether it be to sit idle while they braided his hair or have him stand guard in the courtyard brandishing his new blade— this one of much finer craftsmanship— in hand.

[kainenmarlowe]

Deprived

It was close to midnight by the time Kainen reached his destination: a placid and tucked-away beach a few malms out from Costa del Sol. He was quick to unsling his pack from one shoulder and his polearm from the other. The former was allowed to fall where it may, the latter was thrust butt-end into the soft La Noscean sand, where it stood upright for only a second before tipping and falling unceremoniously to the ground. The display garnered only a glance over the shoulder and a roll of the eyes. At the end of a day as arduous as this, the only thing occupying his mind was the quiet swim ahead. If this didn’t clear his head, nothing would.

With a series of clicks and snaps, the buckles and fasteners of the hunter’s leather armor were released and it, too, sloughed lazily to the earth to cover his footprints. The sand could be swept off easily enough; it was the mud and dried blood from earlier which would be a chore. But that was a problem for tomorrow.

Only a few fulms out from the current reach of the tide, Kainen rolled back on his heels and fell in reverse with abandon, letting the soft sand cushion his rear. He brought his leg up with a groan to pull a filthy boot off his right foot, then again for his left. One hand then reached up to grab the collar of his undershirt and - in a swift, singular motion - he whipped the whole thing off and over his head before tossing it in the vague direction of where his armor lay. A protesting sigh followed as he lifted himself back to a standing position. The buckle at his waist was released with a ‘click’ and his pants collapsed around his ankles. The underpants, however, were staying on. Anonymity was hardly cause to abandon dignity. Besides, Halone was still watching.

At least, he hoped she was.

Kainen took a moment to enjoy the feeling of the warm air on his skin and the light coastal breeze which fluttered about the tips of his hair. The scent of salt on the wind instantly sparked his memory, triggering a poignant recollection of a better time - and for the briefest moment, his worries gave way to sweet nostalgia. The feeling was instantly fleeting, of course, but it did give him enough cause to consider the hike out a worthwhile one. He could feel his tension unwinding already.

A series of strides brought him waist-deep in the surf, and he dove forward into the first wave that greeted him. The cooler temperature, the washed-out sound, the weightlessness - it all proved to be instantly therapeutic. With a powerful stroke, he shot forward against the flow. Then again and again until the sea floor retreated below him. He curled into a ball before kicking his feet toward the surface to propel himself deeper. The water offered little resistance, for he was well-acquainted with its nature and knew precisely how to bend himself to best comply with its immutable laws. With each stroke, he sought to swim further and further out from the shore.

As soon as the changing pressure in his ears became noticeable, Kainen oriented himself skyward and had breached the surface with only a few minimal motions. The raven locks now covering his face like a mop were flung back with a swift jerk of the head, allowing him to observe the scene a significant distance from shore.

Stillness surrounded - the stars both hanging static above and dancing along the water’s surface below. A glance cast about revealed neither spoken nor creature in the visible vicinity. The only sounds were that of the water: the distant lapping of waves against the shore, Kainen’s own arms treading delicately back and forth, and the arc of droplets he had sent soaring overhead now pattering back to the sea. Significantly more relaxed, he took a lengthy breath in and rolled to float idly on his back - his gaze left to search the tapestry of stars above.

“This is not so bad,” he thought, well aware that it was only a feeble attempt to convince himself that a day slogging through muck to slay scalekin because some wine patrician wanted a unique flavor of handbag was anything but a far cry from the halcyon dream made real he had lived in Ishgard. He searched the sky, as if it would hold some sort of validation for him. The stars simply twinkled back, indifferent.

“This is...for the best,” was the justification he settled on, then. Out here, those around him weren’t susceptible to the danger which followed him. And they weren’t susceptible to his evidently harmful brand of social incompetence. Or his abject impotence in carrying out his vocation. They wouldn’t suffer for his failure any more.

“At least the populace at large knows not of my misdeeds. Not even the rest of the Order, it would seem. Only those present at the hearing know. And perhaps a handful of other individuals… Still, out here I cannot bring such hurt to the good folk of Eorzea. Or the people I considered my friends. I can simply disappear into obscurity. Indeed, this is a fate befitting a Sinner.”

Brow furrowed and jaw clenched as he allowed his introspection to run unchecked.

“But what of the impacted and afflicted in the Brume? Surely they will continue to sling their ire undeservedly at the Pillars, or worse - the Dravanians. Was it really best for the Order to have erred on the side of leniency for the sake of clandestinity?”

As the dissonance mounted, Kainen let out a heavy exhale through his nostrils - until no breath remained in his lungs. Having relinquished his buoyancy, he allowed himself to slip beneath the water’s surface and drift slowly downward. His train of thought followed.

“At the time, I was willing to let my dearest friends beg for Halone’s mercy on my behalf. For what? My inadequacy saw them punished for it. Objectively, the greater good would have been to hang me up in the central square at noon. They could place a signpost on my grave: ‘This man allowed your families to die. Sleep well knowing the Fury has wrought her justice.’ At least tensions would have eased and the people could more easily work toward the peace they deserve.”

One minute passed. Then another. The shimmering sky from before was naught but the faintest glow down here, and before long, the inky blackness had become so thick, the outline of the wispy raven hair in his periphery could no longer be discerned against the encroaching void.

Five minutes. He should have touched bottom by now. Perhaps the movement of the tide was enough to keep him suspended indefinitely, or perhaps the current had sucked him out further than expected...

Regardless, he was content to savor the sensations, or lack thereof. Heightened though they were, all of his senses had now become almost completely muted - and not just the five primary ones. His body temperature could be ice cold or feverishly hot for all he could tell. His limbs could be anywhere, or they could have simply vanished alongside his track of time. He had not drawn or released breath in some time, and his pulse had slowed to a crawl.

His inner monologue followed suit - receding into restful silence, save for a last, lingering thought:

“At least mother did not live to be disappointed. She only knew me at my best. For as inadequate as I have become, at least she could claim to have been proud until the end.”

The small comfort afforded by this reassurance was enough to tip Kainen’s mind into balance upon the fragile fulcrum that held him at the point between consciousness and lack thereof. It was this sustained twilight which he had been trained for years to achieve and maintain, even amidst the chaos of battle. Though it had been well over two cycles now since he had last slipped into this state, the deprivatory environment into which he had unwittingly allowed his own distractions to lead him ended up providing the perfect conditions for an unplanned recurrence.

In maintaining this state with no temporal articulation - allowing himself to fall neither to unconsciousness nor waking - all distinctions between now, earlier, and later had drifted away; all perception had dissolved into a nebulous, fuzzy ether; and, perhaps most importantly, his troubles, fears, and preoccupations retreated like waves from a rocky shoreline. It was in this neutral, timeless dreamscape - free of waking life’s miresome web of anxieties and pursuits - that stillness was at its most absolute. And it was at the peak of this stillness where Kainen felt a presence. It was one which had not appeared or made itself known; rather, it seemed to have been uncovered upon the washing away of corporeal sensation. The imperceptible static of his current consciousness began to coalesce into discarnate echoes; and eventually, into a synchronous, discernible notion:

“O what great cowardice is on display, with thy writhing and thy self-dismay!”

It was a ‘voice’ of the same formless quality as one’s own inner monologue, yet the thought was not his. The language wasn’t even his native and singular Eorzean, but the message was clearly understood, having come from within. The cadence was achingly slow, and its tone wholly derisive.

“Canst thou feel my ire, o knight of men? Tis not a death in service of my kin which I rue. Nay, tis my afterlife which I resent - here as part of thee, who hath since proven wholly unfit to carry my essence.”

Kainen could feel himself teetering at the brink of that familiar moment when one can feel their dream collapsing around them, yielding to a swift and inevitable awakening. But something was holding him there in that liminal space - and he couldn’t tell if it was his own force of will, or something else entirely.

“Art thou a man? Art thou a mouse? Or art thou but a foolish child, resigned to cast thy litany of laments into night after dispassionate night? Didst thou not think the warrior’s path to be fraught with the trials of thy hopes and fears laid bare upon the rocks?”

Though formless and voiceless, the presence certainly emanated a sort of hostility - one which Kainen was eager to escape from. Any attempt to open his eyes, thrash his body about, or otherwise awaken, though, was utterly futile. He was paralyzed. Senseless and unable to control himself in any manner, he felt completely subject to the will of this indeterminate entity.

“Still, thy temples stand amidst the smoulders, do they not? Art thou not capable of this selfsame resilience? Or dost thou revel in thine self-imposed exile? Tell me, knight of man, what is it that thou seek? For all which now lies in the grave of thy pride is a deplorable heap of misery.”

Kainen made a conscious attempt to speak or even to give a thoughtform reply, but it was for naught. He was completely helpless. A tightening sensation began to permeate the space and at that point, a dire realization emerged: he was still underwater.

“If thou art so resigned to withdrawal in the face of adversity, so be it. Thus is my directive, then: retreat not to thy tenuous climes of finite security. Retreat instead...inward. As thou hast done in times past. For while thy mettle hath faltered, mine burns fiercer than ever!”

“Abandon thy perceptions and surrender thyself to me!”

“Forsake thine eyes!!”

Though entirely existing within Kainen’s subconscious, the voice was thundering. Its echoes reflected infinitely off of distant, nonexistent walls, gradually morphing into a cacophonous, booming dissonance which only served to intensify the heightening sensations of pressure and exponentially increasing panic. The chorus decayed, finally, leaving in its wake an acute, high-pitched ringing that intensified in equal measure with the suffocating weight of his now-collapsing consciousness.

So this was to be it, then. This was how he was going to die. Not in defense of country or comrade; nor fulfilled and surrounded by love. It was to occur unseen and unceremoniously; an accident of absent-minded caprice and nothing more.

Indeed, this is a fate befitting a Sinner.

A cooling air could be felt caressing his skin, then. A concrete sensation, at last. Reflexively, a sharp breath was drawn in, triggering a harsh cough in turn as a mix of salty water and mucus washed back in his throat. Kainen could feel himself expelling, but into what was beyond him - at least until the small bursts of light behind his eyelids coalesced into colors, then shapes. Focus eventually came to reeling mind and body, both, and his eyesight aligned to take in the scene.

He was on the beach again; and standing, curiously enough. It was still nighttime, that much was clear - though he caught no indication of how much time had passed. A wave brushed against his heel and enveloped his foot to ankle-depth, prompting the sand to gently give way beneath. Beleaguered by stimuli, he groaned as he took a few weary steps out of the surf and onto dry sand - casting a sidelong glance to find his clothes, pack, and weapon a good distance down the shoreline. As he began the slog to rejoin his personal effects, he breathed a heavy sigh - behind it, as much relief as was exhaustion.

Though quite content to simply breathe air again, Kainen couldn’t help but entertain the thoughts and implications emerging in the back of his mind: how much of what had occurred was real, or was it entirely imagined? A hallucination, perhaps, or simply an overactive imagination?

He hearkened back to the training he had undergone eight-or-so years prior, in preparation to join the Dragonsong War. Aside from the plentiful physical honing were the mental exercises imparted by his instructors: interstitial meditation, focal release, sensory deprivation... The results were undeniable, especially when aided and amplified by the equipment and slowed physiology they had granted him. But nothing like this had ever occurred. No hallucinations. No voices. No loss of memory or consciousness. He had always been in control.

...Right?

[prismaticquartz]

ok so i think im content with my kins!!! I had alot of hollow knight kins but with shovel knight i think 2 characters is fine!!

Propeller Knight: *exists*

.....uhhhhhhhhh mAYBE ONE MORE WOULDN’T HU-

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

[Untitled] [Solas & Lavellan]

For @buttsonthebeach and @dadrunkwriting

Tags/Tw: blood, injury, graphic injury, major character death, harm to Solas, post-Trespasser

Words: 2.6k

Rating: Mature

===

“Hahren.”

Elara’s voice is clear, if tired–and far too close. Solas turns and slips, falls to his knees in the mingled mud and gore of the battlefield. Fire ratchets up his wounded leg, a bespelled arrowhead still embedded deep into his thigh from an earlier injury. It festers without his permission and pays his objection–and spells–no mind.

“Solas, it’s time for this all to stop.”

“Is it, Inquisitor?”

He bows with exhaustion over his knees, hand straying to the wound. A myriad of others pepper his skin–a crossbow bolt that grazed his shoulder and tore off the pauldron on its way, a bloody gash across his cheek where a lucky knife had struck. Solas can count four broken ribs on one side alone and knows the ligaments in his left knee have been torn beyond repair. His vision swims without focus in a way that only heralds head injury. 

He takes an aching breath in and breathes out a healing spell whose cool mana plays over his skin to little effect. The only thing he can do now is to ignore the injuries, to focus on anything else.

She comes, sword in hand. Her vallaslin glows an unearthly green-gold from her face, the light straying down her throat. Elara bears the evidence of heavy battle; her flesh arm runs red from the elbow, blood seeping through the seams of her vambrace and gauntlet to drip down her fingers. Her chest-plate is covered in dents and abrasions beneath the mud and viscera that clings to the metal. Elara tears off her helmet and tosses it between them. Her hair, matted with blood, sticks sickly down her brow and cheek. Solas can smell death on her, following her footsteps.

Elara stops before him, a scant thirty feet separating them.

“Hahren,” Elara says again, and only this time does he hear her desperation.

Ichor drips from her sword’s fine edge. Falon’din’s grace wreathes through her aura; the geas has seeped into her skin like a puppet’s strings pulled by an invisible hand. Solas has no doubt that it is Falon’din’s compulsion that propels her forward with jerky, halting steps.

“Elara.” Her name falls from his lips on a sigh. “We’re too late, I’m afraid.” Solas sweeps his gaze toward the heavens; the scars of the Veil are hardly visible here, on this no-name plain in some human empire, but they’re there. Solas can feel them in the way his heart beats erratically in his chest, in the way his shoulders are the lightest they’ve been in thousands of years. 

The Veil has fallen. The freed Fade permeates every rock and tree and creature of this world anew, casting the old world aside.  

Solas coughs, covering his mouth with belated politeness, and is unsurprised when his palm comes back stained an angry, wrathful red.

“You can stop this.” 

She always believed in him, despite the coolness that grew between them, verging on distrust. Elara had trusted him, once, tentative and wary. Solas barks out a wheezing flash of laughter. What good had it done either of them?

“I don’t think I can,” he murmurs. “Though I will admit to wishing for just that.”

She’s closer now, an arm’s length, maybe two, away. Elara’s hand is clutched tight around the hilt of her ironbark sword. Her arms shake–all of her shakes. Solas can briefly see the child panicking beneath her stoic, blank-faced mask.

Something in him folds like leaves in a storm and Solas buckles, an intangible gale battering against him to rend him immobile.

“Calm, now, Fen’Harel,” Elara says, but it is not her voice, they are not her words. “The time for reaping is at hand.”

His eyes shut for but a moment. “Lethanivir.” Solas huffs, and everything in him aches. He would not be surprised if he were actively consumed by an invisible fire; every inch of him burns from the inside out. “It’s been some time. Tell me, how is life in the Blackened City?”

Falon’din’s smile curves across Elara’s face, sinister despite her own warmth. It’s gentler here, on mortal lips. “She trusted you, you know,” Falon’din says casually, “in the beginning. But you never warmed to her, not as you did to the others, even as you stuck by her side.” 

He closes the distance and crouches at Solas’ flank, the creak of Elara’s armor barely heard above the din of the fighting around them. He drops her sword to the ground without a care. The way he tilts their head is so quintessentially him, but the motion is foreign, alien on Elara’s frame. It’s jarring in the worst ways.

“That’s simply the way of it, isn’t it?” Falon’din sighs, brows pinched with feigned concern. “Who could trust the Dread Wolf? You never were a good friend, Pride. Not before, and not now.”

“If being such meant allowing the continued subjugation of our people, then no,” Solas wheezes. “I am glad to have never been a good friend.”

Falon’din only regards him, Elara’s dark eyes glowing with the same green-gold of Falon’din’s magic. Their mouth twists. “We could have had it all,” Falon’din says lowly. His gaze softens. He brushes their fingers errantly over the torn edges of what remains of Solas’ blood-streaked fur mantle. “We were meant to rule. We still can, the two of us,” he says, like a secret, like an oath.

In his peripheral vision, Solas sees the ocean-blue glow of power at his fingertips. “That we did was an accident of fate, nothing more,” he grits out. His voice booms through the plain. “No one desiring power deserves it–us least of all.”

“The great and powerful Fen’Harel, so self-loathing.” Falon’din’s lip curls with disgust and he pulls away. “You were created to rule. You are a God, called to this world to lead. Come, Pride, rise from the muck. We will take our rightful places, you and I. Think of what we could do together.”

Solas shakes his head. “You know I cannot.” He looks up to Elara’s face, the mortal mask of his immortal kin. “Is she still there?” he asks. “The Inquisitor?”

They smirk, sick and thin. “She is,” Falon’din says with a gleeful nod. He flexes their fingers and studies their hand with exaggerated fascination. “This one is mine, completely.”

“She didn’t know what it meant when she chose your sigil, Reaper–you could have been any of us. Your being here is an accident, not an act of fate.”

“And the results would have been the same, would they not? You still would have cast down your precious Veil, and we still would strike the moment you sundered the chains you had wrought. No matter whose symbol this one wears, she will always be your doom.” Falon’din pauses. “You always did have a soft spot for the broken ones, but you rarely broke your own toys.” He flicks the fingers of their prosthetic hand idly.

Solas snorts, and Falon’din’s smile slips. “You know what happens next,” Solas says. His blood pulses with magic and the immortal poison that corrupts it as he struggles to his knees. “I killed your last avatar. I will destroy this one, as well.”

“You always did like wrecking my things.” Falon’din sighs, heavy and put-upon. He shrugs their shoulders. “But I think, dear Wolf, that this time will be different. Even now, even with the Mother’s grace, you wane–and when you finally fall, I shall be the one to take you.”

Falon’din’s magic flutters erratically around Elara’s frame, just out of mortal sight, and Solas sharpens his gaze on her face, past the veneer of the god that wears her visage. “Elara,” he says, quickly. “You are Elara Virenehn, of clan Lavellan. You are Lavellan’s knight. You are–you are the pride of your people. You must remember.”

Their aura lights in bursts of magic. “What–what are you doing?”

Solas leans forward, reaching for her, hands scrabbling at Elara’s vambrace and the enchanted prosthetic that rebuilt her left arm–the hand he had to take, the hand he had unwittingly poisoned with his plans, her hand the symbol of his continued failure. 

He can’t give her much, but he must try. 

“Remember your clan. The lessons of your Keeper. You can fight him, Elara. You must.”

Their hands spasm. Their flesh arm twitches, clenches, as if pulling against an unseen force. Sweat begins to bead along their shared brow. 

“Good,” Solas whispers. “You’re strong. Remember that, Elara–you are strong, stronger than most. You must close your mind to him. He is but a spirit, twisted by his delusions of godhood.”

Falon’din screeches. Their sword-hand opens, agonizing in the slow-motion movement, and he stretches to reach Elara’s discarded sword. “She is mine, Pride! You will not take her!” 

Solas grits his teeth, hands sinking into the edges of Elara’s vambrace to hold her back, but Falon’din shoves him back with a backlash of magic, strong enough to bring Solas to his knees in the muck.

With a pained, drawn-out groan, Falon’din drives their hand to the earth and finds purchase around the leather-wrapped handle of her sword. He rises to their knees clumsily, as if fighting for every inch. The oppressive compulsion for stillness temporarily lifted, Solas comes to his feet with a clatter of his own armor.

“My friend,” Solas whispers. Falon’din fights for control beneath his gaze, rising to their feet, hand gripped so tight around the handle of Elara’s sword that it bleeds. Solas trails his fingers over Elara’s temples, fingers glowing with the weight of the spell that would break her bindings.

His mouth has barely shaped the first syllable of the blessing when the sword drags through his armor to pierce him. It digs into his ribcage as it passes.

“Pride,” Falon’din pants. Sweat drips freely down their face, clinging to Elara’s dark lashes, drawing clear tracks in the dirt that mars their cheeks. “You always thought–ngk–that you had the upper–upper hand.”

Solas’ hands flutter. He reaches deep within himself as blood wells in his mouth. Mythal’s grace lay dormant in his chest; she was the better healer of the two of them, and her storm-tossed ocean of power is as calm as a dead sea where it beat in time with his own heart just a moment before.

But, as loathe as he is to claim it, Fen’Harel is his own god.

His dwindled power courses through him, a wellspring quickly running dry as it races to pour out from his fingers. The world falls away and still, with trembling lips, he shapes the spell. Solas brushes the holy fire over Elara’s face, tracing the brand that tethers her to the fallen Evanuris, and watches as the thick, black lines of her vallaslin begin to evaporate into smoke. The scream that tears from her throat is a deafening, multilayered chorus.

Her poisoned blade rips through Solas’ gut as Falon’din flails in his attempts to escape.

Solas fights to keep his hands on her, scrabbles for every point of contact. It’s not complete, not yet. If any mark of her brand remains she could stay tied to the god for as long as he wishes, unable to counter his commands. Solas repeats the blessing and wrings more of himself out with the spell even as his blood falls freely to color the earth beneath them.

Falon’din’s shrieks echo over the land and buffet against Solas and his magic like a great storm. He kicks and punches and slaps at whatever he can reach with Elara’s hands, leaving her blood upon the dirty, worn metal of Solas’ armor.

Solas dips his hands along the column of her throat, the little of it that lay exposed by her armor. He’s close, he knows; Elara’s vallaslin drips from her brow to her collarbones, and it’s almost burnt from her face. Solas grunts when Falon’din pulls the sword out only to slice into him again, and again, the enchanted ironbark bolstered further by Falon’din’s magic.

Solas falters. Falon’din’s compulsion sweeps over him once more, demanding his submission. It floods his mind and bears down enough to break his concentration, and in his fumbling, Falon’din stabs him once more.

“If you will not yield, Pride,” Falon’din pants, “I will tear out your heart and scatter your form to the winds. I will rend your power from your bones!”

“No–nnnng–need.” Solas grips Elara’s shoulders and pulls himself up the blade of her sword. There’s not much left–he must be quick, he must–he must—

Solas curls himself into her in a mockery of a lover’s embrace and lets the spell burn through him. Holy fire courses through every cell of his being; it scalds like the lava fires of the Deep Roads, bursting from his chest. Falon’din screams in his ear.

The world whites out, and Falon’din’s voice fades.

=

“Solas. Hahren, Solas, please. Wake up, please wake up.”

He wavers in and out. The Fade colors the edges of his vision when he blinks his eyes open. Elara hovers over him, her face blotting out the sky.

Elara is free of the vallaslin. She is bloody and torn, but she is free.

“Inquis—” A wracking cough interrupts him; his hand comes back covered with blood and spittle.

She shifts where she kneels beside him. “Don’t talk. By the�� Don’t talk.”

“There is… so much… to say.”

“No,” Elara says. Panic rises in her voice. “Stay, please. You’re a god, one of the Creators.” She traces her fingertips over the mangled wolf’s head on his chestplate; he watches her expression morph to dismayed grief when they are stained red with his blood. “You–you can heal yourself.”

“Too powerful, Lethanivir… But not for you.” Solas chuckles weakly. “Surprised me again.”

Elara keens and bends forward, covering him with a curtain of dark curls. “I have to save you. I have to. If I cannot fulfill my duty to my people, then what good am I?”

“That path… leads to destruction. I… should know.” He coughs and something in him snaps. Solas sags, boneless, into the biting edges of his mangled armor. It will be soon, he knows. Will the Fade recognize him in his true form? Will he be remembered?

“What happens now?” Her voice lies muffled against his armor. “If the gods aren’t truly gods, then where do we go? What happens when we die?”

“I am not sure,” Solas admits, “but… I go knowing you are here… and that is enough.”

“Solas—”

“Pride of the Elvhenan. Elara of the Dalish.” His laugh is barely a stuttered breath. “I had broken our people… and you brought them together… once more… to fight me.”

“To save the world,” she says fiercely. Elara mutters under her breath, a prayer or curse or both, her voice shaking. “Solas… He called you Pride…”

“Yes.”

“Does… Does that mean you were a spirit of wisdom once, or of pride? In the days of Arlathan?”

“The distinction… is not so simple,” he grits out. “Pride and wisdom… friend and enemy… many are both and–and neither.” His vision swims, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. “Before, when the Song… was everywhere… the Mother called me. She gave me gifts… asked for my counsel.” Blood foams at the corner of his mouth and drips down his chin.  

Elara’s hand is blazing hot against the cold of his cheeks. “I forbid it, Solas,” she says, the long-dormant authority strong as silverite in her words. Her tone offers no argument but her own. “You must stay. I order you to stay, Creator or not. You bound yourself to my Inquisition.”

And see where it got us, he thinks, chuckling inwardly. “Don’t cry, lethallin,” he says, though he’s not sure it comes out as such. “Spirits are… never truly gone.”

The green of the Fade spins merrily in his mind’s eye, and he can feel the Song flooding over his skin, sinking into his bones with a soothing familiarity.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” Elara whispers. “Be free, Solas.”

Ma serannas, Elara, Pride of the People. Solas sighs and lets the Song lull him to sleep.

[ahb-writes]

Book Review: ‘Skeleton Knight in Another World’ #1

Skeleton Knight in Another World Vol. 1 by Enki Hakari My rating: 4 of 5 stars Life would be so much easier if one were a top-class Holy Knight with ridiculous weaponry, magical abilities and archival knowledge—unless, of course, one is a top-class Holy Knight with no freaking idea where the hell one is or how is one goes about getting back home. SKELETON KNIGHT IN ANOTHER WORLD is a mid-range fantasy isekai light novel that gleefully merges consequential violence with the brittle humor wrought by a guy who, again, has no real clue what he's doing. Arc is over-powered. Readers know this from the start. He's a hulking mass of shiny armor, possesses an enormous sword of untold strength and has a knack for skill-recall that enables him to cast or call forth spells and strategies for almost every conflict or occasion. Arc, simply put, is a flawless character. Well, technically, he's a flawless character type, and that's where the storytelling of SKELETON KNIGHT IN ANOTHER WORLD is truly at its best.

No cultured consumer of literature enjoys a character who is perfect in every way. Fortunately, Arc isn't perfect; he's naïve, more than a bit ignorant and his tendency to go with whatever works for any given scenario regularly shortchanges him in the long run. If Arc was smart, then he'd be making inquiries of the royalty he saved and he would interrogate the ninja cat girl he nearly scared half to death. And while Arc is kind and sincere, his wait-and-see approach with this strange new fantasy world leaves him empty handed: that princess's kingdom is under siege, in secret, from neighboring lands; that ninja girl is cruising the shadows in an effort to free her kin from slavery.

To admire such an archetype is not uncommon. Arc inspires awe wherever he goes and through whatever actions he takes. He is perfect. Ideal.

This novel is one massive self-insert; it's a book that hinges on the eternal what-if regarding gamer life and the mid-range fantasies so many indulge on a daily basis. On this point, it is not at all surprising to find the novel oddly overwritten and dry. A buff knight? With untold magical knowledge? Who is equally charismatic and violent? To admire such an archetype is not uncommon. Arc inspires awe wherever he goes and through whatever actions he takes. He is perfect. Ideal. It is most appropriate, then, that beneath the veneer of armor and swordplay and magic, the man is nothing but idle bones. . . SKELETON KNIGHT IN ANOTHER WORLD has a good deal of physical violence, multiple scenes framing sexual assault and a fair amount of greed and depravity. The book also contains an enchanting undercurrent of social apathy that manages to rise to dickish hilarity from time to time. Why, after all, should a super-powered Holy Knight care about being charged with murder when he's so strong he decapitates bodies by accident? The book's linear storytelling make such random adventures fairly enjoyable. Arc meets all sorts of people as he travels the Kingdom of Rohden—farmers, bandits, elves, nobility, metalsmiths—it is to the novel's considerable advantage that he doesn't settle down and conjure a path forward out of artifice. Arc's ignorance fuels his curiosity, and it is his curiosity that propels the story forward. And for the most part, it works. This is a great novel for those whose desire for dangerously naïve characters has yet to reach its fever pitch.

Light-Novel Reviews || ahb writes on Good Reads

[ironforgedrp]

♛   ARRYK LANNISTER

↳ details; male, 33. (b. 473) ↳ status; heterosexual, married, one son (aemos, 1yr old) ↳ faceclaim; chris hemsworth ↳ hails from; kings landing, the red keep ↳ loyalty; house lannister, the crown, the iron throne

↳ official title; king arryk i lannister, king of the andals, the rhoynar, and the first men, lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realm. ↳ unofficial title/s; the lion king, the golden lion, king of the iron throne & united kingdoms

↳ religion; faith of the seven ↳ spoken languages; common tongue, conversational high valyrian ↳ reason for being in sunspear; attending the summit as king of the iron throne & united kingdoms; accompanied by his wife, son & family

♛   PERSONALITY

↳ type; the executive (ESTJ-A) ↳ alignment; lawful neutral ↳ star sign; cancer ↳ positives; steadfast, respectful, protective, logical, dedicated, honourable ↳ negatives; tightly-wound, suspicious, proud, stern, rigid, combative

♛  BIOGRAPHY

↳ family lineage.

arryk was the first child born to his parents, the perfect heir and the first of three trueborn children. there was a golden haired trio born of the fair-haired lady alyson lannister (formerly of house sunglass) and the lord of casterly rock, lord tristifer lannister - the eldest of the previous lannister golden trio; tristifer, younger brother emrick and their sister nayah. there never seemed an end to the youthful, yellow-haired faces in the halls of casterly rock; arryk (dubbed lord lion as the heir to the rock), his brother; the middle child, lysella his younger sister (known as the golden flower), and frequent faces at the rock were willem and miranda of house clegane. young willem would grow to be close friends with arryk and become his squire when they reached manhood. miranda clegane, however, was arryk’s betrothed before either two had even been born: a marriage arrangement made after lord sandor iii clegane intervened and saved tristifer when a mountain lion suddenly attacked the lannister lord in their youth. arryk didn’t mind, it was his normal and he was his parents golden child; he was eager to be the leader of house lannister and warden of the westerlands.

despite the ringing of childrens laughter, and the radiant sun of lady alyson’s pure heart - a dark cloud hung inside the walls of the rock.  tristifer lannister was the lord commander of the lannister armies before his own father died and tristifer became the lord of casterly rock: he had been a storied knight and warrior and as such his reputation as the grey lion (due to his early-greying hair) cast a longer shadow than the height of the man himself. tristifer was fiercely passionate about house lannister, and about his children propelling themselves into the heights of the monarchical society. he firmly believed in the fact that house lannister, the golden house, were the superior of the great houses and also that house lannister should be the rulers of westeros. while he did try to instil this in his children, he was not as successful as he may have believed and hoped, but never the less arryk showed prowess in many ways, and so he was often considered the perfect golden lannister child.   arryk idolized his father, the mighty and proud grey lion of the west, and did everything he could to earn higher and higher praise but no matter how hard he did try, he always knew that the approval and the smile and the praise was… hollow.

none the less, when they could, the lannister boys ran riot with their cousins and wards: by the time they were all able to run they would drive their mother, maesters and septas mad with their tricks, their adventures that would see them missing for hours and their constant mischievous shenanigans. however, there was a strange dark shadow over the house lannister of casterly rock; after two healthy and strong sons lady alyson bore lysella, the last of the trio of golden haired children that tristifer had insisted upon having. lysella was not strong from birth, there was a rumour that she didn’t cry for a worrying about of time after she was born - but arryk was never sure, he had only seen six namedays when his sister was born and tristifer always snapped at his eldest son when he asked about how lysella was.   ‘you are a child, you understand nothing! she will be dead soon enough anyway so stop asking after her.’ was what tristifer would often shoot out as a reply, and it broke arryk’s heart. though, as long as his mother stood statuesque and proud of her children, arryk knew he could trust her to not allow their father to do anything to harm his sister.

through adolescence & manhood arryk began to take up more of the harsher pastimes than he had before, with sword and hammer wielding and practice two of his favourites. as much as he wished he could have spent his life on the battle field, having even considered both the kingsgaurd and the nights watch at one point if only so he could fight, his father made sure that arryk learned the history of his house and made it very clear that arryk was expected to carry on the lannister line as the golden son.  ‘house lannister is proud: we are mighty and we have gold in our veins’, his father always reminded him, and though they were a house with more than a few historical sins to it’s name - arryk made his peace with that, because he was always proud of his family. the dark cloud of the demanding, cold grey lion of the west seemed to grow and grow inside the walls of casterly rock, and it was almost unspoken rule to never antagonise the strict and stern and dogged man that tristifer had become in his years as warden of the west. it was such a slow decent into the stony, uncaring man that arryk to this day does not fully conceptualise it.

arryk and miranda had waited longer than most expected to set a proper date for their marriage; arryk and miranda both wanted to ensure that lady lysella was more than well enough to join the ceremony; arryk was twenty-five when he was certain and happy that no one would dare cast a crooked look at his sister.   then arryk’s mother fell ill, when she recovered the planning was then set in motion again as tristifer near demanded that all the westerlands finest would attended (arryk didn’t particularly care for the grandeur of a ceremony, but he could not refuse his father).   then again, it was postponed, and then again - though arryk and his betrothed were well settled into the life they both assumed to have planned out for them; lord and lady of the rock, wardens of the west. when, in early of 502AC, word came from the capital that the princess of house targaryen was actively looking for suitors after her brother had seemingly abdicated; arryk received an inquiry as to if he would be interested in presenting himself as a suitor from a great house, but he politely refused as he had already a betrothed. he was, for all intents and purposes, half-way down the isle when his father summoned him and informed him that he would not be marrying lady miranda clegane, but he was to be sent to the capital as tristifer and king maegor targaryen had apparently orchestrated his eldest son to marry into the crown and take it over.   faced with insurmountable pressure and unable to refuse his father, nor be the lannister who let the crown slip through his houses fingers… he departed obediently for a wedding to a woman he had never met.

wed and bed and crowned in a matter of weeks in 503AC, arryk’s life was completely changed, and another curve ball was thrown at him when word came from the westerlands that his former betrothed, miranda clegane, had suddenly passed in her sleep, the maester deeming it natural causes, despite not being ill. it rocked him, but as the new king and the face of the crown and his own house - arryk persevered. his father bragged the loudest and the longest about how his ‘golden son’ had, thanks to him, swiped the crown from house targaryen and taken over the lannisters ‘rightful’ place as the ruler of the seven kingdoms. a blessing in disguise (though not yet revealed to this day), lord tristifer lannister died shortly before his grandchild, prince aemos lannister, was born in 505AC, and the ruling of casterly rock was passed to his brother in arryk’s stead as he took the reigns of the entirety of westeros. or so he thought.

the schism, as he calls it, happened six months after his son was born and was set in motion by an unseen enemy that would not be found until after the murder of a dornish prince, the murder of several civilians and palace employees, the kidnapping and assault of nobles from the great houses of westeros, arson and finally, kidnapping and taking hostage the infant son of arryk & rhaena and the five year old daughter of lady wylla stark. damage done and offence taken at the crowns inability to protect it’s guests; the stormlands, the vale, the reach and the riverlands all withdrew from the iron throne and declared themselves independent kingdoms. the  bubbling tension was held off by the combined manhunt and rescue of the children and capture (and subsequent execution) of the traitorous lord of barrowtown; edderion stark. arryk’s thoughts are towards the future now, and how he can reestablish himself and his family as the true rulers of westeros, without bowing to the violent pressures of his family’s name.

↳ personality.

at his core arryk has always been optimistic and eager for goodness, he is by no means naive to the worlds problems nor does he think that the world is an inherently good place, but he has always been driven by a desire to do good by others. he balances this out with a strong sense of self, pride in his house and loyalty to his family, kin & those who earn it. however, the last few years have been frequented by death and loss; the broken betrothal and the guilt that weighed in his mind, then the sudden death of miranda, the loss of his father and the decline of his mothers health… it all took a toll on his pysche.

his optimism was slightly dimmed by the time he wore the crown, but lifted dramatically at the birth of his son aemos. it reinvigorated him tenfold, and despite all that has happened; the dothraki, the riots and the kidnapping and the treason of the barrowtons as well as the splitting of the kingdoms, he feels strengthened by his sons continued survival and the support he gathers from having his kin by his side, and a wife he believes wants what he wants for their son.

↳ the splitting of the kingdoms.

at the time, all arryk could feel was an impending sense of doom. the splitting happened before his son was taken, and thus before the enemy had been revealed - and even as he tried to conceptualise it all, the domino effect of it all would take his mind away from the treason against his kingdom and set it to the panic of a first-time father with a missing child. aemos safe and sound, edderion executed and all nobles returned to their homes, he is driven to bring himself back into the mindset of a king and ruler.

he looks to fortify the council of the iron throne with the best and brightest of all of westeros, and beyond if need be, and to ensure that going forward the kingdom of the iron throne would regain it’s rightful place as the head of the seven kingdoms - and hopefully without bloodshed.

 ♛   STATUS: TAKEN.

[colorofinsanity]

Sandalwood

Maybe trigger warning, themes of PTSD. 

“Come now, Systina.” the faerie purred. “You and I were made for each other! Together we could propel our kingdoms into further greatness.” His grip tightened on her wrist, a small action that kept Morgan pinned and betrayed his kind smile and soft speech.

“I don’t need your greatness.” Morgan retorted, trying to twist out of his grasp. “And if you continue to annoy me, I might do something violent…”

A taunting expression appeared on the faerie’s face. He took pleasure in Morgan’s obvious discomfort, though was unheeding of the steel in her eye and the venom in her threat. He pulled her wrist, forcing her to lean closer to him, nearly unbalancing her from her seat.

“Don’t be rude, Systina. You wouldn’t dare to defy a god, would you? Especially when he’s been so kind as to offer a place at his side…”

Morgan scoffed, a flash of anger riling up. It took much of her dwindling willpower not to strike at the faerie. Violence was forbidden at this convention of fae monarchs. Morgan, personally, did not want to offend the King that hosted them, as she held great respect for him.

The faerie before her, though, was undeserving of any sort of that respect.

“I am just as much a god as you.” Morgan hissed, rising from her seat to tower over her tormentor. “Do you claim the Vanir lesser than the Tuatha? Or do you only claim I am lesser than you?”

Morgan’s wrist became hot as iron, burning the faerie’s hand with dragon fire. He recoiled out of his stool, releasing her with a suppressed yelp.

The faerie’s behavior was one thing; an enormous thing, to be sure, but it was his perfume that really set Morgan off. She was overly sensitive to such smells to begin with, but the sickening sweetness of it filled her sinuses, recalling unwanted memories of blinding light and burning cold.

“Why you-” growled the offending faerie. He raised an arm as if to strike her. Blue flames crackled at Morgan’s fingertips. No one had noticed yet, but it seemed the convention was quickly spiraling into chaos.

“Is there a problem?” asked a deep, level voice that was welcome to Morgan’s ears. A knight serving under their host inserted himself between Morgan and the faerie, a six by four wall of black armor and intimidation. Even better, it was a knight Morgan knew.

“It seems your company is unwelcome,” the knight continued, “It would bring my lord great pain if Lady Systina was distressed.”

The faerie glowered. For all his entitlement, he seemed unwilling to defy the knight, and by proxy their host.

“This isn’t over, Systina.” the faerie threatened over his shoulder, turning away and taking his leave.

Given the moment to think, Morgan took a shuddering breath. Her hands were shaking, she realized. She pushed her hair out of her face, trying to regain a modicum of calm.

“I… ah, thank you, Sable.” She spoke to the knight, trying to force her voice to be clear and level. It didn’t work.

“Are you alright, Milady?” Sable asked, turning to her. “I did not think it characteristic of you to lose composure so easily.”

“Oh. Yes, I am… I’m just… useless with this sort of thing.” Morgan gestured vaguely. “I can handle all the usual flirting, but taken to this level…” She gave a short mirthless laugh. “It brings, ah, bad memories…”

A mixed look of sympathy and disgust crossed Sable’s face.

“I see. Then I will not pry, Milady. But tell me. Who is that faerie? I will report him to my master. I assure you, he will not tolerate this harassment.”

“The idiot thing is,” Morgan sighed, “that bastard hasn’t had the decency to give me his name. But then, if he did, I would curse him blind. I know he is of the Tuatha de Dannan, if that helps at all.”

“...Yes. That helps.” Sable spoke slowly, committing the faerie’s face to memory. Such an amoral creature had no place in the world his master meant to build.

A silence passed between them. Morgan did not notice it as much, preoccupied by the jagged thought and memories she tried to avoid. She crossed her arms in an attempt to still her shaking hands. A hissing hatred seethed in her chest.

“Fae like him are no better than the humans we abandoned.” she hissed to herself. Sable gave a slight nod, almost in agreement.

“I… hah… sorry.” Morgan said, shaking herself back to reality. “Thank you, Sable. Truly. I might have done something incredibly inconvenient if you hadn’t shown up.”

The perfume of the faerie still lingered. It was making her dizzy. She had to leave. For her own sanity, at least.

“Think nothing of it, milady.” Sable nodded. “I am only carrying out my duties.”

The silence between them dragged out long enough to be awkward. Just as Morgan was about to make her excuses to leave, she heard a clatter of heeled shoes. Looking past Sable’s shoulder, Morgan met the gaze of Mahri, a retainer of hers. An unconscious sigh of relief fluttered in her chest.

Mahri swayed through the crowd with a self-satisfied smirk resting on her face. She managed to look like she owned the place, despite definitely being the youngest faerie present. However, as she neared Morgan, her cocky expression melted off her face as it became clear how uncomfortable Morgan was. Mahri’s pace quickened toward her.

Morgan took the few steps around Sable to meet her.

“Ah, Mahri.” she greeted in a half-baked facade of normalcy. She got unexpectedly close to Mahri, taking her arm as though she were some kind of gentleman. Mahri was taken totally aback, unused to such familiar treatment.

“Master? What’s wrong?” Mahri asked, flashing a dirty look at Sable.

“No, it’s not him, Firebird. Just… stay close, please.”Morgan begged softly.

Sable took a moment to observe Mahri.

“If you find yourself in good company, Lady Systina, then I shall take my leave.”

“Yes.” Morgan nodded. “Thank you, Sable.”

With a small bow of his head, Sable disappeared into the dense crowd.

Mahri, usually, would have tracked him as he left, but she was distracted by the faerie at her side.

“Master, you are trembling.” Mahri made the observation bluntly, unable to quite process what she was seeing. Morgan was folded in on herself, her posture small and hidden. Her hands gripped Mahri’s forearm, their bodies mere inches apart.

Mahri didn’t recognize the emotion in her chest nor the expression on her face. She was such a young flame, but already she missed the days when lust and pride were the only things she needed to understand. But today, Morgan needed someone by her side, and Mahri was the only one available.

Mahri, with no small amount of hesitance, pulled Morgan nearer to her. Their arms linked, Mahri played the role of escort, taking Morgan from the crowd with all the great dignity she could muster.

Morgan felt dizzy, unsteady on her feet, the memory of the smell of his perfume enough to make her ill. Mahri, the flare of dragonfire she was, smelled near obnoxiously of ozone, which is why Morgan couldn’t seem to get close enough. The smell of fire burned her lungs and sinuses, purging them of the ghosts of cologne. Mahri’s fire was the smell of home, of her kin and of comfort. It scorched away all else.

Mahri guided Morgan from the crowd, out of the hall and into the gardens. The cool night wind also did a great deal to chase away the offending scent.

They walked a ways down the path, until the sounds of the gathered fae faded. It was here that Mahri stopped, needing answers and explanations. Anything to relive the damned heaviness in her chest.

“Master.” she began strongly, but a soon as the address was out, hesitance creeped in by way of the rock in her chest. “Master, please....” she tried again, the word unfamiliar to her. It stung her tongue. “Tell me what is wrong.”

Morgan’s shoulders were slumped in, her spine curved forward. Her hair covered her face, but Mahri could still see Morgan’s glassy and unfocused gaze. Mahri wanted to shake her, but… something told her that wouldn’t help.

Somewhere, in the back of Morgan’s mind, she knew she was shut down. She knew she should come back to reality, that Mahri was worried about her, that she was acting strange…

But she couldn’t just turn back on. She wished she could. How could she be brought so low, by someone so insignificant? How could someone so easily bring her back to those white rooms and cold touches? To that smell that heralded the coming of her torturer…

It was cold out here. Morgan loved the cold. The night air. It was too cold. So cold it burned. It blistered and blackened and-

Mahri had pulled away from Morgan and held her at arm’s reach, but with a yelp Morgan closed the gap between them, her fingers digging into both Mahri’s arms.

Mahri stumbled back at the sudden burst of sound and panicked movement, shock written across her face. She regained her balance, gingerly holding Morgan without making too much contact.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Morgan muttered. “Bad dreams, bad memories. Sorry. Sorry, I…”

With a shaky breath, Morgan pulled back. Mahri released her, but didn’t allow her to stray too far. Now Morgan had scared her.

“I… ha… sorry…” Morgan pushed her hair out of her face with shaking hands. It was not lost on her what effect her episode was having on her poor vassel. She had never been exposed to this side of Morgan, and Morgan would have preferred if she had never found out.

“Sorry, sorry.” Morgan mumbled again. She wanted to back away further, but at the same time couldn’t bear the thought. For now, Mahri’s ozone and warmth were the only anchors she had to reality. She didn’t want to part from that, and she especially didn’t want anyone inside to see this. To see what wounds the Queen Systina bore.

“Sorry.” Morgan said once more, gaining more of a handle on herself. She could feel Mahri’s distress growing, and immediately felt the need to put her at ease.

“I’m… I’m okay now.” Morgan said. It was a lie, but… “I’ll be okay. I just… I need a minute.”

“Master, you have to tell me what’s wrong.” Mahri’s voice was level, her face was less so. “Are you ill? Should I find Lord Vath?”

“Yes… or…” Yes, Vath knew better how to handle Morgan’s episodes. However, if Mahri was sent to find him, Morgan would be left on her own. “No, no, just… ah… can you… walk me to our room? Then look for him.”

Morgan swallowed hard, unwilling to make eye contact with Mahri.

“I, uh… I shouldn’t be left alone.” she went on. “I’m sorry, Firebird, I just… I can’t talk about it. Not now. I… I’ll explain later. I promise.”

Mahri sighed, trying to force the weight in her chest to dispel in that breath. Her master had given her an order. That she could deal with.

Mahri laced Morgan’s arm though hers, carrying all the dignity that Systina’s escort ought to have.

“Then let us go, my Queen.”

[comedy--pink]

doez anyone out there kin propeller knight? like me? juzt curiouz if i havve any propell doublez

[k2kid]

A soldier’s expectation when they were taken out of the line due to wounds or illness was to begin a journey that led to treatment. The BEF and CEF had a proscribed process that was designed to evaluate the condition of a soldier and make a determination as to the type and method of treatment, hence whether they stayed on the Continent (France) or were sent to England, better known in the vernacular as “Blighty”, for treatment. Ideally the intent was the efficient treatment and return to duty of a soldier and the further away the soldier got from the front the more serious his condition and the lower the likelihood of return to service.

The problem for the military authorities was one of inventory. The need of active combat and support units to be manned by the correct numbers of soldiers and technicians (sappers, engineers) to support operations required a specified number of personnel. Low inventor led to operation inefficiency and effectiveness. This challenge throughout the war would lead to several operational changes and procedures and would never be complete solved due to the changing nature and tempo of the war, especially during The Last 100 Days.

The problem for the soldier was one of treatment. But the main focus for the soldier while being sick or wounded was the feeling of relative safety they had as they were not in active operations at the front and the very thing that led to their wounding or illness had been removed from their environment and they could expect to be treated with care and dignity. The relative high efficiency of the medical services of the Imperial Forces (in which the CEF served) during the First World War was in direct response to the poor care given during the Boer Campaigns at the turn of that century.[i] Medical care was not just for the soldiers but also for the public and its perception of the treatment of their soldiers had a direct impact on their morale toward their support for the war.

The soldiers would suffer a wound or develop an illness were sent to a field ambulance (e.g. No. 3 Canadian Field Ambulance) for assessment. If their treatment was minor and short, they would stay at the field ambulance. If it required more care or specialized services, the soldier would be sent to a casualty clearing station (e.g. No. 2 Casualty Clearing Station). From that point they would be, if required, directed onto the complex of general or specialized hospitals at Etaples, Boulogne or Le Harve for short-term treatment or onto England to a hospital for longer term treatment. This system of hospitals was vast, with approximately 227 hospitals in the London Command District alone.[ii]

This journey started with a soldier being carried in a stretcher or walking to the field ambulance. From the FA to the CCS they would travel by horse-drawn or motorized ambulance. From the CCS there were often railheads established and the soldiers boarded specialized trains to hospitals in France or to a French Channel port for transport by hospital ship.

It is here where our soldiers enter the picture.

Private Percy Mungo Geddes,  “…well known to the milling trade in Galt was on his way home after an attack of rheumatic fever,” which he contracted after two months of front-line service on November 11, 1915. Entering the medical support services of the Imperial forces, he was sent to No. 2 Canadian Stationary Hospital at Boulogne and boarded the H.M.H.S. Anglia on the morning of November 17, 1916 for England and further treatment.

Galt Daily Reporter. November 29, 1915. Page 5.

Galt Man’s Heroism When Hospital Ship Went Down[iii]

HE GAVE AID TO HELPLESS AND REFUES TO LEAVE BOAT TILL LAST MOMENT. GRAPHIC STORIES ARE TOD BY SURVIVORS OF CHANNEL DISASTER.

(By John [Kidsman], special correspondent of Toronto Mail and Empire.)

London, Nov. 29—Graphic stories of their peril when the hospital ship Anglia sunk in the Channel were told by eight Canadians visited by the Mail and Empire correspondent at the County of London Hospital, Epsom. They were mostly invalided or suffering from slight wounds, and therefore were in a position to help themselves, [and] a number of Canadian companions more seriously incapacitated have perished.

Private Geddes[iv], of the 20th Winnipeg Rifles, well known to the milling trade in Galt was on his way home after an attack of rheumatic fever. Shortly after lunch, he said when within three miles of Dover, an explosion was heard, the ship shivered throughout, and listed toward the bow. Nurses and R.A.M.C. men rushed to the wounded in the cots below. Lifeboats were lowered, one of which capsized, the result being that the occupants nearly all perished, not having lifebelts. Private Geddes procured belts for several helpless men, and finally leaped into the sea when the ship listed dangerously, and after struggling in the water he came up near a raft. The ship sank in 25 minutes after the explosion after the explosion. “German shells and bullets in the dugouts, and trenches are bad enough,” said Private Geddes, “but for real nerve-wracking horror a mined hospital ship beats everything else.”

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Private Geddes emphasized the heroism of the nurses. One of his companions, [seen] later, paid a tribute to Geddes’ ready help and his refusal to leave the ship until the last possible moment.

Sapper L.J. Kavanagh[v] of Kingston, 6th Field Engineers, invalided home after pneumonia, was in the water [20] minutes, but suffered not ill effects.

Pte. W.L. Callander[vi] of Guelph, 18th Battalion, received a slight injury from wreckage while he was in the water [25] minutes.

Pte. H. Bryant[vii] of Toronto, 4th Battalion, suffered from rheumatism, who stayed behind on the ship looking for his pay book, finally slid down a rope when the vessel tilted.

Pte. William Everett[viii], of Galt, 1st Battalion, wounded by shrapnel in a bombardment, jumped into the seas remaining half an hour before being picked up by a destroyer.

Pte. F. [Black][ix], of Toronto, Divisional Supply Column, suffering from rupture, swam 25 minutes before rescue came.

Sergt. Robert Strang[x], of Winnipeg with relatives in Hamilton, had a narrow escape while swimming near the propeller. He and others were concerned that the ship was torpedoed, not mined. He saw a big hole in a staircase where a nurse lay dead.

The few belongings with the men had were lost, but J.M. Clark, on behalf of the Ontario Government Agency, has visited all the Canadians and promised to supply their needs. A complete statement shows that [?] offices, one nurse and 120 soldiers from the ranks were lost. All of these except those described missing are believed to be drowned.

One can imagine Private Geddes in fresh clothes, warm and secure, in contrast to the mud and water of Flanders, boarding the ship and sitting or lying down. Enjoying a cigarette, he feels the low rumble of the ship’s triple expansion 4 crank engines as the propellers began to turn and move the ship sleekly out of the harbour at Boulogne towards Folkestone. He relaxed and, perhaps, chatted to other soldiers, congregating with other Canadians and discussing where their next place of treatment would be like. It was a short trip and the vibration and warmth of the ship made Private Geddes relax and think of home and his next-of-kin living at St. Thomas, Ontario or Miss Edith Smith of Redhill, Surrey, to which he had assigned two-thirds of his pay ($20.00) per month to.

These reveries were about to be interrupted and the lives of the men and women on the ship would change forever.

Unbeknownst to the crew and passengers of the Anglia, the German U-Boat UC-5 had sown a series of four underwater mines near the Folkestone Gate lightship on the night of November 16/17. One of these mines was struck buy the ship and it went down by its head and sunk within 20 minutes. H.M.H.S.[xi] Anglia started out as a passenger ship entering service April 13, 1900. When the war broke out she was initially converted to an “armed boarding steamer” but this role lasted until late in 1915 when she was converted to a hospital ship, one of 91 ships to be in service in this role. She was the first hospital ship to be lost to enemy action and its loss was a shock to the British public. Their awareness of this ship had been enhanced by it being recently used by the King to convey him from France to England after a riding accident on October 29, 1915[xii].

Private Geddes, along with others in the article respond to the disaster as best they could. They were lucky as they were to survive while 164 people are thought to have died.[xiii] Of the dead, 23 of them where Canadian soldiers, including two members of the 18th Battalion, Privates G.E. Knight[xiv] and T. Priestly[xv]. A third member of the Battalion, Private W.L. Callander[xvi], was to survive the sinking.

It is interesting to note that of the six men in the article, only one was suffering from wounds due to service (Private William Everett). All the other men were experiencing illnesses exacerbated by their exposure in the trenches. But the sinking had some far reaching effects to some of the men in the news article. Of the men listed Geddes, Kavanagh, and Strang suffered from neurasthenia/nervous shock as a direct result of their exposure to the events of the sinking. As is stated, ironically by Private Geddes, “German shells and bullets in the dugouts, and trenches are bad enough but for real nerve-wracking horror a mined hospital ship beats everything else.” This sentiment was also reflected in a letter from another survivor. Private Peter E. Wamsley[xvii][xviii] wrote, in a letter published in a newspaper, “I have been under rifle fire and shell fire, I’ve been shipwrecked twice in one day. I thought, ‘Now (Mr. Fritz), a few bombs rom an aeroplane on this train, then we shall had had what some folks might call a ‘rather rough passage.’”[xix] Both these men suggest, by their words, that they would have accepted any fate that front-line service presented but to be subject to enemy action having obtained non-combatant status as a wounded or ill soldier was not exactly fair play.

This news clipping relates the events that had were unique. The H.M.H.S Anglia was the first hospital ship to be lost in action and its loss illustrates the changing face of an industrial modern war. Now, the depth and reach of the enemy was greater than wars before. The use of U-Boats, aeroplanes, and Zeppelins by the Germans, and the equivalent devices of war by all combatant nations, extended the reach of weapons and impacted the soldiers, and civilians at the home front. The risks and horror of war did not end at a front-line as that area now had a depth to it equivalent to the striking distance of the weapons available to the enemy. Even with this ships status as protected under the Geneva Conventions, the indiscriminate and random nature of a sea mine prevented any intervention by German command authority to prevent this ship’s destruction.

The personal cost to the Canadian Forces and the family members was evident by the 23 Canadian soldiers who drowned during the sinking and that sinking directly affected the mental health of survivors, as represented by the men whose service records reflect them suffering psychological effects from the sinking, as documented in their service records. It also shows that the medical services had to contend with a wide range of medical conditions, with many cases of wastage being due to illness and not due to direct enemy action resulting in wounding.

The position of the H.M.H.S. Anlgia in relation to its destination.

The H.M.H.S. Anglia lies at the bottom of the Channel, a stark, but less known part of a Canadian military heritage during the First World War. Three men of the 18th where directly affected and the Galt Daily Reporter found a connection with Galt and its residents that it found news-worthy. Private Percy Mungo Geddes, a flour miller, late of Galt, Ontario was noteworthy enough to have this article written about him even though he was not a resident of Galt at the time of his enlistment.

  [i] For a good overview of the American Army system of casualty evacuation and care see this link. It is very similar to the Imperial system. See this link for the Imperial system.

[ii] Military hospitals in the British Isles 1914-1918 – The Long, Long Trail. (2019). Retrieved from https://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/soldiers/a-soldiers-life-1914-1918/the-evacuation-chain-for-wounded-and-sick-soldiers/military-hospitals-in-the-british-isles-1914-1918/

[iii] Galt Daily Reporter. November 29, 1915. Page 5.

[iv] Private Geddes, Peter Mungo, reg. no. 1435. 8th Battalion (Winnipeg Rifles), CEF.

[v] Sapper Kavanaugh, Leo James, reg. no. 575. 6th Field Company, 2nd Canadian Divisional Engineers, CEF.

[vi] Private Callander, Wilfred Laurie, reg. no. 53640. 18th Battalion, CEF.

[vii] Private Bryant, Horace, reg. no. 10625. 4th Battalion, CEF.

[viii] Not found.

[ix] Not found.

[x] Sergeant Strang, Robert, reg. no. 14808. 6th Battalion, CEF.

[xi] His or Her Majesty’s Hospital Ship.

[xii] Arnott, S. (2019). HMHS Anglia. Retrieved from https://www.wessexarch.co.uk/our-work/hmhs-anglia

[xiii] 1 Nursing Sister, 9 R.A.M.C. Staff, 4 Army Officers, 125 Other Ranks and 25 Crew.

[xiv] Knight, George Ebenezer: Service no. 53350.

[xv] Priestley, Trueman: Service no. 53840.

[xvi] Callander, Wilfred Laurier:  Service no. 53640.

[xvii] British Soldiers Experience: http://www.farnhill.co.uk/WW1%20articles/Article%20-%20Percy%20Walmsley%20and%20the%20Anglia%20disaster.pdf

[xviii] Note that this soldier not only had to escape from the Anglia, but the he claims that the “Lusitania”, a former collier (not the passenger liner of the same name), had been hit by a torpedo. It is more likely from one of the mines the SM UC-5 lay.

[xix] Craven Herald. November 26, 1915.

Geddes of Galt Survives the Sinking of the Anglia: “…a mined hospital ship beats everything else.” A soldier’s expectation when they were taken out of the line due to wounds or illness was to begin a journey that led to treatment.

[tigeri102]

Hey I Just Wrote Like 1000 Words On How The Kirby Franchise Has Changed From Its Early Days To Now Specifically Comparing Adventure And Robobot If U Wanna Read It Here U Go

Being among the last officially licensed titles for the Nintendo Entertainment System (defeated  in its lateness only by Mega Man 6, Wario's Woods, and a handful of tie-in games), Kirby's Adventure came out in 1993 to truly push the dated little NES to its true potential. Featuring dozens of levels, well over 20 powerups in the form of copy abilities, a fairly unique albeit simple narrative, an overworld, autosave, and minigames, the humble 8-bit title had it all for the time and the hardware. While not the first game of its kin, that being Kirby's Dream Land for the Game Boy, Kirby's Adventure was the pink puffball's first step onto the console market and into the style of game it would go on to be – even over 20 years later.

As the second title in the Kirby series released for the Nintendo 3DS, Kirby Planet Robobot is currently the most recent installment in HAL Laboratories' now long-running Kirby franchise. The title itself has, naturally, progressed quite far from Adventure so long ago, yet still holds onto many principles used and even introduced by the title. For starters, Kirby's Adventure did start the trend of most Kirby games featuring a final boss which was wholly unique to that game – Nightmare for Adventure, President Max Profitt Haltmann for Robobot, relegating the original primary antagonist, King Dedede, to merely a boss to be fought along the way (due to a misunderstanding in Adventure and Haltmann's cloning of the portly penguin patriarch in Robobot). At the time of Adventure's release, this would differentiate it from other Nintendo series such as The Legend of Zelda and Super Mario Bros. which, at the time, had featured the same main antagonist since their inception (aside from Mario's own adventure into his “Dream Land” in the American Super Mario Bros. 2)

In another similar vain to Kirby's Adventure, and every “main” Kirby title featuring the ability to inhale ever since, Kirby Planet Robobot makes use of Kirby's ability to copy enemies – suck in a flame-spewing foe to gain the Fire ability yourself, and so on. Robobot even uses a similar number of abilities – 27 to Adventure's 25 – despite how many have been introduced over the years, likely for simplicity's sake. 12 abilities in Robobot have also been taken directly from that first appearance on the NES: Beam, Cutter, Fire, Ice, Hammer, Mike, Parasol, Spark, Stone, Sword, Wheel, and the elusive UFO. However, the abilities are also one of the largest differences between Robobot and Adventure – while in Adventure a simple press of a button would unleash Kirby's one and only attack (possibly a second if airborne), as of Robobot Kirby's abilities have been given a full moveset. With the Sword ability for instance, Kirby can perform his simple swing from the NES days or chain it into a triple combo, do a quick stabbing dash, a diving attack, and more. A Leaf shot can become a Leaf tornado or shield, a Beam can be charged for a longer-ranged, more powerful attack, and so on. Even multiple past abilities have since been combined where logically sensible, such as the NES title's Burning fireball attack being added to Fire, or the combination of Freeze and Ice.

Continuing with this theme of mixing up and adding to old abilities comes a new element to Robobot: the Robobot Armor. This armor is essentially a mech suit for Kirby which, while lacking his ability to fly continuously, retains his ability to copy foes' powers. However, the suit uses these abilities in vastly different ways to Kirby himself. While the puffball may swing a Sword, the suit spins gigantic sawblades. Where the little guy bursts around with a Jet for speedy attacks, the big guns become full-on jet engines propelling Kirby through a shoot-em-up stage, adding a new twist on each ability the suit is able to obtain, as well as how they're utilized in the stage.

The Robobot Armor also adds another interesting distinction between Adventure and Robobot – while in the former, the player is capable of flying over nearly everything that isn't a screen-locking boss, in Robobot, that ability is often restricted – if not by the armor's previously mentioned inability to fly (sans the Jet ability, of course), then by various items which must be carried by Kirby himself – long electrical rods which attack the background, remotes to control distant robots which follow your moves, batteries to power machines to open the way – all of these are examples of Robobot restricting the player's otherwise unlimited float in order to have areas of tighter - though still not exceedingly difficult – platforming that the Kirby series was lacking in in its early days, which can do wonders for keeping the player engaged as opposed to skipping levels so casually.

In regards to engaging the player, Robobot also has more to offer – aside from the main campaign the player is gifted Meta Knightmare Returns, in which they may play through the main campaign as Meta Knight, a character first introduced as a boss in Adventure, as well as the side modes Kirby 3D Rumble, a fully 3D puzzle game, The Arena, a boss gauntlet featuring genuine challenge from limited healing items, and Team Kirby Clash, a multiplayer RPG-style game. Compared to Adventure's short minigame interludes, Robobot's side modes add hours more content to the title, giving a player more variety to reach for than only the standard Kirby faire. While Adventure's minigames for bonus lives did provide a fun break from gameplay, in Robobot the concept of side games has been fully fleshed out into arguably their own experience.

At the end of the day, Kirby's fun, simple spirit hasn't changed much over the years. You still float, inhale, copy, and spit, and the games are still simple and easy, yet fun. The change comes in the detail – from the enhanced, much more fun and diverse copy abilities to diverse gameplay mid-stage thanks to aspects like the Robobot Armor and item-toting, to even diverse sub-games which are now strong enough to stand on their own as small titles themselves, the Kirby series has primarily changed in that it offers the player more. From more moves to play around with to just. more game for your cash, Kirby manages to hold onto its simplicity without letting that notion hold it back.