#rayshe

[fullscoreshenanigans]

Me @ Shirai choosing to include Ayshe specifically in this panel of Isabella’s internal thoughts in chapter 174: 🔍👀👀

[officersnickers]

Ray, who was born and raised by a human mother, but viewed and treated like a dog by her 🐶💔

vs. 

Ayshe, stolen by a demon, and considered to be eaten and/ or planned to be treated like another dog, only to become the demon‘s beloved daughter 👩‍👦❤️

[starcloud-nova]

can i confess. i read ra’s al ghul as raaz al ghul

[keldabe-kiss1]

Mando'a lesson 1

Numbers

Su cuy'gar! Olarom anade.

(Hello, welcome all)

Today's lesson is on basic counting!

This will cover numbers 1-10.

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

English || Mando'a || pronunciation

One || Solus || SOH-loos

Two || T'ad || Tahd

Three || Ehn || ayhn

Four || Cuir || COO-eer

Five || Rayshe'a || ray-SHEE-ah

Six || Resol || reh-SOL

Seven || e'tad || EH-tad

Eight || sh'ehn || Shayn

Nine || She'cu || SHAY-koo

Ten || ta'raysh || ta-RAYSH

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Now that you know the basic numbers, there is something i'd like to talk about.

Zero.

You see, zero might be a little confusing for beginners. Zero would be said as 'Naas' (Pronounced: Nahs,) Which In Mando'a it translates directly to 'nothing'

whereas things such as t'ad directly translate to the number 2 and nothing else. So don't get confused over it.

That's all for today, Ke hukaati gar shebs, ner habire!

(Take care, my students. )

[project-shereshoy]

Numbers

What's 6 in Mando'a? What about 501st? How do you say "execute order 66"? In this blog post, we'll cover the Mando'a cardinal and ordinal number system, how to make any number from 0-9,999 and other words useful when discussing number and math. Sources are indicated with symbols (^ *) and listed at the bottom.

Numerals

Mando'a uses a base-5 numbering system supplemented with base-10 suffixes. This means 1-5 are unique words along with 0, 10, 100, and 1000. All other numbers are a combination of those words. As it stands, KT Mando’a allows us to count up to 9,999. Here are the counting numbers:

0 - naas^ (literally "nothing") 1 - solus (prefix: sol) 2 - t'ad (prefix: ad) 3 - ehn (prefix: ehn) 4 - cuir (prefix: cur) 5 - rayshe'a (prefix: she) 6 - resol (prefix: rol) 7 - e'tad (prefix: tad) 8 - she'ehn (prefix: shen) 9 - she'cu (prefix: shek)

For the tens place numerals (20, 30, 40, etc), add the “tens” suffix -’eta to the prefixes above above. 0 and 1 do not act as prefixes for counting purposes. 10 is a unique number (ta+raysh aka "two fives").

10 - ta'raysh 20 - ad'eta* 30 - ehn'eta* 40 - cur'eta* 50 - she'eta* 60 - rol'eta* 70 - tad'eta* 80 - shehn'eta* 90 - shek'eta*

For the hundreds place numerals, the principle is the same. Add the “hundreds” suffix -’olan to the original numbers. Like 10, 100 is a unique number.

100 - olan* 200 - ad'olan^ 300 - ehn'olan^ 400 - cur'olan^ 500 - raysh'olan* 600 - rol'olan^ 700 - tad'olan^ 800 - shen'olan^ 900 - shek'olan^

For the thousands place numerals, the pattern continues. The suffix for “thousands” is a conjunction between the suffixes for “ten” and “hundreds”, -’eta’olan. This makes it literally “tens of hundred”. 1000 is an exception to the rule and is instead “ten hundred”.

1000 - ta’raysh’olan* 2000 - ad’eta’olan^ 3000 - ehn’eta’olan^ 4000 - cur’eta’olan^ 5000 - she’eta’olan* 6000 - rol’eta’olan^ 7000 - tad’eta’olan^ 8000 - shen’eta’olan^ 9000 - shek’eta’olan^

More Numbers

To fill the gaps in the above list, simply write out each place with a space between. Eleven (11) is ta'raysh solus*. Two hundred-sixty-three (263) in English is ad’olan rol’eta ehn^ in Mando’a. "Execute order sixty-six" becomes "Ke narir haar’ke’gyce rol’eta resol".

Ordinals

To turn a numeral into an ordinal (1 to 1st or 10 to 10th), add the descriptor suffix -yc. Theoretically this should also work with the suffix -la, but -yc is the one explicitly acknowledged in the KT dictionary. The last (singles) place numeral receives the descriptor suffix. E.g. she’olan sol'yc (501st) or cur’etayc (40th)

Other Useful Words

Soletar, verb, "to count" Sosol ti, phrase, "equal to" Majycir, verb, "to add" Te'habir, verb "to remove or take out" aka subtract

There's no ready answer for "multiply" or "divide", though creative use of tatugir "to repeat" could work in some cases. Fractions might be verbally represented as solus be ta'raysh "1 of 10" or some other prepositional combo that can also represent division. "Mathematics" also doesn't have a dedicated word, but "to calculate" is mirdir.

"But do Mandalorian space-barbarians really need to know math--" Yes. Ballistics. Logistics. Counting pay. Math is everywhere, it is inescapable. Inevitable. Evil Essential.

Sources

Words without source symbols are from officially published works by Karen Traviss, namely the Republic Commando novels. Reference this index to see the book & page number.

Asterik* words are from the lexicon Karen Traviss published digitally, which is hosted as-is on Mandoa.org without alterations (or corrections).

Carat^ words are derivations from the canon words' established patterns. As such, if you want to go with a different interpretation, have fun! These are suggestions and I ain't a cop. We'll answer follow-up questions on how they're derived, but we're not interested in arguing merits of one interpretation over another.

[prowlingthunder]

I sat down to stare at digits in mando'a today and noticed something fun. Let me see if I can articulate it.

According to KT's archives, the numerals below are canon.

solus - one t'ad - two ehn - three cuir - four rayshe'a - five resol - six e'tad - seven sh'ehn - eight she'cu - nine ta'raysh - ten olan - hundred ta'raysholan - thousand

At first glance, they just look like numbers, yeah? And the first four are pretty straight forward, solus, t'ad, ehn, cuir. It's after five, rayshe'a, that things start to get kind of confusing in my brain. But look! I saw the trick! Six, resol, is resol. Seven, e'tad, e'tad-- or, e+t'ad. If we assume re- and e are both a carry over from rayshe'a, you're legit just creating five plus one (5+1) not 6; it means six, but that's not really what's said. And I think this quantifies based on the next two; eight, sh'ehn, is from five's rayshe'a with three's ehn, becoming five plus 3 (5+3), and nine, she'cu, is five's rayshe'a with four, cuir.

"What about higher numbers?" They show us! Ten is ta'raysh, or two, t'ad, plus five, rayshe'a. Two-five. Olan sets our standard for hundred, and using the same basis for the other words, ta'raysholan becomes two-fives+hundred, with ta (t'ad, from two), raysh (rayshe'a, from five) and olan for hundred. It's possible olan is a mutated/altered version of solus but I'm not quite sure.

"How does this work? What about even higher numbers?" This plus this equals this. Five plus three equals eight. After that things get tricky. I can't find an official morphology for those numbers at the moment. What do you think? Is twelve ta'ta'raysh, two two five? Or is it ta'raysh'ta, two-fives-two? Or, more likely, is it ta'raysh t'ad? Hard to say. Is 111 olan ta'raysh solus, hundred ten one? Or would you say e'sol, as a way of saying triple one? What about even higher numbers? How do you get to a million, a billion, a trillion?

[firebird-legacy]

Branded

A look into how Torian got his scars.

Word count: 3512

CW: detailed description of a third-degree burn

Despite his parentage, the Cadera boy is a good kid. Caeth will admit that much. The fifteen-year-old is mature for his age and hard-working; he takes orders without hesitation and is fierce in a fight. When it comes to his fellow Mandalorians, he’s rather quiet and reserved, though Caeth supposes he can’t blame him. Like Caeth, Raysh—Caeth’s second-in-command—seems to be taking a shine to him, too.

“Torian bagged that rancor all by himself, today,” she’d told him the other day, a note of pride in her voice as they had watched the young Mandalorians celebrate their successful hunt. “A juvenile, but for a kid his age, it’s an impressive kill.”

Torian had been holding his trophy—a savage, hooked claw—grinning broadly with that fiery look of adrenaline still burning in his eyes. The boy doesn’t smile much, and Caeth had noted that the expression makes him look more his age, the downtrodden seriousness that typically weighs heavy on Torian’s shoulders lifted, at least for the moment, by the thrill of his victory.

“You like him,” Caeth had noted, neutrally.

Raysh had shrugged. “What can I say? He’s got spirit. It’s hardly his fault who his father was.”

As is the general consensus, at least amongst the people Caeth typically chooses to associate with. He knows many of the other, more opinionated Mando’ade hold the actions of Torian’s father against Torian himself—a stance that seems especially pervasive in the younger generations, who don’t have the nuance or perspective to dissociate the decisions of the father from the choices of the son. Torian, to his credit, navigates all this with more grace than Caeth would’ve expected from a kid—hell, more grace than Caeth himself would’ve handled things with. He reckons the boy would be well-justified in bashing in more than a few helmets. Caeth would have.

So, his opinions on Jicoln Cadera notwithstanding, Caeth finds he rather likes Torian Cadera, who is growing up to be a fine Mandalorian, with just the right balance of brains and brawn, unlike a number of his peers. He’d admittedly been a little dubious when Mand’alor had assigned Torian to his company. Mand’alor himself, which had been a blatant shock. Maybe it had been because Torian Cadera has no family to hunt with, nor a clan willing to take him in. Maybe it had been because Mand’alor and Jicoln Cadera had been friends, in another time, and Mand’alor feels honor-bound to ensure Torian Cadera is not ostracized or mistreated. Maybe it had been because of the rumors Caeth has heard of Torian’s treatment at the hands of other Mandalorians, and because Caeth himself has a reputation of being level-headed and fair, if not particularly nurturing or kind.

It’s not Caeth’s place to question Mand’alor’s decisions. He takes the facts of the matter at face value: Torian Cadera is in his company, by order of Mand’alor—and despite Caeth’s early, private concerns, he comes to realize he has no problems with this.

~~~

Caeth rises from his makeshift desk with a yawn as Felucia’s sun dwindles on the horizon, stretching to crack his back. He’s never liked this part of leading—the organizing, the paperwork—but someone has to do it, and now that he’s finalized which of his Mandalorians are going where in the upcoming hunts, he won’t have to worry about the warriors under his command complaining about being interrupted by their peers. Kids these days… Caeth sighs and begins shucking off his armor.

Some days, he feels like Torian’s the only one of the younger Mandos in the squad who doesn’t have something inane to gripe about every other day. Personally, Caeth thinks that the kids just need a good war—feel the thrill of true combat, of honing oneself against a deadly and intelligent foe; feel the bonds of friendship and camaraderie between their fellow warriors. But the war has been on pause since the Treaty of Coruscant, and while hunting beasts is an invigorating challenge, it doesn’t give perspective.

“CAETH!”

A voice roars from outside—Raysh. Caeth jerks to attention, slamming his vambrace back onto his arm as he charges out his tent, brandishing his blaster. Around, there’s the rustle and clamor of other Mandalorians waking, roused by Raysh’s shout.

Raysh stands across the encampment, mouth twisted into a snarl and eyes fraught with furious alarm, and in her arms—

Caeth’s breathing catches, then rage boils in his chest at the sight of Torian—limp and pale as death in Raysh’s arms, armor battered and muddy. He can’t see the boy’s face from here, but he can see the blood soaking his light hair.

“What happened?” he demands as he and Raysh meet in the middle of the camp. Around, there’s shocked whispers and outraged exclamations, but Caeth ignores them, staring at Raysh.

“I found him while out on a hunt,” she says grimly, cheeks mottled with fury. “This wasn’t a beast’s doing, Caeth. Look.”

She shifts Torian slightly. His head lolls towards Caeth. His cheeks are badly burned. Irritated red surrounds scorched and blackened skin, interlaced with bleached white lines, conspicuously absent of blood—and symmetrical, on each cheek. Not random burns—brands.

The symbol of Clan Cadera, seared into Torian Cadera’s cheeks. This is the work of a Mandalorian.

Caeth’s knuckles go white on the grip of his blaster.

“Who did this?” he manages to rasp out.

Raysh shakes her head grimly. “Not sure. He was… alone when I found him.”

Left for dead? Caeth can only assume so. He nods stiffly. “He needs to see Khamalu. Now.”

They rush to Khamalu’s tent—the company’s medic. Khamalu is already awake, and she is pushing through the entrance of her tent as they approach. She opens her mouth, either to greet or question, but her gold eyes fall on Torian, and her face flickers briefly through shock and outrage before settling into a grim resolution. She holds open the flap of her tent and ushers them inside.

“What happened?” she asks bluntly.

Normally, Caeth is a little tongue-tied with the pretty Pantoran, but personal feelings are the furthest thing from his mind as Raysh delicately settles Torian onto a cot. “He was attacked,” he says to Khamalu, and he quickly tells her what Raysh had told him.

Bottled fury flares in Khamalu’s eyes. “Got it. Let me take a look.”

Raysh shuffles aside as Khamalu comes to the side of the cot, peering down at Torian’s ravaged face. He looks even worse under the stark white light Khamalu turns on; the Cadera symbols branded into each of his cheeks are a charred, pasty white where they’re not scorched and blackened, the burned skin withered and dry like old leather. Around the worst of the burns, the skin is an angry, blistered red, spots of blood seeping through cracks. Under the burns, Torian is a nasty, pallid color, and his closed eyes flutter uneasily as if the pain is haunting him even in his stupor. As Khamalu carefully strips him of his battered armor, an assortment of bruises are revealed, but, to Caeth’s relief, nothing anywhere near as bad as his burns. Brands, a disgusted voice in his head corrects. A fresh flush of anger rises in his chest. The anger is compounded by the fact that this happened to a child under his protection, by warriors under his command.

The anger is interlaced with shame, which he knows is misplaced—but he can’t help but feel responsible, nonetheless.

“Raysh,” Caeth snaps, Raysh jerking up from where she’d been watching Khamalu fuss over Torian. “Let’s go sort this out.”

Her eyes darken. “Agreed.”

They leave Khamalu and Torian behind. Outside, many of the warriors are scattered about the camp, no longer resting. All eyes turn to Caeth as he emerges from the tent.

“What happened?” someone calls.

Caeth squares his shoulders. “Torian was attacked,” he says bluntly, and a ripple of shock and disquiet sweeps through the assembled Mandalorians. Some, he muses privately, don’t seem too upset by the news, and he commits their faces to memory. Still, the overall reaction he’s seeing is one of anger towards an attack against a fellow Mandalorian, which Caeth takes as a good sign. “A coward’s dishonorable assault—by one of us.” His voice drops into a growl. “If you know anything, I’d suggest you speak—before I find you and beat it out of you instead.”

He leaves his warriors to converse amongst themselves as he turns to Raysh, opening his mouth.

“I’ll take you to where I found him,” she says, before he has a chance to ask. “Corridan! Get over here.”

Corridan, who’s still in full armor despite the hour, hurries over with a sharp salute. “Sir!”

Caeth nods to him. “I want you to stand guard by Khamalu’s tent until we return. No one gets in except with Khamalu’s permission. Got it?”

Corridan nods, putting his helmet on. “Got it. Good hunting, sir.”

Corridan had been an easy choice. Despite his youth, he’s a capable and clever fighter, and members of Clan Ordo tend to have less problems with Torian than other clans might. Corridan hasn’t ever treated Torian differently, in any case. Caeth trusts he’ll see that nothing goes awry under his watch.

As Corridan moves to stand guard, Caeth heads back towards his own tent, Raysh hot on his heels. He hurriedly pulls the remainder of his armor back on then re-emerges, nodding to Raysh.

“Let’s go.”

~~~

Caeth and Raysh head to where Torian had been found, a few klicks north of the Mandalorian encampment, deep in the lush Felucian wilderness. It’s immediately apparent the attack itself had happened elsewhere; a quick search of the area reveals remnants of a trail, left presumably by Torian. They follow the broken fronds and scuffed ground for about a mile until they come to a smallish clearing, marred by blackened marks seared across the fungal trees that rise around them. The ground is trampled and disturbed, the clear signs of a scuffle. It’s immediately apparent that there had been more than two people present.

“An ambush,” Raysh says darkly, standing from where she’d been scrutinizing some of the marks. “They must’ve jumped him.”

Caeth grinds his teeth. “Cowards. This can’t be more than a day old; I’ll check who was out of camp around then when we get back. Torian got impressively far on his own, considering his injuries.”

“Agreed. He’s fortunate he wasn’t found by any predators.”

They continue poking around, looking for any clues to reveal the attackers, then Raysh lets out a startled sound. “Caeth. Here.”

Caeth comes up beside her. She has dug through some of the scorched undergrowth—revealing Torian’s helmet, bashed almost beyond recognition. Caeth picks it up carefully, turning it over in his hands.

“Maybe he was able to capture the attackers with his helmet,” Raysh says hopefully. Caeth nods, though he personally doubts it. Even if Torian had, the bludgeoned helmet is proof enough that the attackers had feared as much and had sought to destroy any data stored within it. Still, he tucks the helmet under his arm securely.

“I’ll see if someone can pull anything from it,” he says. “Let’s keep looking.”

Further investigation proves fruitless, and they end their search an hour later, muddy, frustrated, and disheartened.

Raysh blows out a long breath. “Torian will be able to tell us who it was when he wakes up. They had to have been in front of him to… brand him, not to mention the rest of the attack.”

Caeth grunts out an agreement. “Kid needs some beskar. Durasteel isn’t cutting it, for him.” Torian’s helmet is proof enough of that. “Let’s head back. See what Khamalu has to say.”

~~~

The return trip is made in a grim silence. Khamalu greets them when they enter her tent, not quite happy, but certainly not entirely displeased.

“I think he’ll make a full recovery,” she says, tentatively optimistic. “For better or for worse, the brands were administered very precisely, limiting the damage to surrounding tissue. He’ll need to be transferred somewhere with better care than we can offer here, but he’s young and strong. Did you two find anything?”

Caeth shakes his head and presents Torian’s helmet. “Nothing, other than this.”

Khamalu’s brow furrows. “He needs beskar.”

“That’s what Caeth said,” Raysh puts in, then she asks, “So what now? You said you want to transfer him.”

Khamalu turns to look at Caeth, expectant. He nods. “I’ll get it sorted out. Besides, I have to report this to…”

He hesitates, feeling almost a little silly about it. After all, warriors get hurt, circumstances notwithstanding. But given Torian’s unique placement here…

“I’ll have to tell Mand’alor,” he says reluctantly, and Khamalu blinks. Raysh looks similarly surprised.

“Mand’alor?” Raysh echoes. “Not that this isn’t serious, but—“

“Torian is here because of him. Direct order from Mand’alor.” Caeth swallows. “He’s my responsibility. I have to report this.”

Raysh’s eyes widen, but Khamalu takes the news with no notable reaction. “It wasn’t your fault,” she says. “Bullying is one thing. This is…”

“Shabla,” Raysh suggests, and Khamalu nods and says, “Shabla. We’ll back you, if Mand’alor blames you.”

Caeth nods, looking over Torian again with a regretful grimace. “I’ll be going then. Wish me luck.”

~~~

For Mand’alor the Vindicated, known to his closest friends and his family as Artus Lok, the call from Caeth Vizla had been an unpleasant surprise. Artus is under no illusions that Torian Cadera will get along smoothly with everyone he meets—or, more accurately, everyone he meets will get along smoothly with him—but he had assumed the worst of it would be hazing, mocking, even fights here and there.

This, however…

He watches through the glass as Torian touches his bandaged cheeks gingerly, tired eyes following the doctor as the doctor talks. Likely telling him how to care for the healing wounds, now that the dead tissue has been removed.

“Kid’s been through the wringer,” Aurel comments from beside Artus, voice mellow. “Haven’t seen him cry once, though.”

Artus folds his arms and hums noncommittally, watching Jicoln’s sole heir reorienting himself in the waking world.

“What will you do about Commander Vizla?” Aurel prompts, their pale gray helmet tilting as they regard him.

“Nothing,” Artus grumbles, almost wishing Caeth had been at fault, so he could at least do something that feels productive, like demoting the commander. “He’s doing everything he can to track down the attackers. Since Torian chose not to reveal them, there’s nothing much else to do.”

“Oh. He didn’t?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

They fall silent, for a time.

“He needs beskar,” Aurel notes. “A helmet, at the least.”

Artus gives them a hard look. “Beskar isn’t a handout.”

“No, but I’d say he’s earned it, by this.” A pause. “I think you should talk to him.”

“What?” Artus says sharply. “Why?”

Aurel holds up their hands appeasingly. “A word of encouragement. That’s all. He’s just gone through a terrible ordeal. Or maybe you can convince him to tell us who did this.”

“A surprise visit from Mand’alor isn’t typically relaxing,” Artus says wryly, but Aurel just stares at him steadily. He sighs. “Fine. I’ll have a word with him.”

“Don’t forget to ask about that helmet,” Aurel says as Artus pushes himself off the wall and heads for the door. As he enters, the doctor talking to Torian snaps to attention, and Torian’s eyes widen as he fumbles to stand.

“At ease,” Artus says, waving him off. “Doctor, how are things in here?”

“Just about done, Mand’alor,” the doctor says. “We were wrapping up.”

“Good. Mind if I have a moment with your patient?”

“Of course. I’ll wait outside.”

The doctor exits. Artus is left with Torian, who’s staring at him with blatant awe and utter surprise.

“M—Mand’alor,” Torian stammers, mumbling slightly in his effort not to agitate his injuries. “It’s an honor.”

Artus inclines his head, distinctly uncomfortable and careful not to show it. “Torian Cadera. It’s a shame that this is how we meet. How are you feeling?”

“… Fine. Face hurts. I’ll live, though. It’s only pain.”

Artus nods approvingly. “Good man. Caeth Vizla spoke favorably of you, when he reported what happened. He wanted to make it clear that the attack was in no way your fault.”

“That’s… good to hear,” Torian says slowly. He seems uncertain—less so about Artus’s words and more about Artus’s presence in general. After all, this is hardly information that Mand’alor himself needs to convey. “Sorry for the trouble.”

“It was hardly trouble caused by you. Those hutuun’e will get what’s coming for them. Speaking of…” Artus eyes Torian. “I hear you haven’t been forthcoming with any names. Why’s that?”

Torian hunches his shoulders. “I’m already the son of a traitor. I’m not going to be known as a coward, too.”

“Reporting this would hardly make you a coward.”

“I need to handle this myself. This is my battle to win—not Commander Vizla’s, and certainly not yours. With all due respect,” Torian adds sheepishly.

“I see,” Artus says, chuckling despite himself. “You’re growing up to be a fine warrior, Torian. But don’t be afraid to accept the help of your peers. We’re Mando’ade. We fight together.”

Torian nods. “Yes, Mand’alor.”

“In that case, I’ll leave the matter up to you and Commander Vizla, unless things escalate. And you’ll need a new helmet.”

“I heard about that,” Torian says with a scowl. “Haar’chak…”

“Beskar is on the table,” Artus says. Torian’s head whips towards him, then the boy groans in pain, hands raising to press against his cheeks. “The Armorsmith is willing to forge you a helmet, should you accept.”

Torian inhales a shaky breath, blinking in shock.

Then, slowly, he shakes his head, looking away. “I’m honored, Mand’alor. But I can’t.”

Artus raises a brow. “Oh?”

“I haven’t earned it. I can’t accept, not yet.”

“Some would say you have, myself included,” Artus points out. “So why refuse?”

“Because I haven’t earned it,” Torian insists with a frown. “Not yet. I… I still have things to prove. To myself, if no one else.”

“And what will that take?”

“I will restore my clan’s honor,” Torian says, quietly, but deadly serious. “Then I will wear beskar.”

“That’s a tall order. And if you fail?”

“Then I’ll die in shame, and Clan Cadera will forever be known as aruetisse.” Torian meets his gaze steadily—not defiant, but resolved. Artus realizes he will not convince the boy otherwise, no matter what he says.

Like his father, Artus thinks, with a touch of amusement and a pang of sorrow. He may never forgive Jicoln Cadera, but he still recalls his years of friendship with Torian’s father with bittersweet fondness. Torian is not his father, but he carries Jicoln’s strength with him.

Artus’s last words to Jicoln had been spoken from fury and hurt—a promise to end his line, to destroy Clan Cadera’s only heir. It’s a promise he’s come to regret, and the only promise he’s ever broken. Looking at the boy before him, he’s glad that he did.

“I understand,” Artus says simply. “In that case, once you’ve recovered, I’ll find a new company for you to join—“

“I’d like to go back to Commander Vizla’s company, if that’s alright,” Torian interrupts. “At least for now.”

Artus’s lips twitch. “I see. Give those shabuir’se hell.”

“Is that an order, Mand’alor?”

“It would be—but I don’t think you need one.”

~~~

Torian Cadera returns to Caeth’s company. He’s got a new helmet, but it isn’t beskar. Caeth’s surprised to see him again, but when he asks about it, Torian shakes his head and says, “I’m not going to run with my tail between my legs.” His new, twin scars, healed nicely but jarringly noticeable, stand stark against his skin. He makes no effort to hide them; Caeth thinks he wears his helmet less than ever, in fact. A challenge, perhaps, to those who would see him shamed for his father. Or maybe a message to his attackers, to show that they had failed with whatever they’d hoped to achieve. Frankly, Caeth’s just glad the boy’s spirit hadn’t been shaken by the ordeal.

It’s a little hard not to stare at the Cadera symbols branded onto Torian’s cheeks for a time, but eventually they cease to register. Ironically, Torian seems even more assured of himself now than ever before; whether it’s genuine or simply a front, Caeth doesn’t know, but he’s glad to see it regardless. He’s still reserved, but now it reads as a quiet confidence rather than introversion. His new attitude is helping him with his fellow Mandalorians as well—while there are always those who view him with disdain and contempt, others have begun to welcome him more readily. Torian hunts most often with Corridan Ordo and his friends, now, as opposed to the solo hunts he’d once preferred.

It’s good to see. Torian doesn’t have an easy path set before him—Jicoln Cadera has assured that—but the goal of every Mandalorian is to be judged by their own actions, not that of their lineage.

Personally, Caeth believes Torian can achieve as much.

[evasbatmanblog]

My theory on why they pronounce Ra’s as Raz in Batman Begins is because Neeson and Bale couldn’t say Raysh with an American accent

[ectonurites]

Dude, the creator admitted it was ‘Raysh’ because ‘Ra’s al Ghul’ is a pun for ‘Racial Ghoul’, just spelled more ‘foreignly’. He was a Middle Eastern Batman villain made in the 1970s, he wasn’t going to have a very original name, like how Aquaman’s archenemy was a black man named Black Man(ta). So you do see why most adaptations tend to go for a new pronunciation.

well first of all u definitely sent this to the wrong person. this feels like it's a rebuttal to something but i have absolutely no idea what. i haven’t even talked about Ra’s name pronunciation stuff on here in well over a year (the last time i recall doing so was in March 2022)

i personally gravitate towards/consider the Arabic pronunciation of the name—something closer to 'Raaz'—to be correct rather than ‘Raysh’ to begin with, as i mentioned in that post from March 2022

i'm curious what your source is on his creator admitting that? (also, tbh, I'm curious which creator you mean—Denny O’Neil the writer, or Julie Schwartz the editor who initially came up with the name? I don't think it'd be Neal Adams the artist though since he used the 'Raaz' pronunciation) I've seen speculation before that that sort of pun was part of the intent, but I've never seen anything confirming it, so if there is something that confirms that i'd be genuinely interested in seeing it!

[nabtime]

Our Empty Graves X

Fandom: Danny Phantom / Batman: Under the Red Hood

Pairings: Danny Fenton/Jason Todd (Dead on Main)

Rating: Mature

Tags: batfamily, hazmat AU, Nobody Knows AU, Mute!Phantom, potential ghost king danny, slow burn?, DC means Disregard Canon, AU means AU nothing is exactly the same, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, more than canon typical violence, danny is a Halfa and also a Fetch, no beta we die like basically everyone

Summary: They say that Red Hood has a loyal mutt. The man rules his territory in Crime Alley with an iron fist and a guard dog at his side. They say that Hood calls him Fetch, sometimes Fetcher. No one's ever heard him speak. Anyone who's ever seen him says he looks like an experiment gone wrong, that Hood picked him up somewhere unspeakable. They say he'll do anything Red Hood asks of him and he'll do it well. That he's strong and fast and probably inhuman. The girls say he's sweet; quiet but charming in his own way. Rival gangs say he's vicious; that he'd sooner rip your throat out than let you go.

Jason just wants to help him.

Chapter 10: is there anyone out there (cause its getting harder and harder to breathe)

Chapter Summary: Jason has a welcome home party. Danny decides to crash it.

Chapter Notes: title from Harder to Breathe by Letdown. Links: AO3 // Chapter 1 // Chapter 9 // Chapter 11 // Spotify

Danny was at a bit of a loss. Red had allowed him back into Crime Alley. But he also hadn’t seen the guy since floating his way back in. Hadn’t been yelled at or told to leave, though, so he guessed Nadi was right in saying he could. It still felt wrong. Like at any moment he’d be chased out. Nadi had told him multiple times that she’d kick Hood’s ass six ways to Sunday if he said anything about Danny being there, and he appreciated it, but it still felt rude.

It was an eerily similar feeling to trespassing on another ghost’s Haunt.

He felt… conflicted.

On the one hand, Red Hood had taken care of him at one point. Made him food, given him a place to live (to Haunt), and given him something to do. A purpose. Something he’d severely lacked after Amity had emptied out. But then, just as easily as it had been given, Hood had taken it away. Forcibly. Angrily. And Danny didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. Not really. He hadn’t understood most of what Red had yelled at him for- hadn’t a clue who Raysh was- but he could feel the layer of betrayal under it all. The incitement for the anger.

So, on the one hand. Red Hood had hurt him. Deeply. Acting so comfortable around him without his suit and then ripping it all to shreds- the food, the comfort, the camaraderie- before he’d even really gotten to enjoy it. Threw words at him that tore him to pieces. Confirming what he already knew. That he was a monster.

On the other hand. Red Hood had only done that because he thought Danny had betrayed him. Something that seemed to strike deeply within the other man. Something that had already hurt him before. And it didn’t matter, at heart, if Danny had actually betrayed him or not. Just as it didn’t matter that Hood acted without knowing the truth, had lashed out. Because in the end

But was it just that? Just a misunderstanding?

Danny couldn’t tell. He wasn’t keen on finding out, either. The other might have let him back into his territory, but that didn’t mean forgiveness on either side. He couldn’t fathom what the man was thinking and was content (not really) to never find out. He’d follow Nadi, doing whatever she asked of him around the Alley, and avoid Red Hood like the plague. If Hood wanted to talk, then Hood could find him. He glowed well enough for it, it’s not like he was hard to find.

Nadi and the girls were fine enough to watch over. Nadi was a saint for putting up with him. Feeding him. He’d trail after her at night, when she was working the streets, so she had two body guards instead of one- him and Charlie. But during the day he’d pull back to his hide-away in the cemetery. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, and it left him on edge to stay in the Alley for too long. Where once it had started feeling like a Haunt he could settle into, it felt foreign now.

The girls and guys that Nadi hung around, and Danny hung around by extension, weren’t half as good at figuring out his charades, though. Not like Red had been. It was a little disheartening, and even though he could talk using the whiteboard, it still felt like too much of a hassle sometimes. It was a good enough excuse to keep his distance.

And he needed to remember to keep his distance. He couldn’t forget what he was again. It could put them in danger.

So, he drifted. Nothing new. He kept the girls out of trouble and made sure their customers kept in line. Occasionally let Nadi feed him gas station snacks. Took care of any crimes he saw if he knew Hood wasn’t nearby.

It was one of those times he’d been helping someone who was getting mugged by the docks when he’d heard the first explosion.

═════ ◈ ═════

Jason hadn’t known what he was going to walk into after following the instructions on the invitation Harley had given him- but he sure as fuck wished he had.

Fuck the plan, he’d have found another way to snare the stupid clown without having to suffer the indignity of being thrown a welcome home party by the guy who killed him in the first place.

This was so goddamn stupid.

The abandoned carnival grounds near the docks had been the destination- because of course it was. If the freakish funny-man was anything it was certainly on brand. And the ‘party’ was specifically being held in the decrepit fun-house mirror building. Again, because of course it was.

What the fuck was his life? After life?

You know, when Jason had been so enthusiastic about being Robin all those years ago, this was not the shit he’d expected out of the gig. It was supposed to be magic. Supposed to be like flying. Not something that could end so badly with a crowbar and explosives. Nor something that would lead him to the creepiest fun-house imaginable. He was so fucking naive back then.

“Baby Jay!” Harley squealed as he stepped into the building, back tense and gun ready- safety off. She whipped around him, throwing an arm over his shoulders despite the fire-arm so very close to going off near her face. “You made it!”

“Couldn’t miss my own party,” he drawled, using the gun (Mina, this time) to gesture to the large banner hung on the ceiling, just above the entrance to the maze, that said ‘Welcome Home Robin!’ in bright red paint. At least, he fucking hoped it was paint. He didn’t see any obvious bodies, but that didn’t mean there were none. God, he fucking hated murder clowns.

Harley’s grin was sharp as she pulled him into the maze, the gleam on her teeth reflected all around. Her grip around his neck was iron-tight as it pulled him along. He knew this was a fucking trap, knew she’d been lying. But he’d wanted to snatch the clown more than he’d wanted to come up with a better plan. Hadn’t wanted to think it through and plan like he should have. Too distracted by other things. His fingers flexed around the trigger of his gun. If he was going to be an idiot at least he was going to be an armed one.

His eyes tracked their distorted reflections as they moved about the space, Harley knowing which trail to take. He took note of every turn, every dead-end they passed. He’d shoot his way out of the maze if he had to, but he didn’t want to waste bullets.

Sudden cackling rang out as they stepped into a large room within the maze, Joker’s image reflected from every angle as the green menace spread his arms out, bent party hat nearly falling off his head. He could hear the strains of crackling circus music under the laugh. Streamers of red, green, and yellow were hung haphazardly, making the space more confusing as they were reflected in the mirrors in every direction.

“The guest of honor!” Joker crowed, grin just as manic as Jason remembered. Red splattered across his face. Blood or paint? “Welcome home, little birdie!”

And suddenly, Jason wasn’t as prepared for this confrontation as he thought he was. This was the first time he’d seen the Joker since his resurrection. Since he’d died. And he was surrounded on all sides, the grin that haunted his nightmares coming from every direction. The phantom pain of broken bones and cracked ribs twinged as he could see nothing but that crowbar coming at him over and over and over again. The memory of demented laughter ringing out as he was beaten, slowly entwined with the real deal as Harley took advantage of his distraction.

He wasn’t quick enough when Harley’s grip around his neck shifted and grew tighter. Choking him out until everything went black and the grasp on his gun went slack.

═════ ◈ ═════

Something was wrong. He could feel it in his core. This wasn’t your run of the mill explosion disturbing the peace of Gotham. He needed to go faster. To fly.

An unknown panic filled his chest as he tried to take flight, clumsy arms pinwheeling as his feet tried to lift off the ground with no success. Flying had always been one of the harder powers for him to master and even now, six years dead, he had trouble. He’d only ever been able to manage a fast hover or a higher than humanly possible jump. Low flight or a glide.

Right now he couldn’t even lift off the asphalt of the road as he ran toward the roaring fire, the dread like a pit in his soul keeping him grounded and growing worse with every failed lift off. He needed to be faster. He needed to be there already. Someone was dying.

Someone was dying.

═════ ◈ ═════

He woke up in the same room not long after Harley knocked him out, tied to a chair that had been placed on a pedestal in the middle- his mirror image reflected a thousand times around him. His helmet had been removed and even the domino underneath. Not like it mattered when both Harley and Mr. Pudding knew who he was. He could feel the irritating pinch of cheap string around his head. They’d taken the time to give him a fucking party hat. Great.

He tested the rope, his muscles feeling lax and hard to work with while he did it. They’d drugged him. Nothing intense, as far as he could tell. Muscle relaxer, maybe? He didn’t like it. The rope was also unforgiving- wound tight and chafing. The portion tied around his wrists was irritating against his skin- his gloves long gone- and he could tell that if it stayed cinched much longer he’d start loosing circulation.

“You know,” came the drawl of Joker’s voice, echoing around the mirrors with the clown himself nowhere to be seen. “You took such a long time coming back, that I almost thought you never would!”

“Were you betting on it?” Jason spat, words slightly slurred from his jaw feeling loose. Everything felt heavy, like he was being weighted down. At least he was still cognizant. At least it wasn’t Joker gas.

“No, actually,” he said, sounding disappointed. “But what a fun thing to add to the Arkham betting pool.”

“What do you want with me?” Jason asked, tugging at his restraints again. If he kept the clown talking, he could distract him long enough to get free and beat the shit out of him like he’d planned. Probably.

“Not as talkative as you used to be now that you’re a zombie, huh?” Joker said, voice still ringing out and bouncing around the mirrors of the room, making Jason feel slightly dizzy. Which was likely the point. “Straight to the point, no time for chit-chat.”

“Maybe you’re just a shit conversationalist.”

“My, my,” he tutted, “little birdie’s got a dirty mouth now. You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

It didn’t sound like his voice was coming from a speaker, but it was loud enough that the clown should be in the room with him. Maybe around a corner? He couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from, only that it kept circling. And circling.

“Get to the fucking point.”

“Well,” the Joker started, sighing dramatically, scratchy voice grating on Jason’s last nerve. “I’ve noticed that the big ol’ Bat has been taking an interest in you and, honestly, I’m a bit jealous!”

“Gross,” the response slipped out before he’d even realized. He could hear Harley giggling before a smacking sound rang out and he heard her quietly say, “sorry puddin’.”

Oh, he was gonna wring that clown’s fucking neck. He was gonna turn that bastard into a squeaky toy, punch him over and over to see what fun noises he would make next.

“Anyway,” Joker continued, growl to his tone that wasn’t there before. “I figured- I take you out and Batsy has more time to focus on other things.”

“Like you?”

“Like me.”

Again, gross.

“Don’t think I didn’t know you wanted your pound of flesh from me, either. I just decided to go on the offensive about this instead of defensive. Take initiative. Be proactive. Get ahead of the game.”

He was going to have to dislocate something to get out of these binds and he didn’t have the strength to do it while he was drugged like this. Fuck. He was so fucking stupid. If he hadn’t been so damn distracted lately, he wouldn’t have made so many mistakes like this. He needed to get it together already before he got himself killed again.

“And, you know,” Joker continued, “I was thinking, and thinking… and thinking- of some creative new way to kill you…” he trailed off, and Jason could hear footsteps but he still couldn’t see the clown. Just his own reflection, fear mirrored back at him a thousand times.

“But then I thought-,” and then the lights went out and he couldn’t see anything and suddenly he could feel something hovering over his shoulder and he did not like where this was going.

And then the Joker’s voice was right behind him, crooning with delighted malice, “if it ain’t broke!”

There was a whistling noise.

The crowbar came down hard with a crack! against his jaw.

“Don’t fix it!”

He toppled to the floor, still tied to his chair, his left side taking the brunt of the fall where he couldn’t brace himself. He could feel his skull bounce off the concrete. His lungs were constricting with panic. His mouth was filling with blood. Not again, not again.

“Also,” the Joker cackled, the lights in the maze flickering on just in time to watch him bring the crowbar down on Jason’s hands. “How fun is it that I get to murder you twice!”

Pain bloomed in his wrists and his fingers. Broken bones. Bruises. Blood.

“If I had a nickle for every time I’ve killed a Robin-,” Joker mused, stopping to tap the crowbar menacingly against the chair, “well, I wouldn’t exactly be rich but I’d definitely have more nickles than before!”

He watched the crowbar. Up and down. And tap. Tap. Tap. With every word it would thunk against the wood- dangerously close to his already broken hands.

Joker reared back and even though Jason could see it coming it still felt like a shock when he was kicked in the stomach.

Everything hurt. New wounds and old. Phantom pains from the first time he was beaten near to death by this man were making themselves known.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

The mirrors were starting to blur in and out of vision, flashes of the warehouse from before overtaking his sight. Everything was jumbling together in a mess of pain and uncaged fear and his lungs were straining against his ribs and his heart was beating so, so fast and he was gonna die again. He was gonna die.

He wanted Bruce.

The crowbar came down again. And again. Blood splattered the mirrors. Pooled on the concrete.

It was harder for the Joker to beat him while he was still tied to the chair but that didn’t stop him from hitting every inch he could get. All along his right side, blow after blow. And the whole time he was laughing.

Laughing and laughing and laughing.

Wack!

And Jason couldn’t breathe.

Wack!

Where was Bruce? Why wasn’t he here? Why wasn’t he here to save him? Batman always saved him.

Wack!

He wanted his dad.

“That should do it.” Jason could barely hear the Joker’s voice, faded and distorted as it sounded to his ears. He heard the clatter of metal falling to the ground. “Ta, little birdie! Have fun being dead again!”

“Oh, by the by,” he could only just hear the man, smug glee lacing his tone. “I’ve rigged up several bombs this go around. Expanding on a good idea and all that. Gotta make sure you don’t come back this time!”

The sound of feet tapping away, growing fainter and fainter. Leaving him with nothing but the roaring sound of his own heartbeat and the wet, ragged, desperate pull of air into his lungs.

He was going to die here. All over again. He could already feel the lick of fire crawling over him, the smoke choking him and scratching his throat, the pain of bones snapping as he was flung through the air. The sharp burst of pain that meant his skull was getting crushed.

He could hear the sound of ticking. A countdown. A bomb.

Maybe this time it’d be faster. Maybe this time the explosion would take him out instantly. Maybe this time there would be nothing left to bury.

Maybe this time he’d stay dead.

═════ ◈ ═════

Bruce watched the wreckage from the screen of the Bat-Jet, scanning the drone footage that Alfred had sent him of the latest explosion to rock Gotham and her people. He was already traveling as fast as he could to get back to his city, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was too late. Like he’d failed, even though he couldn’t say way.

Something was wrong and it set a cold pit in his stomach to think that one of his children might have been caught up in whatever new trouble this was. Whether it be Tim or Dick or… Jason. He couldn’t stand to loose another soldier.

And then he saw it, on the edge of the camera, the mysterious meta that had been working with Red Hood around the Alley.

Just standing on the edge of the flames. Suspicious.

He closed out of the footage and focused on getting back as fast as possible.

═════ ◈ ═════

Danny made it to the docks and stopped. Everything was on fire. Everything was wrong. Something was crying out in pain, something that tugged at his core. Something familiar. Something dying.

He broke out into a wild sprint, core leading him in a certain direction. He followed without hesitation. There was no sound but the roar of the fire and the crunch of glass under his boots. There was nothing he could see but flame and smoke and splintered beams. There was nothing he could feel but overwhelming heat and panic.

Where?

He listened. Nothing. He crept forward. Which direction? His core was no longer helpful. Just screaming.

Where?

He listened. Nothing. He turned. There was nothing but fire, and fire, and smoke. And rubble.

Where?

He listened. Nothi- There. Something- digital? Like a clock. Like a counter. Like another bomb. Like what had likely caused the first explosion. It started ticking faster and his heart matched the frantic beat. He had to find them. Now.

He moved forward through the debris, intangible, and searched.

There was broken glass everywhere. Reflective, like mirror shards, it made it all the harder to navigate the space. Fire danced in every direction, sometimes a mirage, sometimes real. Danny continued to sweep through it all, searching and searching. The beeping was getting louder. He needed to go faster, but he couldn’t risk missing the one he was searching for in the first place.

He felt like he was melting.

He moved forward again- there. His core cried out. He’d found them.

They looked broken. The remains of what was likely a chair they’d been tied to was strewn across the small patch of concrete, the legs and back of it still pressed against them with charred rope. There was a broad beam of wood, caught on one of the walls that was still standing, that looked like it’d shielded them from the roof coming down.

They were surrounded by a pool of blood and Danny didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t it dangerous to move people with certain injuries? If they were bleeding would moving them exacerbate the blood loss enough to kill them? Would any of that matter if the second bomb went off while they were still here?

They were still breathing, at least.

As gently as he could, even phasing his arms into the ground to maneuver without jostling them. One arm to brace the back, one arm under the knees. He got a good grip on them. Turned them both intangible. Then booked it.

Their body was large, too large, too awkward to carry. Their blood dripped down to the ground with every step, flying behind them and splattering against the concrete and mirror shards. The fire did not touch them, even if it felt like the heat was trying to devour them both. Smoke smothered everything. Without having to stop and search the area like he had before, Danny made good time fleeing the building and the area in general. He’d have continued to run to a hospital but the blood that slicked his hazmat was too concerning. He needed to patch them up first. Somehow.

The blanket Nadi had given him was phased into his stomach for safekeeping. As were multiple knives to cut it with.

He needed to find a place-

A loud BANG! sounded and Danny braced them both.

The bomb had gone off behind them, the blast sending wood and concrete and glass raining in every direction. The fire roared louder. The wind from the blast whirling past them in a concussive force. He kept them intangible until it passed. He pulled the other into an alleyway that just edged the docks, the noise of it burning being dampened. Like a pocket of safety. Or so Danny hoped.

He laid them down and pulled a knife, cutting the rope around their chest and wrists and legs and freeing them from the leftover chair pieces.

Their hands looked the worst off. Crooked and dark with bruises. Bleeding, but sluggishly at least. Slowing, stopping.

Right arm looked broken, leaking red too. He pulled the blanket out and cut a strip off to wrap it. Anything to stem some bleeding. He didn’t dare touch the hands. Pants were torn and scratched but nothing looked bad underneath. No gaping chest or back wounds but their breathing was rapid. Danny then remembered that smoke inhalation was a thing and tore off his breathing apparatus and the tank that connected it.

He didn’t know what being infused with ectoplasm would have done to the oxygen within it, but here’s hoping it would be fine.

He gently rolled them, noticing more blood was pooling around their neck. Shit. But then it looked like a wound from the jaw not the jugular. He balled up another slice of blanket and pressed it to the underside of their chin. He fumbled with the mask with one hand to put it over their mouth.

And then he noticed who he was treating.

Red Hood.

His hands trembled, mixed emotions entangling in his core, but he didn’t stop.

He placed the mask over his face, noticing that this was the first time he’d seen it completely bare. His domino was missing. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about anything except what was practical. (Not about his hands, completely mangled. Not about the blood, so so much of it. Not about any of the grief trying to well up inside him, churning like a building storm.) He fit the mask and moved the strap of it so it was holding the blanket in place, leaving his hands free.

He couldn’t take Hood to the hospital, especially not without a domino. But he needed someone. He’d taken Red to someone for medical attention before. He’d try the clinic again. Ancients, he hoped that doctor Leslie lady was still there.

Hood coughed, rough, body jerking with the motion. His eyes blinked hazily and a low groan escaped his throat before his eyelids fluttered closed again.

His eyes were very blue.

They opened again for a moment, staring at nothing, and Danny could see the man trying to say something. He leaned in close but heard nothing. Danny moved back, assuming that Hood had maybe become delirious with anemia. He couldn’t blame the guy, he’d be a hypocrite otherwise.

A low whine reached his ears and he paused to sweep a hand through Red’s hair to offer a moment of comfort. He couldn’t do much, but he hoped it would calm him for the time being. His aching core might not handle it otherwise.

He wrapped Hood up as much as he could and balanced the man and the tank in his arms before lurching to his feet with them both in tow. He really hoped he could remember the way correctly. The blood may not be flowing as bad, but he still wanted the man treated as quickly as possible.

So Danny, as quickly as he could manage, set off to find Dr. Leslie.

═════ ◈ ═════

Jason’s entire body felt like lead. Heavy, weighed down. Like there was a current running over his body that had sunk to the bottom of a river.

He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He would know. He’d absolutely been hit by a truck before.

This might be worse though.

He didn’t want to open his eyes. Didn’t want to face the world. Didn’t want to fully remember the latest fuck up that had knocked him on his ass. Joker’s laugh was already haunting him, he didn’t need it back in surround sound.

He was so certain that he was going to die. Again. Because he was a dumb-ass that fell into traps too easily with no backup and a foolhardy plan to out villain the villain in order to get what he wanted. And now, here he was, back to square one with nothing to show for his efforts except a broken- basically everything.

Great.

Question now was- how did he survive? He didn’t remember getting out of there on his own. He didn’t remember getting out of there at all. Maybe he was dead? But this didn’t feel like dying had last time.

(Dying hadn’t really felt like anything at all, not once the pain ended. Or, maybe, he didn’t have a memory of anything else after that. Had he gone to an afterlife? All he knew was that once second he was dying in a warehouse and the next he was waking up in a grave. This didn’t feel half as suffocating as the coffin.)

The only way to answer that would be to open his eyes. Dammit. Fuck.

Someone else was in the room.

He could hear them breathing. Steady. Slow. Someone else had been in the room with him while he was out and injured, which made him tense. But they also seemed to be asleep, which was confusing more than anything. He’d have to open his eyes to even try to guess who it was though. Which he hated. He’d nearly blown up again, the world should be nicer to him. He waited a bit longer, listening to the steady breathing from what sounded like the corner of a small room, before his curiosity (paranoia) finally got the better of him.

He blinked open his eyes, however reluctantly, and braced himself for a blinding light that never came. The room he was in was dim and small. And recognizable. The little sectioned off back room in Leslie’s clinic. Huh.

But who was-

He sucked in a surprised breath that made his lungs ache, making him cough and then groan when that made his ribs twinge. And his jaw ache. Jesus fuck he was a mess.

And Fetcher was there, awake and watching, hovering on the edge of his vision, unmasked face pinched in worry.

“Fuck are you doing here?”

The words came out harsher than he meant, and he regretted them wholly when it made Fetcher reel back and close in on himself. Fuck. He was horrible at this kind of thing. He should apologize, he knew that. But the words were so hard to say and he still wasn’t convinced that he should. That it wouldn’t be better for Fetcher to stop coming anywhere near him. All he did was hurt the guy. It’s all he would ever do.

Fetcher shrugged, small and skittish.

“I hurt you,” he said, not knowing what else to say but the obvious. He was still just so baffled by why the other man was here. Why he’d gone through the effort to save him. Why he’d stayed.

Fetcher looked at him then, pale green eyes heavy in their stare. He tilted his head in a little nod of acknowledgment but otherwise stayed unmoving. Tense and waiting, crossed arms resting across a blood-stained suit. Jason winced at the sight.

“But you saved me?” he asked, uncertain.

Another nod. Another small shrug.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, fire roaring in the memory that immediately came back to haunt him. The pain. The explosion. The jeering laugh of the mad clown that had gotten the better of him again. Tricked him so easily. He was so fucking stupid for falling for his traps again. He should have known his plans would fall through, no matter how meticulous he’d been. Self-sabotage. Because he was arrogant and impulsive and a moron. Just like he’d always been. Just like Batman had always though him to be.

And Fetcher had risked himself for his dumb ass. Had been yelled at and hurt by him and still braved the clown and explosions and a burning dock to save him. He should never have put himself in danger like that. Not for Jason. He wasn’t nearly worth it.

“That was dangerous,” he told him, keeping his eyes closed to avoid having to look the other man in the eye. “You shouldn’t have put yourself at risk like that.”

He took a heavy breath, a cough threatening in his throat from the action.

“You should have just let me die.”

And then he felt a smack to his chest and opened startled eyes to find Fetcher looming over him, angry and glaring with the slight sheen of tears threatening to fall. He pointed a stern finger in Jason’s face (and he couldn’t help but notice it was tipped with a small sharp claw) and smacked him again, lightly, to get his point across.

“Why do you care?” he asked, confused beyond anything why this angel of a man would do anything for him after the things Jason had done and said.

═════ ◈ ════

Danny leaned back after he made sure Red knew he wouldn’t stand for that kind of talk. Not from Hood. And he thought about his question.

That was the thing, though, wasn’t it? Why did he care? Because he sure as hell seemed to care more than just a cursory sense of obligation to not let someone die. Despite the fact that Hood had been an absolute asshole back in the dojo. Despite everything- he cared.

It was in the way he’d made Danny food. In the way he’d taken care of him. Made him feel human again, even if only for a moment. In the way he’d pester Danny to eat and sleep and patch him up when he got hurt. It was in the way he cared. About everyone in the Alley. The way he checked in on the girls so often. The way he brought food and blankets to the shelters so often. The way he tolerated playing with the Alley kids even when he was busy. It was in the way he talked about the changes he planned to bring to Gotham. To make it better. Make it livable for everyone. In how many people he wanted to help that way.

Yes, he murdered people. Yes, he was a Crime Lord. Yes, he could be a bit of a dick.

But he was earnest in his efforts to make the Alley, and Gotham at large, a safe place for innocents. He was a man made of compassion underneath it all. Made of strong convictions and strong emotion. Sometimes that emotion was anger and it overwhelmed him and he lashed out because of it. And yes, he’d lashed out at Danny, but Danny was nothing if not a glutton for punishment and if it meant having Red’s homemade soup again- he’d save the man any day.

He couldn’t exactly say any of that though.

So he simply stepped forward and smiled, small and tired and gave Red another shrug. Then he thought about it a bit and brought a finger to the other man’s chest, tapping the area where his heart was, reveling in the confused look it bought him.

“My heart?” Red asked slowly. “Do you… want it?”

Danny tilted his head in question, now also perplexed.

“Like to eat or something?”

He had to take a deep breath and turn away, shoulders shaking from the laughter he was trying to keep down. Red thought he saved him, that he cared- because he was saving his heart to snack on?! Why? What the fuck? What the hell kind of life experiences had this man had for that to be a reasonable conclusion?

He got himself under control and turned back around to see Hood giving him a bemused smile. It was a nice smile.

He huffed a bit and waved his hand in order to refute Red’s previous idea of cannibalism. Because really. He thought about it, how to convey everything he was thinking. Everything that made Hood a good man at his core.

He pointed at Red. You. And then he held up a hand, flat with his palm facing inward and his fingers touching his chin and pulled it away in a decisive, forward motion. It was one of the few signs he’d been taught so far. Good. And then he tapped Red’s chest again and could almost feel the beating under his fingers. Heart.

Red scrunched his nose and shook his head. “I do not. And that’s way too fucking cheesy a reason anyway.”

Danny rolled his eyes and smacked Hood for what felt like the tenth time already since he’d woken up.

Red smiled before it dropped. He looked up past Danny and toward the ceiling, staring at nothing with a grim look on his face. Danny couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking about.

“I was stupid,” Hood murmured. “All I’ve been since I got back is stupid. I never should have fallen for Joker’s trap. Never should have been so blind to what he was up to.”

Of course it was the Joker that Hood had nearly gotten blown up by. Danny fucking hated clowns for a reason and the Joker was just one of them. He watched as Hood raised a heavily bandaged hand in an attempt to comb it through his hair, only to pull back and stare blankly at the mitten of gauze and wrap that enveloped both hands. He accepted his fate with a sigh, weary and broken and Danny wanted so badly to fix it, but he couldn’t. All he could do was watch.

“But I needed him. Still need him. He’s the center of the question, here. The crux of the whole problem,” Red kept talking, low and mumbling and Danny was certain that he wasn’t talking to him anymore. But he wasn’t about to stop listening.

���I underestimated how much it would affect me- seeing him again for the first time. I should have handled that better.”

Danny could see blood seeping into the bandages around his hands, likely from Hood agitating his own wounds for whatever reason. He reached out and caught one of the hands between his own, tapping at the edge where the wrapping stopped in a bid to remind Hood of what he was doing and to stop hurting himself.

“You don’t understand-,” Hood gritted out. “I need that fucker dead. I won’t let him murder anyone else.”

Hood closed his eyes, but Danny still saw the pain within them.

“I should have been the line. My death should have been the line.”

And Danny froze.

No. No, he couldn’t be- He didn’t feel like a ghost. Or a halfa, even. But sometimes… No. There was no way. It was so faint. You couldn’t be a third of a ghost or whatever and he didn’t set off Danny’s ghost sense at all and- he was getting far too ahead of himself. He didn’t even know what Red Hood meant. Maybe he’d gone into cardiac arrest before. Been only medically dead for a few minutes. No ghostly business involved.

But he had to make sure.

He leaned over Red where he was still reclined back in the bed Doctor Leslie had ordered Danny to place him. Bruised and bloody and broken. Almost dead a second time.

He held the man’s head between his hands, solemn as he searched for- for something. Red didn’t say a word, just let it happen, eyes opening and trying to catch Danny’s- question what he was doing without interrupting. And Danny just looked into bright, bright blue and- there was a thin sliver of green. Ectoplasm green. Barely there and barely noticeable. But there all the same.

He pulled back and made Red focus on him. On his stare. All the while lifting a hand and turning it intangible to plunge into the other’s chest. If he was a ghost, or a half ghost, or a quarter ghost, he should have something of a core. Even if it was hiding.

Hood gasped and sputtered and coughed and tried to fight off Danny’s arm with useless hands. But Danny kept his soft grip on the uninjured side of Red’s face and brought his forehead down to rest on Hood’s, trying to calm him. It shouldn’t hurt- just feel weird. But he hadn’t exactly given the other a warning.

He felt Red shiver underneath him, the feeling of a ghost running a cold hand through your chest was never a pleasant sensation, but it was necessary.

He didn’t feel anything at first, waving a hand through Red’s chest, slowly combing through muscle and organ and bone and blood. He didn’t have much experience looking for a core, especially not in one currently still living, but he was letting his instincts drive him. He needed to know.

And then he felt it.

It wasn’t a core, not quite. Not so ghostly but definitely of the dead. It was half-formed and weak and felt like poison. It pulsed feebly when his fingers brushed over it a chorus of anger fear rage pain betrayal betrayal betrayal rang out from the touch.

He pulled back, just enough to take his arm out of Red’s chest and let him breathe, but not enough that he left the bedside. He let Hood take in ragged breaths, coughing and heaving from smoke inhalation damage (he regretted it for that, but not enough to have stopped his search). When it looked like the other had calmed down and was about to question just what the hell Danny had done, he held up a hand.

He pointed at Red. You. He slid a finger across his own throat. Died. And tilted his head to the side to turn it into a question, even though he knew the answer.

“Yes,” Hood said, voice rougher and raspier than before, tight from the cough and likely sore throat. “I died, Fetch.”

Danny stared down at the man, debating on what to say. Red’s eyes searched his own, blue that looked deeper in the dim lighting but he didn’t say anything either. Just let the quiet sit between them for a moment.

Eventually, Danny lifted and hand and pointed towards himself. I. He slid a finger across his throat. Died. He held up two fingers. Too.

[fancy-rock-dove]

I’ve begun reading DC and particularly Batman fic again recently and am actually super curious if there’s an actual trend one way or the other on this among fans.

I recognize this is generally an “actual Arabic pronunciation” vs. “what the creator said (which is closer to Hebrew)” question. I’m just curious if there’s an actual majority one way or the other?

[fullscoreshenanigans]

Using the metrics of "not currently listed in the top ten relationships on AO3" and "I've seen at least one piece of fanart of it out in the wild."

[officersnickers]

"... oh, but one time Norman tried to cure his cold, and..."

What's better than waking up to your three wolf pets getting their bowls filled and you being surprised with a great breakfast in bed, all while hearing embarrassing stories of your arch nemesis you can use to scare him off the next time he crosses your ways?

Maybe this whole "we have our fun without catching any feelings"-stuff worked out so far, but how can ones heart not say "yup that's the one, that's the one we gonna keep" when being confronted with someone like this?

[twinhood-2dot0]

A Shallow Dive Into: Batman’s Rogues Gallery Part 2

Here, part 2. The first one somehow got 7 likes??? I barely even put any effort into it. This one is also gonna be pretty low effort :P I started writing another post yesterday and I wrote 1360 words and I’m only like only a ⅓ finished??? And I kinda spent the whole day watching an anime start to finish 💀.Anyways, let’s get into some more that I missed.

The Al Ghul’s

Ra’s al Ghul (Raysh-Al-Ghool or, Raas-Al-Ghool. Even DC writers can’t agree, although I’m more accustomed to Raysh, I think that was how it was pronounced in the DCAU and the Arkham games. It’s Arabic for “Head of the demon”) is a man born around 700-450 years ago, who discovered the powers of the Lazarus pit, which has the power to bring people back from the dead and used it to prolong his life. (Yeah, this how pretty much most of the dead Batfam characters came back to life. Jason Todd, Kate Kane (Batwoman), who died for like one issue a few meters away from a Lazarus pit, Riddler, as mentioned before, when he got cancer and took a dip in the pit and figured out Batman’s identity.) Ra’s al Ghul, in his long life, played a part in like a lot of historical moments, and later comes to resent humanity and becomes an environmentalist. I’m not very familiar with the character unfortunately, with all of my experience being the Batman Begins version, the kinda weird role he played in Arkham City, and JLA: Tower of Babel where he takes down the entire Justice League using Batman’s countermeasures for his own allies, and the Injustice series, which I don’t remember much of except that he has like a nature sanctuary with various critically endangered species and he was besties with Animal Man.

Talia al Ghul is the daughter of Ra’s al Ghul, on-and-off love interest for Batman, and mother of Batman’s biological son, and also on-and-off ally of Ra’s al Ghul. She also played a part in Jason Todd’s resurrection and consequent training.

Ra’s also has one other daughter, Nyssa, but I honestly didn’t even know she existed until I played Arkham Knight. She has much less appearances than her sister.

Lady Shiva, while not a member of the family, has relations to the League of Shadows, so I thought I’d group them together. Lady Shiva is among the best martial artists in the DCU, able to best even Batman. She’s also the mother of Cassandra Cain, the other best fighter, although more so because of her procognitive abilities. 

Man-Bat

Wow, the realisticness makes him so much scarier.

Dr. Kirk Langstrom is a zoologist cursed with deafness, and in an effort to cure his deafness, creates a serum with the help of bat DNA but it goes horribly wrong and is turned into a giant bat. In recent publications, he’s more of a sympathetic villain acting more on primal rage than malice. His interpretation in Arkham Knight was done really well. Although Arkham Knight is not a horror game, there’s a ton of jumpscares. While just gliding and grappling to different buildings, the player may be randomly met with the shrieking face of the Man-Bat, and you have to go to his lab and piece together what he has done and create an antidote.

Mr. Freeze

Dr. Victor Fries’s (pronounced “Frees”. Yeah, DC names are often very on the nose, just look at E. Nygma and Harleen Quinzel.) wife Nora Fries is afflicted with a terminal illness, and is cryogenically preserved by her husband in hopes that a cure might one day be discovered. While working, he’s trapped in an accident that made him unable to survive outside of sub-zero environments, forcing him to wear a cryogenic suit, and he turns to crime to find a cure.

Mr. Freeze was originally just another bank robber with a freeze ray, but Paul Dini changed his origin story to the current iteration in an Emmy Award winning episode of Batman: The Animated Series titled “Heart Of Ice”. Scott Snyder, as much as I loved his stories, controversially retconned this in the New 52 reboot and made Fries a man who got obsessed with a cryogenically preserved woman named Nora Fields.

The Court Of Owls

A newer addition to the Batman mythos, appearing first in Scott Snyder’s Court Of Owls and City Of Owls arcs that kicked off the New 52 Batman series. The Court Of Owls are Gotham’s own Illuminati. A secret society made of the wealthiest and most powerful citizens of Gotham, they have existed for centuries, controlling the city from behind the shadows, along with the help of immortal assassins named the Talons.

Batmen of The Dark Multiverse

Scott Snyder’s 2017 crossover event named Dark Nights: Metal introduced us to the Dark Multiverse, a multiverse where everything that can go wrong, does go wrong, and is doomed to destruction. We’re introduced to the Batmen (and Batwoman) of The Dark Multiverse, who are all different versions of Batman with some drastic changes.

Joker 

A fan favorite, and the leader of the Batmen, is The Batman Who Laughs. This Batman gave into the urge of killing Joker, after he killed all his rogues, thousands of Gotham citizens and Jim Gordon, and is infected with a version of the Joker toxin that turns him insane, making him a Joker with the brain and physicality of Batman. He tricked the Batfamily and killed them all, and hid in his Batcave for a week, emerging to kill the Justice League, and he turned Damian into a mini-Joker and recruited the children affected by the Joker toxin as his “Rabid Robins”. This guy is freaking horrifying in all of the stories he appeared in.

Superman

The Superman of Earth -1 goes on a killing spree, even killing Lois Lane, leading Batman to decide to use lethal force. After his attempts with a Kryptonite spear doesn’t work out, he ingested a version of the Doomsday Virus (Doomsday is the monster that killed Superman in The Death Of Superman, the virus causes people to develop features like it.) aiding him in killing Superman, but after his victory, the virus spread and he could only watch helplessly as it destroyed his world.

The Flash

After all of the Batfam dies, Batman is compelled to take extreme measures, and tries to get The Flash to give him access to the Speed Force too, and when he refused, he used all the weapons employed by his Rogue’s Gallery to defeat him, chained him to the Batmobile (merged with the Cosmic Treadmill, it’s a treadmill that Flash uses to time travel accurately and stuff), and drove both of them into the Speed Force, absorbing The Flash and his powers, with Barry forced to watch as Batman murders each of his villains.

Aqua(wo)man

In a universe where everyone is gender-swapped, Bryce Wayne’s lover Sylvester Kyle (bleugh) is killed by metahumans, and starts killing every metahuman. After killing all of them on land, she meets Aquawoman, and peace negotiations turn into a conflict, and then she steals her trident, and kills her with her own weapon, and in retaliation, the Atlanteans drown Gotham City and a large part of the world, leading her to perform surgery on herself to give herself Aquawoman’s powers and designed an underwater army called the “Dead Waters''. Does that qualify as a navy?

Okay, there are a few more, like Cyborg Alfred Batmobile Batman, Ares Batman, Killed all of Green Lantern corps as a kid with a Green Lantern ring Batman, but I’m lazy, sorry. Maybe next time, cya, I gotta go finish Chainsaw Man.

[nightwings-robin]

Curious question, do you have an opinion on the naming controversy surrounding Ra’s Al Ghoul? Are you team Raysh? Or, the proper team, Team Raaas. As he’s of middle eastern origin and the translation is literally “Arabic for Head of the Demon”, head in Arabic is pronounced Raas.

in my head I do tend to pronounce his name Raysh because that's how it's pronounced in the animated show/movies that I've seen but I'm trying to move away from that.

it really should be pronounced Raas like it is in Arabic and DC really should set the record straight for pronouncing it correctly. future shows/movies that feature Ra's should use his name with the correct Arabic pronunciation.

[dadaminayellowpie]

I know this is probably not everyones cup of tea, which is fine, but this is a commission that someone drew for me and since this tumblr page is like the only one i have on which i can share it and i want to share because i want to show my appreciation for the artist, i thought i should share it here to help the artist.

This is Ember from the Spyro Franchise. ( spyros first potential girlfriend, appeared in the franchise before Cynder )

It was drawn by Raysh as you can see on the link on the picture.

You can support the artist here: https://www.patreon.com/raysh

I just had to share it, again sorry if the paw focus is not everyones thing, but im just so thankful for this drawing, in my opinion this is just a really beautiful drawing and i am just grateful that i was even able to get a commission from someone with this much quality and detail.