#red crystal - reload

[helix-enterprises117]

Halo Reloaded: A Star-Spangled Man...

John emerged from the confines of a nondescript closet—not exactly the noble entry befitting a supersoldier of his caliber.

As he surveyed the penthouse, his HUD flickered like a confused tourist. Sleek, minimalist furniture met his gaze, betraying a taste for luxury that would make even a Covenant Elite's eyes widen with envy. But outside the glass walls, New York City sprawled in an architectural time capsule—buildings squatting lower than he recalled, the skyline an awkward teenager compared to the mature metropolis he knew.

The Spartan's reverie was cut short by a projectile hurtling toward his visor—a shield, star-spangled and as patriotic as apple pie. Catching it was reflex; the man who'd thrown it, however, was anything but predictable. Dressed in a combat suit that screamed 'America!', complete with helmet, he launched into a drop kick that even professional wrestlers might applaud.

John staggered, an uncharacteristic "oof" escaping him. The two squared off, sizing each other up. John’s opponent smirked, his suit a walking flagpole.

"Planning on dropping more surprises, or is the shield your only party trick?" John's tone was dry, the kind of dry you'd need a gallon of water to recover from.

"Just warming up. Let's dance, Tin Man," the flag-man retorted, his voice dripping with Brooklyn bravado.

The Star-Spangled Man charged, his sprint more a blur than a run. The penthouse's luxurious floor tiles seemed to quake under the force of his super-soldier speed. As he neared John, he leaped high, his body horizontal to the ground, twisting mid-air to deliver a roundhouse kick. The kick was a blur of red, white, and blue—a patriotic whirlwind.

John, his reactions honed by countless battles, swung the shield upward in a sweeping arc, intercepting the kick with a metallic clang that resonated like a gong. The impact sent a shockwave that rattled the nearby furniture, a crystal vase teetering perilously on the edge of a table.

Undeterred, The Patriotic Stranger rolled backward on landing, regaining his stance with feline agility. He then dashed forward again, this time pulling a series of rapid punches, each blow a thunderous crack breaking the air. John deflected each with the shield, the rhythm of their impacts a deadly drumbeat.

Seeing an opening, John thrust the shield forward like a battering ram. The other soldier, anticipating the move, ducked under the swing and swept a leg toward John's ankles in a sweeping arc meant to topple giants. John leapt over the sweep, a graceful arc in his own trajectory, landing with the floor cracking slightly under his armored weight.

Not missing a beat, John delivered a spinning back kick, aimed with precision at his adversary's midsection. The flag-man caught the kick with his hands, grunting under the force, his feet sliding back, carving grooves into the wooden floor. With a Herculean effort, the old-soldier twisted, redirecting the momentum to hurl John over his shoulder. John flipped mid-air, landing on his feet.

The penthouse now resembled a battlefield, the sound of their conflict a symphony of destruction. The red-white-&-blue combatant retrieved his shield, slinging it with explosive speed. John caught it again, using it to bash forward in a powerful charge. He met the charge with his own body, the collision a thunderclap of force that blew out the penthouse windows, showering the streets below with sparkling debris.

Locked in a grapple, the soldier-in-stars-'n-stripes whispered through gritted teeth, "Not bad for an old-timer, huh?"John, his grip iron-tight, managed a smirk. "You're not the only one out of time."

With a surge of strength, John pushed forward, breaking the grapple. He spun, wielding the shield in a sweeping, circular motion. John's opponent mirrored the movement, and for a moment, they were two cyclones colliding, their strikes a blur of motion and power that seemed to distort the very air around them.

As the duel reached its climax, John feinted with the shield, a deceptive move that the flag-man had anticipated, but it was a ruse. With a sudden drop, John swept the soldier's legs, sending him crashing to the ground. The Spartan quickly pinned him down, the shield at the ready.

Breathing heavily, the flag-man looked up, a grin spreading across his face.

"This isn't your usual sock-hop. Stand down and talk," John commanded, easing off as his sensors confirmed no further threats—just a very stubborn super-soldier beneath his boot.

Catching his breath, Rogers managed a grin. "You're not bad... for a walking tank. Steve Rogers, Captain America. And you are?"

"Master Chief Petty Officer John Downes. What year is this?"

"1943. Guess you took a wrong turn at Albuquerque, huh?" John deactivated his weapon, processing the anachronistic nightmare he’d stumbled into. "Seems like it. I need a way back to my time. Not sure how much help World War II tech will be."

Steve shrugged, accepting John’s hand and rising to his feet. "Well, we might not have fancy lasers or AI, but we've got grit and a whole lot of stubborn. Plus, I know a guy."

"Is he also a man out of time?" John inquired, a hint of amusement in his voice."Something like that. You ready to roll, Chief?"John nodded, his demeanor softening into what might pass for a smile under his helmet. "Lead the way, Captain."

As they exited the penthouse, John couldn’t help but think how absurdly out of place he looked—a futuristic warrior strolling through a historical chapter, guided by a man dressed as a flag. But then again, time travel was bound to have its quirks. And with Captain America at his side, maybe the 1940s wouldn’t be so bad. After all, they had the best music.

[vexing-imogen]

(take these sunken eyes) and learn to see

The thing about fighting on rooftops that often comes as an afterthought, Charlotte thinks, is just how easy it is to throw someone off of one.

Someone in this particular case being Arlo.

The girl's scream is still echoing in her ears, even as it cuts off. She is the closest to the edge where Arlo went off, and yet she cannot bring herself to look. Her broken body and blood on the pavement will make it all real, and if Charlotte doesn't look, she can pretend can't she?

Rage burns through her, accompanied by a helplessness churning in her gut. She curses the uselessness of her right hand, and wishes that she had more than just a simple penknife to take on the ghoul on the roof and the man that commands it. (A member of the Red Hand, she's sure, though she can't confirm it. Who else would be fool enough to believe they could summon creatures from the void with no consequence?)

Howard is attempting to reload his pistol with shaking hands. Auggie picks up a length of pipe, testing its weight. She notes that he appears far less distraught than one might think, having just watched his beloved be thrown to her death.

"You're really gonna regret doing that," Auggie warns. His smirk grows to a grin as his eyes land on something behind Charlotte.

She feels wind at her back, ruffling the loose strands of her hair, and the soft swoosh of wings fills her ears. Howard has momentarily abandoned his gun to remove his glasses and scrub at his eyes, clearly not believing what he's seeing. Footsteps land on the roof's edge behind her, and she swallows hard, too afraid of what she'll see if she turns around.

"You alright, babe?" Auggie asks, and Arlo's gentle laugh sends a chill down her spine. A hand lands on her shoulder, and she braves a glance. Her heart leaps into her throat at the grayed skin and lethal talons.

"Quite, darling," Arlo replies, stepping down onto the roof, her nails scratching gently as they leave Charlotte's arm. "Though we're rather lucky this building is as tall as it is. I don't know that I would survive a shorter fall."

Any further discussion is interrupted by the ghoul yowling and pouncing at Arlo. She is faster than the ghoul, and still quite small, but the roof is not a large space, and she seems reluctant to kite the thing any closer to the members of her circle. It catches her as she attempts to take flight and brings her down hard.

Arlo's pained screech as the ghoul pins her to the roof breaks them from their trance. Auggie ignores the ghoul in favor of charging at the man with a yell. He tackles the man, and the medallion he was holding goes flying, skidding to land at Charlotte's feet.

She stomps her heel down onto it, shattering the crystal in the center. The ghoul's head snaps up, its eyes locking onto Charlotte. Arlo uses its distraction to kick it off of her. She springs towards the man Auggie is wrestling, raking her claws across his chest before she pulls Auggie away. Howard has come back to his senses and shoots the man in the leg.

The noise and the scent of blood distract the ghoul long enough for Howard and Arlo to decipher the medallion and use it to banish the ghoul back beyond the Veil. And then the rooftop is quiet, save for the sounds of a man choking to death on his own blood.

Charlotte joins the rest of her circle cautiously, gingerly stepping around the innards strewn across the roof. Her knife is in her good hand, and she sees Howard retrieve his gun from where he'd dropped it. Auggie puts himself in between them and Arlo, spreading his arms wide.

"Don't-" He eyes their weapons anxiously. "She's not gonna hurt you, okay?"

"What is she?" Howard asks at the same time Charlotte asks, "How long has this been going on?"

"We don't know what I am yet," Arlo says. She's barely any taller in this form than she is normally, still small enough to hide behind Auggie. "Our research hasn't exactly been fruitful."

"The first time it happened was a few months back," Auggie says. "After the thing with the haunted theater? And it's only happened maybe five times since."

"Six," Arlo corrects gently. She's keeping her head down, but Charlotte can see the way her eyes have been replaced by fathomless black voids. She wraps her arms around herself, backing away further, her wings fluttering nervously. "You're bleeding, Professor," she whispers. "I can smell it."

Indeed, there is a small gash along his forearm. Charlotte pulls him a few feet away to bandage it, and when she turns back, Auggie has wrapped Arlo in his arms and is whispering something in her ear. One hand is around her waist, while the other strokes the exposed skin of her back between her wings. Arlo whispers something back, and Charlotte can see the tears falling down her face. Inky and black, yes, but tears nonetheless.

She tucks her knife back into her sleeve as she approaches, exchanging a look with Howard. "Can you promise me that she's never harmed anyone?" she asks Auggie.

He bites his lip and holds Arlo a bit tighter. "She's only ever hurt someone that was tryin' to hurt her. Or me."

She and Howard exchange another glance. "We should, uh, report this...affliction to Lightkeeper O'Neil at the very least," he says, taking out a cloth to clean his glasses. "Candela may have a record of something like this happening in the past, who knows. How, uh, how long do these episodes tend to last?"

Auggie shrugs. "Couple hours, usually?" he says. "Long enough for the adrenaline to wear off, I guess?"

"The longest lasted for about six hours," Arlo pipes up.

"Yeah, that," Auggie swallows. "That was a rough one."

Arlo looks between the two of them, and it is shocking how much she can convey with her eyes when there's technically nothing there. "I understand if you're frightened of me," she says. "I'd honestly be a little concerned if you weren't." She glances up at Auggie, and he smiles a little sheepishly, the tips of his ears going red. Charlotte's eyebrows go up, but she decides against pursuing whatever that could mean. She's sure she doesn't want to know.

"I think Howard is right," she says. "Candela does need to know about this. But, if Auggie trusts you?" He nods vehemently. "Then I trust you."

Arlo relaxes, and Auggie grins. "The wings are pretty cool, right?"

Howard surges forward, pulling out his monocle to examine the feathers that appear to be made of the same stuff as her eyes. "They are very cool."

[thewingedbaron]

BG3 Fic Feburary Day Five!

(Still a little behind right now, but working on catching up)

WARNING: Depicitons of Violence and gore. If that's not your thing, maybe skip this one.

Read on Ao3

Day Five: First time seeing companions in battle

The crossbow bucked in Alyss’ hands as the bolt sped away and tore out the throat of the goblin sounding the war horn. The raiding group had already reached the Grove’s gates and were pounding mercilessly at three humans that had been locked outside when it shut. Alyss could see the defenders on top of the wooden wall, armed with crossbows and bows to  rain down fire on the attackers. Lot of good it was doing them. With the goblins attacking their mercenary allies in front of the gate, none of the defenders could get a clean shot. Not the mention the goblin’s own archers and casters working their hardest to keep the defender’s behind cover. That, Alyss decided, was where they would start.

“Lae’zel, get that bastard with the stick and work your way in toward the bugbear.” Alyss called, loading another bolt. “Gale, rocks for cover, do your best to cover the Blade of Frontiers.” 

“The what?” 

“The idiot who just jumped down into the fray waving a sword around.” Alyss snapped back. “Shadowheart, help me get the archers, then pinch the main group with Lae’zel.” 

There was a round of affirmative nods as the group set about their tasks. Lae’zel sprinted right, slamming into a knot of goblins like she had been launched from a catapult. Bodies and blood flew with each swing of her blade. 

Gale worked his way left, alternating between firebolts and ice crystals as he chipped away at the goblin’s own casters. Confused by the crossfire, one their warlocks stepped out of cover to find their new attackers, only the eat a firebolt to the face. One caster down, Alyss thought. 

For her part, Alyss started to wear down their archers. Ordinarily, she would aim to injure, firing for arms and legs. An injured target often took two out of the fight, but goblins cared little for their wounded. Instead, her bolts slammed into chests and shoulders, slowly dropping the opposing archers one by one. Next to her, Shadowheart whispered the words of a spell, capturing a flame in her hand. 

“Ignis!” She shouted, sending the flame off like a bolt of her own. A moment later, she cursed as it slammed into the stone cliff-face, a few feet above her intended target. Shadowheart snapped her fingers in frustration, and a holy flame slammed onto the goblin from above, removing them from the fight. Alyss cocked an eyebrow at her companion. 

“Watch out!” Shadowheart cried, throwing her shield arm over the ranger. Three impacts slammed into the hardwood face, intercepting shots meant for Alyss. The ranger snapped off another shot, dropping one of the offending goblins in response. 

“Sorry!” Alyss reloaded. “Didn’t see that one.” 

“You’re lucky.” Shadowheart replied, regaining her composure. “Eyes off me and on the enemy next time.” 

The pair paused, both faces turned a slightly deeper shade of red as Shadowheart’s words registered. 

“Lae’zel needs help. I’m, uh.” Shadowheart nodded several times to herself. Below them, the gith warrior was tearing through a pack of goblins on her way to the bugbear as if they were wet parchment. 

“Right, got your back.” Alyss replied stiffly. By the time either of them looked up, it was already over. The mercenaries were battered, but alive, and steaming mad. Lae’zel was surveying the scene like  a general overlooking a battlefield, waiting for the next target to reveal itself. Gale approached them slowly, too busy trying to scrape the blood off his robe to notice the awkward silence between the other two members of the party. 

“Well, that was quite fun, wasn’t it? That Lae’zel is quite the warrior.” Gale smiled. “Are you two injured? You both look like you’ve been walloped over the head with a goblin’s club.” Gale’s smile faded as his two companions nodded stiffly at him and began to make their way toward the Grove, not acknowledging each other, or him. Was it something he said? He pondered for a moment before realizing that he was alone on the battlefield. 

“Now wait just a moment, I’ll not be left behind!” He called, jogging after the party as the gate began to lift.

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

In The Heat of the Moment Chapter 5 - Awakening of the Hunter

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4,

Words Count: 12077

Warning: Mention of Suicide; Physical Violence;

BYRON January 1868, London The wind blew in the forest around him, a subtle whisper that carried the promise of a gelid night. The gloomy penumbra of the early sunset permeated the air around him, and if not for the blanket of snow that covered all that surrounded him, he would have not been able to see anything as clearly as he did. Keeping his rifle in his hand, his grip sure and steady, despite the thick gloves around his hands, Byron Harrison let his gaze wander around with slow attention, deliberately scanning his surroundings with a precision that came from habit. Not even the crystal of snow covering his auburn lashes like lace were enough to impede his search. Thick puffs of vapor came out of his mouth, as the chilly air pricked on his cheeks mercilessly, giving them a painful red tint that had nothing to do with bashfulness or strenuous effort. Yet, nothing, not even the torpor in his arms and legs, could sway him from his task. He cared not about discomfort. He cared not about pain. All he cared about was the forest in front of him, and the prey that was hiding in it, the elusive trophy that would finally bring an end to his continuous searching. “Come out, you fucking bastard,” he whispered, turning around to get a wider visual, the crunch of the snow under his boot filling the stillness around him. “I know you are here,”

Ears were keen on capturing any sign, any hint, anything that might show him where that arsehole was hiding. His breathing was controlled, his heart steady in its beating as he slowly turned his eyes toward a silvery bush ahead of him. A low rough laughter raised from somewhere on his right. Byron raised his rifle and shot, the deafening sound breaking the surreal silence. He waited until the echo died down, as stillness had found lease once more among the trees. But he knew it was not peace. There would be no peace. Not until he had shot every single one of the bullets he was carrying with him. Not until those bullets had found their way through that bastard’s heart. Byron tensed his ears again, eyes searching with the same careful attention, waiting for a signal that he knew would come. The laughter continued, reverberating all around him. Mocking him. Deriding him. He blinked rapidly, to clear his eyes from the tears swelling up. “Show your bloody mug, you son of a fucking dog!” he growled, a sound that had nothing of human and all of the beast he was trying with all his strength to restrain. ”Show yourself!” And as always, like clockwork, the man showed himself.

His pristine blue eyes were twinkling in the dark, and what can only be described as a devilish smile was plastered on the man’s face a face crowned by dark hair, disheveled hair, hidden under a dark beaked hood. With the heavy cape of the Assassins weighing on his shoulders, the man stood between the trees, the snow crunching under his feet as he got closer to the Master Templar. Byron reloaded the rifle with quick, precise hands, took aim again, and shot. And shot. And shot. And shot. One bullet after the other flew in the darkness of the night, each of them landing straight through the heart of the mocking Assassin. The man laughed again, unfazed, and with each shot his laughter grew in intensity, to the point of sounding almost hysterical by the time Byron had finished his bullets. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Leviathan” The words were as derisive as the tone was scornful, cutting through him like the sharpest of blades. Fury pervading every single fiber of his body, Byron took out his revolver and kept shooting and shooting in his rage, until the chamber clicked empty, and no more bullets were left. The low laughter rang all around him, echoing from every hidden corner of that godforsaken forest, reverberating through all that he was, deafening in its intensity. It got interrupted only by another deafening shot. One that Byron didn’t shoot. Straight through his heart, from the revolver that the Assassin was holding, the bullet had passed right through him. His face jerked back, just in time for his desperate eyes to see the bullet hitting its true target: ghosts, holding each other desperately, almost unrecognizable for how deformed they were in the silent scream that was leaving their mangled mouths. But Byron knew them. His soul recognized them before his eyes did.

The scream of agony that left Byron’s mouth was primal in its pain, obscene in its rawness, a wounded animal screaming his curse to the sky in its misery. A scream that followed him in the waking world, and his eyes flashed open, as he tried to grasp for air. Beads of sweat that had nothing to do with heat were running down his brow, as he tried to readjust his view through the dark of the room. But he couldn’t. Everything appeared nebulous in front of him and, he soon realized, it was because his eyes were filled with tears. “You cannot kill what’s already dead,” He heard that voice in his ears again, a hazy memory now, still taunting him. His brow furrowed as he covered his eyes with a callous hand, trying to drown the lump of anguish that had tightened his throat to the point of making breathing torture. His whole chest felt as if hot iron pokes were nabbing at him, piercing him like merciless arrows, in a grotesque imitation of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Pain was tearing him apart. Taking a long breath, he rose from his bed, oblivious to the hiemal air around him or the freezing floor underneath his bare feet. He felt nothing. Nothing at all, aside from the stupor caused by those goddamned nightmares that chased after him like rabid dogs. He headed for the drawer where a small basin sat, already filled with water, and dipped his rough hands in it splashing his face, uncaring about the gelid droplets that ran down his neck and damped his wool shirt. It felt good. It was good. Real. Almost a self-inflicted slap back to reality. Taking another deep breath, Byron allowed himself a moment longer of leniency for his soul, his mind fighting its way out of the merciless tides of dreams and memories, to anchor himself to the world, to make port where his heart could finally acquiesce once more. It came to him in the form of a silvery laughter and curious eyes and freckled cheeks. An image of gentle peace, a small flickering light in darkness: the harbinger of a warm dawn after a long hyperborean night. Despite having found his port, when he raised his gaze to look into the mirror hanging over his basin, the man looking back at him had none of his usual composed certitude.

The man in the mirror looked more like a madman: sunken eyes, dark in the soft penumbra of the room, an ocean where a perennial storm never ceased to be, dangerous waters just beneath the sea green surface; all over his face the heaviness of the years had started to show, in those wrinkles that torment and pain had chiseled mercilessly into his features. His head full of auburn hair still kept wavy and long - a quirk he carried over from his years in the Navy- had started to go gray here and there; on his beard and moustache too, time had started to make its presence known. He felt older than he looked, as if he had lived more years than the ones he had actually been granted by fate. Another deep breath. He splashed more water on his face, hoping to erase the fatigue coming from sleep. “Sleep,” he scoffed. He hadn’t been able to have a restful night of sleep in years. His eyes trained automatically toward the only photo sitting on his desk - the only personal touch in his otherwise bare bedroom- and his heart sank in his chest. He took the memento as gently as his callous rough hands allowed -careful, as he always was with anything connected to it - and caressed the small, precious faces looking back at him. He wished, with all his heart, he could see those smiles again. Hear that laughter again, smell their perfume in his nostrils, feel the solid weight of their bodies against his for one last embrace. Feeling the pain throbbing in his chest with every single beat of his tired heart - how many nights he had prayed that it would stop beating altogether, to find some respite from that life - he put the frame back to its place, hiding it from view, trying to suppress the yearning that, he knew, was the greatest enemies in the war that forever raged in his heart whenever he was awake. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Levathian,” The voice echoed again in his ears, as it always did. Taunting him. Ridiculing his pain. “I cannot,” Byron growled, gritting his teeth as his eyes turned dark. “But I can take away your future. I can destroy your legacy, all which you held dear, just as you have done with me.”

A sudden knock on the door tore him away from his thoughts. “Yes?” he spoke, his tone curt. “My Lord? Do I have your leave to enter? Victor Dorianr’s warm voice - now a gentle murmur rather than the booming toll of a bell, as it always was - immediately put him at ease. “Come, Victor,” he allowed, as he moved away from his desk to greet the man. The door opened, and the Master Templar entered, candid fresh snow on his black hair and heavy fur-lined coat. Fastened at the high collar was his Templar cross, the metal shining even in the darkness. Byron’s eyes narrowed, tensing: Victor was there on Official Order business. He looked as the Frenchman closed the door carefully behind himself before turning to face Byron, his dark eyes inquisitive. “Forgive me for interrupting your slumber, My Lord-” “No need for apologies, Victor. You are always welcome here…and I was already awake, anyway. What’s the reason for this urgency?” “Forgive me for the late hour, but I got a telegram. From Crawley. Our wait has been fruitful. We captured two Assassins that came to the house, just as you predicted,” Byron felt his blood chill in his veins. For the first time since waking up, Byron allowed himself to smile. But there was none of the warmth that came from pleasure. “Do we know if they are the ones responsible for the explosion of Brewster’s laboratories?” The Frenchman shook his head. “Non, Monsieur, no one has started to interrogate them. Master Barclay was the one duty when the Assassins had broken into the house, and he is now holding them captive and awaiting your orders.” Byron took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with callous fingers. Markus Barclay, the thorn in his back ever since the young man joined their ranks. He knew why the Grand Master had seen reasons to assign him under his attendance, and he knew he was the only man for the job. Still, had he had the chance to decline that obligation, he would have done so in a heartbeat, and passed instead the “honour” to Ambrose. ”Wake the rest of the men and then wait for me without. Have my carriage ready. We need to leave at once if we want to reach Crawley before sunrise,” “Very well, Monsieur,” he said, holding up for a second. “Is there something else, Victor?” “Nothing urgent or pertaining to our current mission, and you know, God forbid if I dare not pry into your privacy, Monsieur, but if I may be so impertinent, you look…harrowed,” he murmured, his voice turning as soft as the light in his eyes. “Lack of sleep, Victor,” Byron answered curtly, clearing his voice, with all the intention to not explain himself. “Nothing that laudanum cannot help with, and nothing you need to worry about. Now,do as I ordered. We mustn’t waste a minute. We need to run against the dawn.”

——————————————————————————————————

The journey to Crawley took longer than Byron cared for, but with the weather playing against them, he knew they would have been delayed anyway. At least, he thought, it had proceeded smoothly, and with Victor’s low chatter to fill the time, he was inclined to find it even pleasant. The Frenchman always managed, with his quick wit and gentle voice - almost lulling when it wasn’t so loud, it could be heard a whole town away - to distract him from his ghosts, at least for a little while. However, the moment the carriage had stopped and he had been able set foot out of it, he welcomed the cold winter air of the night against his face and the soft snow falling in big flakes all around them. Nothing like the freezing chill of darkness nipping at one’s cheeks to keep one’s senses awake and alert. His favourite hunting weather. As much as it resembled the one he always saw in his nightmare, he felt none of the helplessness that derived from the inevitable, the unchangeable. Instead, he felt all the empowerment from being awake, and in control of everything that was around him. As he walked down the empty street, the fresh snow crunching under his boots, his eyes immediately found the house - a one-floor old cottage, its red bricks appearing black in the dark of the night, the roof torn down here and there, weighting on the structure in a way that it reminded Byron of an old man carrying a basket, his back curved by life and time. All the windows were black, empty sockets on what could only be described as a dismal facade, with no sign of lanterns or candles anywhere. No one had lived there in a little while. Byron turned to look around, his eyes scouring the surroundings of the small neighbourhood, a habit he never lost since his travels in the Arctic. He saw nothing, aside from a whole line of old houses not so different from the one in front of him, nothing that would cause him to be on alert. But something in his guts - an instinct, almost an extra sense that he couldn’t explain into words - told him that there was something just staring at them, waiting in the darkness, standing as still as waters in a tranquil pond. It was a fickle feeling, almost air shimmering in a faint glow, a whisper in his ear. None of the other Templars following him gave him a sign of having felt it as well. But he could sense it all the same. “Victor,” Byron murmured, his gravelly voice echoing in the empty street.

The Frenchman was at his side at once, ready to comply with his order. “Make sure to keep the place restricted. Do not let anyone get closer to the house - no passerby, no nosy neighbours, no one. If trouble should arise, if anyone were to show their face around here-” he added, eyes cold and void as the sky above. “-you know what to do,” Victor nodded with solemnity, swallowing hard. “Oui, Monsieur,” While hearing his subordinate relay his orders to the rest of the squadron, Byron turned his attention to the house once more, hatred seeping in his chest the longer he stared at its weathered walls, as puffs of condensed breath raised from his lips with each breath he took. The place where Ethan Frye and his broods lived. His attention was soon caught by the Master Templar responsible for sending him the message, emerging from the dark door like a magpie peaking from inside its nest. “They are inside, My Lord. We were awaiting for your arrival,” said Markus Barclay, straightening his back and tilting his chin up, as he came out to welcome the older man while giving him a cocky smile. Byron answered the smile with a long impenetrable look as he walked across the threshold of the small house without a single word of greeting. Complete darkness enveloped him immediately, despite the door still being open behind him. “Light,” he whispered, and before he had the time to add anything else, two candles had been lit by the young Master Templar. The feeble trembling light brightened the small corridor, allowing Byron to get a better look at his surroundings. As nondescript as it was from the outside, the house was just as unremarkable on the inside: old walls once covered in what could only be assumed to be quaint patterns were now presenting stains from mildew, peeling off here and there to show the bare bricks; cobwebs were hanging at the corners against the ceilings, and the wind, slipping through the decaying timber of the doors, carried with it a mournful moan, almost a messenger of what was about to come. A ghostly sentinel for a family that was no more. The boards of the floor protested with each step he took, creaking as he moved toward the quarters where the two Assassins were kept prisoners. He caught a glimpse of a frame where an old small ambrotype hung: a man, not much younger than Byron himself, was sitting on an armchair, a small smirk - barely perceptible -plastered on his lips, beard unkempt and eyes twinkling with what could only be interpreted as pride. Byron’s jaw tensed, teeth grinding as he contained the ever-growing fury coursing through his veins each time he saw that smirk, the very same that taunted each night in his nightmares. He welcomed the fury, and allowed it to warm him like a blazing fire: it was a never-ending flame that kept him going ahead.

Next to the man in the hanging picture were two children, no older than twelve years of age: the girl standing straight, shoulder squared, looking ahead of herself with the same proud eyes as the man sitting beside her, her dark hair hanging in long braids at the either side of her head; the boy facing away from the girl and the man, brows knitted in a despondent gaze, mouth turned downward in a rebellious grimace, the same dark unruly hair as his father, hidden just beneath an old worn-out paperboy hat. Both children’s faces were riddled with freckles, while none appeared on the man’s sullen face. He perused those small faces with meticulous attention, almost dissecting every single detail he deemed essential, etching them in his memory. Then, he forced himself to continue walking down the barely illuminated hall, until he reached where the two Assassins had been kept captive. When Byron entered the room, his gaze was immediately trained toward the two tied-up figures sitting on the floor. He studied them intently, their tied bodies forming a stark, dire contrast against the innocence of the children’s room where they were being held. Both Assassins were in their mid-thirties and, he noticed, were donning the dark robe of their Brotherhood, the hoods lowered on their shoulders to show hard faces and cold stares in their anonymous faces. They were docile. Far too docile, for his taste. “What happened to their blades?” he asked, gazing just above his shoulder toward Markus. “Confiscated and secured downstairs, My Lord, along with all their pieces of equipment. I personally saw to that.” Byron nodded, turning to face the two captives, eyes narrowed in an attentive, silent gaze as he studied the two captives: no scratches, cuts, hematomas, or ecchymoses could be found anywhere on their person; no sign of struggle. No sign of a fight. He stared at Markus for a long moment, his face painted in a mask of wariness before redirecting his attention toward the Assassins once more. “You know who I am?” Byron’s gravelly voice was low, a whisper cutting right through the chillness of the air around him. Nothing transpired from his face, the candle in his hands painting deep shadows all across his face. The woman in front glared at him, defiant of him, but Byron could see, even in the flickering light of the candles, fear was creeping into her eyes, dancing with the rabid hatred she had each time she looked at the iron cross hanging at his neck, her attention fixated on the symbol etched at the center of it. “You are the bloody Leviathan,” she seethed, vomiting his moniker as if it were a curse underneath her breath.

Byron's lips stretched in a chilling smirk. “Then you know why I am here.”

The woman spat on the ground, the spittle just inches away from Byron’s shoes. The other Assassin, captive as well, tied next to her, shook his head at his companion, eyes silently pleading with her to stop and stay quiet. Byron’s eyes twinkled for a moment, his face impassible, calm as ever. “We know. Like we both know that you won’t let us get out of here alive. You Templars know no honour, no compassion, no clemency, not even for the one you declare to protect! All you bastards know is greed and lust for power! And you, Leviathan…you are the worst of them all. No one has ever survived an encounter with you. So why would I cooperate with you, you bastard?” Byron stood silent, untouched by those words that found no retort. But deep within, he felt his guts turning and twisting with barely suppressed rage at the sight of the two Assassins, a rage that churned like the bubbling waters of the oceans during those bleak winter storms that always stole hope from the sailors unlucky enough to find themselves at sea. His rage has nothing to do with them, but all to do with the symbol they had hanging at their belts. “It is not my… proclivity to offer mercy to your kind. It is indeed true. But-” he murmured, a smile appearing on his lips, that didn’t reach his eyes. “-I bear no ill will to either of you. All I want is a piece of information. Just one small piece of information, and you will walk away from here with all your limbs attached together. I am offering you the possibility of leaving this place alive…if you tell me all you know about the whereabouts of Ethan Frye and his offspring.” The woman spat again, gritting her teeth in ire. “Do you think me dense or soft in the head? There is no promise you can spew that I would believe, no word you say that I would trust! We will not talk! In no way in Hell, we will ever betray the Creed! You won’t know anything about Ethan Frye or his children! Never! You can torture us, cut us, and dice us to pieces, we’ll never talk, you bastard son of a who-“ The booming sound of a revolver going off shattered the air of the room, its deafening blast echoing against the worn-out walls, gunpowder filling the nostrils with its acrid smell. Byron’s steely gaze never left the eyes of the Assassin still alive, his hand still holding the smoking gun pointed toward the dead woman, now a lifeless husk, a hole the size of an orange marking her forehead where the bullet had entered, with bits of flaccid pale brain matters, blood, and splintered bones had flown all around.

Byron moved the mouth of the revolver toward the other Assassin, his face impassible in front of the spectacle of gore lying in front of him, unfazed by the blood that had sprayed against the hem of his leather coat. He barely wrinkled his nose when he felt the pungent foul odour coming from the still-bound man who, had soiled himself. Blood, gore, shit and gunpowder. A side of his life he had come to accept as normal, regrettably so. “Now…let’s try this again, shall we?” Byron asked again, his voice dropping again to a chilling murmur. “Where are Ethan Frye and his offspring?” The bounded man whimpered, his whole body encompassed by a tremor as the realization of what just happened pushed through his veins like ice. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes completely shut, keeping his breathing steady, but failing altogether. “Th-they are hiding in London,” he blabbered, the words pouring out like a river. “Ethan reached out to us yesterday and sent words about a plan to assassinate John Elliotson as the initiation for his son and daughter-” At the name of the Assassin, Byron narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring at those words, bile burning the back of his throat. His fist clenched out of reflex, his grip growing tighter with each passing second. “How does he plan to do this?” he growled. The Assassin whimpered, eyes fixed on the mouth of the gun still pointed in between his eyebrows. “God forgive me... Oh God, forgive me,” he muttered, between one sob and the other. “We-we have an insider at Lambeth, acting as an informant. A nurse.” “Who?” Byron pressed, with steely determination in his voice. The Assassin hanged his head in shame, biting his lip until he tasted the metallic tangy taste of his own blood. “Emily Millburn,” he sobbed, wringling in the tight rope tied around him. “I beg you, do not hurt her! She is a widow, and only has her little boy as her family! Please, I beg of you! She has nothing to do with Ethan!” Byron took a deep breath, nodding as he allowed the information to settle in his mind. “We are done here,” he murmured, turning toward Markus, who was still standing there, silent witness to the whole scene, as he tried, with all his might, to make himself as small as a rat and just as unnoticeable.

Without a single word uttered, Byron handed him his revolver, his order clear in its silence. Markus’ dark eyes widened, his lips quivering as he tried to focus his attention on Byron. “Lord Harrison, I.. I don’t understand. He-He has told us what we wanted to know-” Byron stared at him longer, eyes unblinking, piercing through his resolve like a needle in the canvas.

“This is a lesson I want to partake with you, Master Barclay. A lesson about honour and loyalty,” he whispered, each word laced with indignant contempt. “I appreciate qualities like loyalty, I find it to be the very base upon which all is created. And this man, despite his questionable judgment in terms of alliances, despite being nothing more than a vermin of insignificant consequence…this man has loyalty aplenty. For. His. Creed. So much so that he had no qualms in lying, straight to my face, about a dead man’s whereabouts-” At those words, Byron saw the Assassin’s eyes go wide with inconceivable terror. “-knowing fully what the consequences would be. Knowing fully well that while loyalty has a price, defiance has an even greater cost,” Byron pushed the revolver into Markus’ hand once more. “Now, kill him, Master Barclay. I won’t ask it another time.” Markus swallowed hard as his whole face transformed, skin turning the colour of curdled milk, his body reacting almost against his will, weighting like lead. He made the mistake of looking for one moment into the eyes of the Assassin sitting on the floor. The silent plea of mercy was there, written in watery dark eyes. Markus took a deep breath, hands pervaded by an uncontrollable tremor. The gun went off again, the bullet finding its way through the skull of the remaining Assassin.

Byron looked once more to the desolated rest of the two Assassins, his face not letting transpire a single emotion. If anyone were to look upon him, one would have thought him bored by the whole ordeal. But this would have been the furthest from the truth. He turned toward Markus, whose face was covered in sweat, mouth puckered in a grimace, about to either retch or pass out. Byron narrowed his eyes as he walked just by him, his footsteps heavy, deliberate, implacable. He stood by the Master Templar without so much as to deign him of a glance and when he spoke, Markus flinched as if slapped in the face. “I do not take insubordination leniently, nor do I condone it. Question my orders one more time and I will make sure that no one will ever find you ever again. You have taken an oath. The Grand Master has seen fit to give you a second chance and by his ordinance, I will comply with his wishes and make sure that you follow through with it; I will see you abide by it by any means necessary, or I swear on what I hold most dear in this life, I will make you regret the very day you have set foot inside the Manor. Understood?” Markus turned to look toward the man who was towering over him, his voice a squawk that died in his chest before it could even find the strength to pass through his lips. A shaky nod was all that he could muster.

Unimpressed with the response, Byron walked past him, never turning to face either the Master Templar or the slaughter of the room. As he found his way out of the small house, the silence that surrounded him was deafening. Not a single one of the Templars that had accompanied him to the small house in Crawley dared to speak or even look him straight in the eyes. As he walked in the corridor, he noticed again the ambrotype that had welcomed him inside. It took it with a swift hand and hid it in the internal pocket of his jacket. Another memento. Another step further down that path that called him each day and each night of his life. He quickly went down the corridor, and crossed the threshold, breathing in the cold air of the night with gratitude, letting it feel his lungs with its purity. Raising his face to the sky - now starting to brighten with the colours of dawn at the horizon - he closed his eyes, allowing the soft snow to fall all over him, gently caressing his skin. It was incredibly welcomed, after all that had just happened.

He let his mind clear itself, trying, as it always happened whenever violence permeated his thoughts and hung to him like a tick to a dog’s coat, to find a moment of light amidst all that darkness. To find his port again. Keeping his eyes closed, he heard Victor walk towards him, recognizing him distinctly by the sound of the man’s step, light and fluid against the snow-covered pathway. “Did you find what were you seeking, Monsieur?”

Byron shook his head, lowering his head and opening his eyes to look at the Frenchman. “Not entirely, I am afraid. Those Assassins are willing to lie even in the face of death and go to the grave to protect the whereabouts of a dead man. But the liars always weaves their best stories with truth, and we got something that the Grand Master will find useful,” “Then, a successful mission indeed, if I may be so bold,” Victor cheered, without daring to ask any details that couldn’t be shared with him. Byron appreciated his discretion, the deferential respect he had for the rules and hierarchy within the Order, his unwavering loyalty to what the Tenets of the Order prescribed, and also his penchant for brutal honesty. While most would find the lack of edulcoration in his words disagreeable, Byron was particularly grateful for it. He wished he had more men with such moral strength working for him. “A partial success, yes,” he conceded. “Nevertheless, I will return to London immediately to inform the Grand Master of the current situation and after that, God Willing, I will be able to rest,” And then, if nothing more were to happen, I will finally see her again, he thought. “Very well, Monsieur. Your commands for us here?”

Byron’s shoulders tensed once more, as he stood pensive for a moment. “Finish to search the house and find any manner of evidence that might be connected to the Assassins’ plans. Frye surely had information that would be useful to us. Keep Markus with you, Victor, and keep a close eye on him: I trust no one else but you with this particular task. And once you are done, before you head back to London-“ Byron turned to look at the small house, hatred seeping into all his being like a poison spreading in his veins with every heartbeat. "- Burn this whole shack to the ground and then spread salt upon the soil. I want to see this place erased from the face of the Earth.”

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“This is not what I signed up for, Brudenell, bloody hell,” Ambrose Harrison thought, as he rubbed his eyes trying to chase away his drowsiness, absolutely disgruntled. Again, he cursed under his breath the man who had sponsored him when he had first been offered a spot in the Templars, taking a cigarette out of his pocket and tapping the filter against the tin box before lighting it up. The first taste of tobacco felt good against his tongue, but not enough to brighten his mood. The day had yet to start properly - the sun was barely rising upon the horizon - and he was yet to have a cup of strong coffee to chase the excess of the night before away. But that hadn’t stopped the news from arriving sooner than he liked. And he had liked that news even less once he got to White Chapel to witness them in person. He still couldn’t believe it. Kaylock had been taken down by a couple of miserable ratbags with more brawns than brains, half his gang was dead against the track of the train station, and the other half scattered the Devil only knew where. He knew he would be in for a long day.

He let out a low growly sound of displeasure as his gaze embraced the corpses of all the members of the gang that had been slaughtered during the gang fight, while his men were busy shouting away curious passersby and bribing away any “peeler” that might have come snooping around to report to Whitehall Place. Not that it would matter, considering the amount of officers that were already on the Grand Master’s own payroll. Still, he thought, a few more quid spent on those blokes -with more mouth to feed than hair on their balls- were a good way to ensure absolute silence and discretion. That or a gun against their head. He was open to either solution indistinctly. A flash of brilliant red at the corner of his eyes caught his attention. Blighters. Splendid. 'Old Man’ Roth had sent some of his dupes to help with the works. “Oi! Lads!” He shouted to the group of newcomers. “Chop-chop, we don’t have the whole mornin’! Start lookin’ around and see if you find anythin’ - ANYTHIN’- that might lead us to understand how the bloody fuck we ended up like this!”

“My my, such reprehensible language, Master Harrison,” Ambrose heard a low husked voice reprimanding him. “I do wonder what your brother would think of such…crude display of uncouthness,” It took Ambrose every smidgen of patience to not roll his eyes to the sky at the sound of that voice. Instead, he straightened his back and turned around to face Phillip Starrick, all wrapped in a heavy wool coat lined with slick black fur, his golden cross hanging from the bandeau around his neck. Despite being incredibly early in the morning, the young man appeared to be as fresh as a rose, and -Ambrose couldn’t stop himself from thinking it - just as pretty. “I’m here to bring results, Lord Starrick, not playin’ the elegant Lord,” he grumbled, turning to blow the smoke of the cigarette away from the young aristocrat. “What are you even doin' here? Don’t you “My Lords” usually wake up after the cock has sung its tune?” “Why, Master Harrison, you offend me with your words. I am a most diligent worker, and when the news reached the Manor, the Gran Master saw me fit to oversee the operations alongside you. Consider these Blighters I brought with me as a gesture of goodwill toward a fruitful partnership in discovering what happened here,” he murmured, giving the older man a long look before turning toward the gruesome spectacle in front of them. “Do we have any lead about who caused all of this?” Ambrose shook his head, returning the younger man's look. “Not yet, M’lord. My men are workin' on interrogatin' whoever witnessed the whole fight. We tried to circumscribe the Station, but we arrived too late and whoever caused this mayhem had already left,” Phillip listened intently, his periwinkle eyes gazing with attention around him.

“My Lord! My Lord!” Ambrose heard his name being called from the other side of the railway. One of his own -Bradley, judging from the booming voice - was running toward him, his usually good-natured face now a mask of barely contained stress. “What is it, lad?” “My Lord, you need to come at once,” he gasped, between one breath and the other. ��We-We have found it. Kaylock’s body. It’s…It’s-” Ambrose stood silent for a moment, taking a deep breath, and clenching his jaw in frustration. “Show him to me,” he murmured. Then he turned toward Phillip. “I advise you stay here, M’lord. It might be a gruesome affair, the lot of it,” The young Aristocrats waved his hand as if to dismiss his concern. “Fret not, Master Harrison, I am not a delicate daisy that cannot hold the sight of a corpse,” he murmured, shaking his golden curls with a pretentious look etched on his oval face. “It wouldn’t be my first,” Once again Ambrose fought the impulse to roll his eyes to the sky, and answer him with a mordant remark; instead, he refocused his attention on the young lad and followed him to the location where Kaylock’s body had been found, his thoughts redirecting toward the gang leader. So the man had indeed been killed after all.

For a brief moment, Ambrose had hoped not: their differences notwithstanding, Rexford Kaylock had been a good friend of his, always ready for a brawl down at the pits, always up for a wager and he was yet to meet a man that could hold his beer like he did. But despite the man’s cunning, Ambrose knew that his penchant for playing with his food before eating it would have been his ruin, sooner or later. Once in front of the corpse of the man who had once been his friend, Ambrose said nothing, his face almost impassible if not for the furrowing of his thick brows. Now he understood the distress on Bradley’s face. Kaylock hadn’t been just killed: he had been slaughtered. Nose was broken with such strength the bone was showing from the skin; slashes all over his upper body, and open wounds showing the shiny sinew and the bundle of muscles, in some places so deep that you could see the indentation of the weapon even on the bone. He couldn’t determine if it had been a butcher knife or a smaller blade to cause all that. All he could see was that the stroke had been deliberate, unforgiving, inexorable. Ambrose turned toward Bradley and took him aside, bringing him closer enough to preserve the secrecy of his words. “Take away his body and see that he’s buried properly,” his voice was just high enough to be heard by the man. Ambrose took two pouches filled with money and gave it to him. “Give this to his widow and this one to the undertaker, and make sure to have some of my men guardin' his grave after the burial, at least until we figure out who in the fuckin' hell has done this." “Understood, My Lord,” Bradley nodded, lips thin in a grimace of distress as he left to do as he had been ordered. Ambrose growled, taking out another cigarette and lighting it up, hoping to calm his annoyance down.

He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be there at all, playing nanny to the young Blighters who had still to make their bones in the field, and, on top of that, counting the dead after whatever the hell had occurred in the night. A disaster, in his opinion, more than avoidable, had that stupid man listened and stood put, as he had been ordered, instead of getting more and more tangled up with whatever bollocks he had found himself into. Bloody affair, the lots of it. The sound of cold wind blowing did nothing to soothe his spirit or cover the shouting of the people busy working on the site - all myrmidons from his own regime - to bring away the corpses and, in a miraculous turn of faith, find someone still alive with the answers they sought. Ambrose stood a moment longer to oversee the young Blighter when he heard the rustling of a heavy cloak just beside him. When he turned, he found Phillip gazing intently toward the group of men who were carrying Kaylock’s corpse away. “Quite the gruesome spectacle, judging from how the leader of this borough has been rendered.” The aristocrat murmured, his periwinkle eyes observing without fear. “Kaylock wasn’t killed by a dabbler. The pisspot that did this knows how to wield a knife,” “Any theories?” “Not as many as I wished. My money is on a showdown, maybe a settlement of scores between Kaylock’s men and some goddamn Clinkers. They’ve been a pain in the arse lately, so I wouldn’t rule out an escalation. Anyway, until we figure this out, I gave the order to have Keylock’s body to be guarded after his burial.” “I didn't know that corpse snatchers were still residing in the East End of our fair city?” “They don't," Ambrose retorted, putting out his cigarette with his shoe. " No, what I fear is that people might take revenge against him. I don’t put it above them to desecrate a corpse. At this point, I can’t exclude anything. What about your voices, Master of Secrets? Any hint?” Phillip smirked at that name, shaking his golden ringlets. Ambrose couldn’t help but notice how they resembled the colour of ripe wheat in summer. “Forgive me, m’lords,” they both heard a voice behind them.

Ambrose turned and saw young Zachary Handerson approaching them, a small bowler hat in his hands in deferential respect, his fresh face crossed in distress. Ambrose shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The young boy couldn’t be a day over twelve. He knew he had joined the Blighters out of necessity and need for money, and after a talk with Old Man Roth, he had been assigned to Kaylock’s men. But Ambrose could see that the lad had a gentle heart, and was not accustomed to all that violence. He had no place among them, and yet, here he was, doing the job of a man when in truth, he was no more than a child. “What do you need, lad?” Ambrose enquired, his voice much softer than usual. “Forgive me, M’lord,” Zachary fumbled in his words. “I- I was the one that gave the alarm when the whole chaos happened. I was here when the fight started,” Ambrose’s brows raised in surprise, as he turned fully to face the young man, his attention entirely devoted to the young urchin. “Did you see what happened?” “Aye, sir,” the child murmured, raising his eyes but immediately turning them down when they met Phillip’s haughty gaze. Through some gentle nudging from Ambrose, the youngling was able to recount all that he had seen, all that had happened.

Both men listened intently, keeping whatever comments they had for themselves. “It was a bloodbath,“ Zachary ended his tale, cheeks pale from having to remember everything his young eyes had seen. “And those who didn’t die, become turncoats! They all rallied behind the young Rook, sir!” "The Young Rook, you say?” asked Ambrose, his bushy eyebrows frowning. “Aye, sir! That’’s what they called themselves - the chap and the missy- Rooks! Bloody furies, the two of them were! They swooped in with their men and even sized Keylock’s old train!” the young lad said, his face animated at the memories. Ambrose exchanged a look with Phillip, their expressions a mirror. “I assume it would be too much to ask the direction the train has taken?” said Phillip, his words tinged with frustration. When no answer came from the boy, Ambrose gently dismissed him with a few golden coins for his help and looked as he quickly retreated into the bustling crowd, the shock of the recent events still etched on his face. “It appears we have a new player in this war of gangs,” murmured Phillip. “Nothin' to be concerned about. I'll regroup as many Masters as I can and have them surveillin' each of London’s main stations. A train can't vanish out of thin air like that. They’re bound to resurface again.” “- assuming that those miscreants are still well within the city borders. We must find out who is controlling these “Rooks” and what their intentions are. We need to ascertain if this was a single instance or if it is part of something much greater,” Ambrose stared at the young aristocrat at the younger man. “You think this could be connected to the Assassins,” Phillip kept his silence, turning to look toward the trains that were still parked in the station. “I have my theories, yes,” he murmured, as his eyes scanned the surrounding before turning and walking toward the entrance of the train station, Ambrose walking at his side. “Lift the circumscription and see that your men bring order around here as fast as they can. We have already attracted far too much attention than what the Grand Master would have liked.”

“What about you, Master Starrick?” “I will need to have a word with Roth regarding his men,” murmured Phillip, as he walked toward the carriage parked just outside the station, awaiting for him. “We need to find a replacement for Kaylock, and if it is true that these peons have turned coats and joined these “Rooks”, we will need more discipline as well,” With a subtle movement, Ambrose grabbed the young aristocratic’s wrist, slowing him down in his walk. “Phillip, wait," he whispered. “We need to talk,” Phillip turned to look at him with indignation burning in his light eyes. Yet, Ambrose noticed the blushing appearing on the younger man’s cheeks, as it always did whenever he called him by his first name. "It's “Lord Starrick” for you, Master Harrison," he hissed, as he looked around to make sure that no one saw them. "And no, we don't need to talk. Not now. Not ever!" The older man smirked underneath the bushy mustache, lowering his eyelids with a look that said everything and yet nothing. “We do, Phillip. You and I have unfinished business,” Phillip yanked his arm away from the other man’s grasp. Their eyes met for a moment too long: forest green against periwinkle blue. For a moment, Ambrose felt as if he was looking at the immensity of the sky on a clear sunny day. “No we do not, Master Harrison! We have nothing unfinished! Now, if you will excuse me-“ “I can’t let you get back to Roth, Phillip. The man is off his chump.” Phillip’s nostrils flared in disdain at those words.

“I would mind your words, Master Harrison. You are not the Grand Master, to dispense tasks and commands as it pleases you, nor your are my superior in rank. Maxwell Roth has been a trusted associate of the Order, long before your tenure, and I will not have you disrespecting him or question the Grand Master’s decision." Phillip shot back, his voice filled with aggravation. Ambrose sighed, frustration building up in his chest. The Young Lord could be as stubborn as he was cunning, whenever it came to the man responsible for training all the Templars’ underlings. And he never knew how he felt about that stubbornness, what motivated it. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know, lest he was not to like the answer. "Very well, “Master Starrick",” he blurted, his voice tinged with mockery. “Go back to all your affairs! But don't let your pride blind you! Do not trust Roth! His loyalty may be as wavering as that of the men that today have sworn fielty to the Rook, and mark my word, we will all pay the price if that loyalty will fail." Phillip's expression shifted to one of contemplation, and for a moment, Ambrose saw a flicker of doubt in those usually steadfast eyes. But it was quickly replaced by determination, a brand new flame burning bright. "I'll handle my responsibilities, Master Harrison," Phillip replied, a steely resolve in his voice. "As you should handle yours. Good day to you," As Phillip walked away, Ambrose watched him go without following him any further. He took out another cigarette, and lit it up, hoping that tobacco -the sweet poison he couldn’t go without - would also help tainting the swirling feelings that Ambrose always kept sealed and well hidden behind the guise of authority and duty.

——————————————————————————————————

Byron felt nervous. He had been to Starrick Manor innumerable times throughout the years - certain times with such regularity, the Grand Master oftentimes jested that he should consider taking up residency directly inside the Manor; and yet, that time, it felt different. Uneasiness stirred within his chest as he clutched the small package he was holding with attentive carefulness in his hand— a collection of rare tomes of her favourite tales—and he took a moment to gather his thoughts. Three years. It had been three years since he had last seen her. Three years of letters, three years of incertitude in not knowing how she was in fact faring, if she was safe and sound, protected, loved as she had been loved within those walls. Three long years since his protégé had to flee the country because the danger in London had stricken too close for comfort. He gritted his teeth at the memory, his hand closing in a tight fist. Never the Assassins had been so bold. Never so foolish as to try something that most would have thought to be a suicide. A reckless move for which he had made sure they would pay. In full. But not enough. Not enough.

Byron relaxed his jaw and shoulders, as he tried to relinquish the raging energy that always pervaded him each time he thought about that night. He took a deep breath and allowed himself to focus once more on what was ahead of him, as he resumed his walk toward the doors of the library. He allowed himself to take a quick glance in the mirror and adjusted a small lock of hair that had fallen out of place, before turning toward the library once more. The closer he got to that room -one of his favorite places in the whole Manor- the more he could hear the soft melodious voice of a violin coming from behind the wooden panels. A distant melody, a gentle one, beckoning him like a siren, inviting him to leave all that worried him behind. “Angels We Heard on High”. Byron allowed himself the indulgence for a tiny smile: a little out of season, considering that Christmas had passed already, but he knew that, if it was for her, she would be playing Christmas songs and carols all year round. He knew that, if it was up to her, she would have all the lands constantly covered in a soft blanket of gentle powdery snow, protecting everything from the bitter frost, as flora and fauna alike would wait until the warm kiss of Spring came to wake them all up again. He opened the door, ever so slightly, and felt his heart leaping in his chest at the sight of the young woman who was playing the violin, eyes closed as always to let herself be entirely transported away in the land of arpeggios and symphonic poems, the melody coming straight out of her soul, as if she was indeed singing the praise of this life to the Angels above. His dear Dorothea.

After the immense tragedy that had burned his heart and rendered it just ashes, she had been one of the reasons why he hadn’t lost his path, why he hadn’t lost his way amidst desperation and discomfort. His Morning Star, the herald of Dawn after the long cold winter night that was his grief. A purpose, after all that had been lost. Sitting on the sofa, just opposite the young woman, was her cousin Phillip, his whole attention focused on her as a good-natured smile made his sharp face much more amiable than what he usually presented to the world. A gentle grin, ever so sweet in nature, appeared on Byron’s lips, before he even realized it; but he had no intention of stopping that smile from growing larger. Because in truth, what he saw in front of him were the echoes of a moment long gone: a memory of two young children who would sit on that sofa together as they read for hours through Byron’s old journals of his time in the Arctic, bombarding him with questions after questions, their curiosity insatiable. It was a familiar sight, the comfort of a long lost home and family finally found again, of peace sought after a long journey across the whole sea that was his life. Odysseus finally returning to Ithaca, prepared to find peace for his tired heart.

Careful now in opening the door as quietly as possible, he put a finger in front of his lips when he saw Phillip turning to look at him. The young man smirked and nodded, keeping his silence. Byron took his hat off with respect and placed the small package as he awaited for the young woman to finish her song, her fingers dancing along the strings with the easiness that came from practice. Such a soothing sight, it was. As the last notes flew in the air, he finally spoke. “This sound was incredibly missed, Princess,” he murmured, his gravelly voice just loud enough so that she would hear him without startling her. “Byron!” Dorothea turned to look at him, eyes wide in surprise as her whole face seemed to be lit up by his mere presence. Without hesitation, Dorothea left her violin and bow on the nearby table and ran to the Master Templar. With careful attention- as gentle as his own strength allowed - Byron took the young woman's hands in his and brought them to his lips, softly placing a long kiss on her knuckles. “Oh, how I missed you! My eyes see with joy! My heart sees with joy!” she murmured, eyes twinkling with barely contained tears of unbounded happiness at the sight of her mentor, after so many years far away from one another. “As do mine, darling child. As do mine.” he whispered back, feeling a small lump forming in his throat at the sound of her voice, his heart swelling in his chest. “Thank you for bringing her home safe and sound,” he whispered to Phillip, his voice filled with a gratitude he couldn’t contain, his eyes not leaving Dorothea’s silvery ones for a single moment. The young man raised his brows in surprise at the gentle tone and responded with a small bow of his head. “I just did what every devoted man would do for his beloved family,” He chuckled, before turning to look at his cousin. ”Well, Dora dearest, I thank you for gracing me of your time and company this evening, but it is high time I return to my duties and shall take my leave." “Oh, cousin, please! Do not leave just yet!” she pleaded. “No no, I do insist, dearest. Besides, I believe you and Master Harrison will have a lot to discuss, after three years away. But-“ and he turned to refer to the older man, his periwinkle eyes piercing the Master Templar’s sea-green eyes. “If you were to spare a few moments for me afterward, I have something to discuss with you regarding our latest endeavors,” Byron’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. Despite the placid calm of his voice, the urgency in the young man’s gaze couldn’t be denied nor ignored. “As you wish, Lord Starrick.” He conceded. “Splendid! I shall await you then. I have a few details to discuss with Aunt Annette before - we truly should take into consideration renovating the library in Dover,” he turned to face Dorothea once more and kissed her hand amiably, before smiling one last time. “Sleep well, darling Cousin. I will call you soon,”

Then, nodding to Byron, he took his leave, closing the door behind him. Byron’s eyes immediately found Dorothea’s again, and he felt warmth once more spreading from his chest to the rest of his whole body. “I have missed you, Byron,” She giggled, daring to engulf him in the tightest embrace her arms allowed. “These halls were empty without your laughter to fill them, Princess,” he murmured, returning the embrace in full. He dared to lay a small kiss on the braid on the crown of her silvery blond hair, resting his lips against her hair a moment longer. With eyes closed, he allowed himself to be completely enveloped by her presence, to stop time and thoughts from running around in his mind, to live in that small moment of warm joyous innocence. To feel her breathing, healthy, alive, safe, and sound. Cradling her face in his hands, he examined her thoroughly, his stormy sea green eyes piercing straight into his protégé’s as he looked at every small wrinkle, every freckle, every single detail of her face with almost punctilious attention. A frown appeared on his heavy brows when he found the small scar under her eye, white and healed after so long. He blocked the memories from returning to him before she could read them all over his face. “You look thin, Dora. Have you not been fed while in Sturefors?” he murmured instead, his voice sounding more like a growl than a whisper, as his gaze fixed on her cheeks, not as round as he remembered them to be. Dorothea shook her head, with a sad smile. “I have been, Byron. My family at Sturefors has taken the greatest care of me during my sojourn there. But the Famine hit us. It hit us all. The last two winters were the most cruel I had ever had the misfortune to experience, but we were lucky. The food was less than what we had when I first arrived, but we still had food.” She paused for one moment, lips trembling at the memories that came flooding her of all the people she had seen dead on the side of the street, starvation, and the unforgiving winter cold the cruel executioners of their fate. “So many others didn’t.”

Byron pursed his lips in a grimace of utter displeasure at the news, the grip around her tightening almost out of instinct. He had always been against her departure from London, three years prior, believing that with him around, no hurt could ever come to her. But he had been powerless in front of the Grand Master’s will, his hands bound as he himself had to put her on a ship and send her to hide deep in the forest of the North. And now, he wasn’t happy to see her return less than she had been before. “Why didn’t you write to me about this?” he whispered, his voice stern in his question. “To what end? Not even you and your strength of will could ever stop the turn of the Seasons, or Nature and her whims, my dearest mentor,” she jested, hoping to see the deep frown on his brow disappear altogether. “I could have arranged for your return, Dora. You know that all I needed was one word from you - one command - and I would have come and brought you back home myself. The Baltic Sea, with all its maelstroms and currents, would have not stopped me. You know that.” “I know,” she acquiesced with a nod, a bashful grin appearing on her face. “I know, Byron. No woman on this Earth could ask for a better Mentor and Guardian; No woman could ask for a most formidable Bulwark. But I could never ask that of you. You had duties here that were far more important than having to personally come and collect me. How could I ever deprive the Grand Master of his Right Hand?” Byron took a deep sigh, before returning her grin with a lenient smile of his own. He gently patted her cheek with his hand - large enough to cover her whole face - in a reassuring gesture. Had it been to comfort her or himself, he didn’t know. “You are wise, young one. And stubborn, if I do say so myself,” he added, eliciting a silvery laughter in Dorothea. “ But yes. You here now, and I will personally see that we shall bring you back to good health,” “You sound exactly like Father now,” she giggled, her laughter returned by a small, tired smile. He saw her looking up at him and saw a sad light appear on her face, as her eyes looked at his face with attentive care, mirroring the way he had been gazing at her a moment earlier. He knew what she was seeing because he saw the same thing each time he gazed into a mirror: the deep black shadows that had appeared underneath his eyes; the wrinkles on his forehead that didn’t disappear when his face wasn’t frowning; the scar on his cheek and nose, a memento of the fight that should have brought him peace, but did not. “Time hasn’t been kind to you as well, Byron. What happened to you?” she asked, bringing her small hands to his face in a comforting gesture. “The last three years have weighed on me like the Sky on Atlas’ shoulders,” he thought, stopping his words from reaching his lips. He sighed, slumping his shoulders ever so lightly and shaking his head. “We both have faced our deal of misery during your absence, Dora,” he just murmured, covering her hands with his and pressing them against his cheeks, as he tried to grasp all the comfort from that gentle touch, a balm for his restless soul. He didn’t dare to add anything, not wanting to let his burden become hers.

Not yet. Not just yet. He wanted, for a moment longer, to preserve that sweetness of temper and innocence of spirit that had already been taken away from her, three years prior. He wanted, for a moment longer, to feel as if the world was a hopeful place, untouched by sufferance, immaculate in its candor: a pristine dawn, with the promise of a glorious day ahead. When he saw her eyes turning sad and her lips pouting, he gave her a small smile and patted her cheek. “Do not be troubled for me, dearest child. Such is life.” he whispered, daring to give her a small kiss on her forehead. “But now, no more talk of sorrow or sadness. these rooms have been left bereft of your voice for far too long. So, if you would be so kind as to entertain a request from your old Mentor, and fill these ears with joyous chatter and a peaceful melody, you would make me immensely happy.” Dorothea pursed her lips, eyebrows frowning in apprehension. “But I do not wish to keep you from your business with Phillip, By-“ but the old man brought a finger to her lips, gently silencing her. “Whatever he has to say, it can wait. This cannot, my Princess.” He murmured with a warm smile. "Not after three years." Dorothea’s frown transformed and her round face lit up with sweet, uncontrollable mirth. Without even waiting for him to sit down, she quickly picked back up her violin and bow, ready to comply to Byron’s wishes. Gracing him with another smile, eyes and nose crinkling in her joy, and taking a small bow, Dorothea started her melody, one that was dear to both their hearts. A lullaby of the North.

A lullaby about cold winds and chilling waters, of rocky mountains and green forests that met the slate-blue churning sea…of memories and answers so deeply hidden, one would need to get lost before being able to find them. Byron took place on the small couch, letting himself sink in the cushion, feeling as if all that was weighing him down was suddenly being lifted up from his shoulders by those notes that had started to fly like birds in Spring. He couldn’t remember when it had been the last time he had sat and just listened to music, without shunning it from his heart. It almost felt as if a lifetime had passed, a whole horizon away. But after so long, he felt as if he could finally be able to fully breathe once more, to breach through the waves and stop fighting that tide that was always there, in each of his thoughts, ready to swallow him whole and drag him in open dark waters. His low baritone voice found its way out of his throat, humming at first, then louder, accompanying her violin with a song, a soft smile appearing on both their lips. "Yes," he thought, looking at her with soft eyes filled with a sentiment that he thought was long buried under the snow of his grief. "The Harbinger of Dawn indeed."

——————————————————————————————————

Time had passed far too swiftly. After almost two hours of complete bliss, entrapped as he had been between her tales of her adventure in the North and reading together the books he had brought her, Byron had bid Dorothea goodnight. He had promised her that they would travel together to Dover soon, for a small outing at sea together, just like how they used to when she had been but a young child, all cooped up in the halls of that Manor that faced the sea. After so many promises he had to uphold for duty, he was finally content to keep a promise that didn’t involve hunting down those bloody Assassins or finding a way to set his business in order. The moment he closed the door of the library behind himself, however, he felt the darkness of the hall fall on him the same way rain poured during that gloomy autumn afternoon, when the sun would not show itself at all and would set over the horizon far too soon. He wished for a moment to not have granted Young Lord Starrick his time, if anything, to preserve that moment of peace a little longer. But his word was binding, for better or worse. When he raised his eyes, he immediately found the young man waiting at the end of the hallway, standing against the stained glass window that faced the inner garden, where the orangery stood, a lit cigarette in hand. At the sound of rustling robes, Phillip raised his face, and looked intendedly toward Byron, as he approached him: despite having seen forty-five springs already Byron Harrison still stood tall and powerful as he had done in youth, even more so after the years spent at sea had chiseled him into a man of exceptional hardness of spirit, one that rivaled the strength of his character and the potency of his body. Eyes like the storms, and fiery auburn hair, wavy like the ocean on a windy day, it always felt as if Poseidon had deigned to walk the Earth, bringing with him the full strength of the Oceans. Phillip couldn’t help but look at him with eyes filled with reverential respect. He had no trouble imagining why people whispered his name with either deference or terror laced in their voices: Byron Harrison was someone that one would always want on their side, for good or for worse, and if by misfortune, his favour was to be lost, to pray to God for a quick painless deliverance, instead. “Thank you for acquiescing to my request for a small interview, Lord Harrison, I know how much it would cost to cut your time with Dorothea short,” Phillip murmured, keeping his voice low as he offered him a cigarette.

Byron shook his head, refusing the offer. “What do you seek of me, Lord Starrick?” he muttered. “I assume your brother has informed you about what happened today?” Byron shook his head, eyes narrowing as his shoulders tensed. “Kaylock is dead. The Blighters that reported to him had all but disappeared and according to witnesses, they have joined side with someone called “The Rook”. Not only this, but from what my sources have related to me, there had been chaos in the factories and we have lost our stronghold, Spitalfield. It appears we-“ he cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “-we no longer have control over White Chapel." Byron listened intently, unblinking, as Phillip reported to him all that had happened. A whole borough lost. “Has the Grand Master been informed about this?” It was Phillip’s time to shake his head. “While the severity of our loss is considerable, we are still evaluating if this “Rook” and his gang are just miscreants trying to cause mayhem in White Chapel alone as a borough, or if this is indeed the Assassins trying to officially strike and breach into the city.” Byron turned pensive, and brought his large hand to his chin, stroking his auburn beard. First Croydon, with Ferris and Brewster killed, and the Piece of Eden lost. Now Kaylock and White Chapel. While not the most important of the boroughs under their control, Byron could see trouble brewing. “We need to recover all the men we have lost,” he murmured, after a long moment of silence. “We cannot let our numbers dwindle. Speak with Roth. Have him send out scouters to pick up more men and intensify the training of the lads that will join the Blighters from now on. We will need to raise their wages as well,” Phillip’s lips curled in a grimace of abhorrence. “Why paying them more? They are just scum, Master Harrison. Parasites that would sell their own mothers and wives and daughters, if they can get a profit from it. Why giving them more resources that we can instead reinvest in something more fruitful?” Byron looked at the man with eyes void of any light, chilling in their gaze.

“Your disdain for them clouds your judgment if you think of them as nothing more than fleas on the coat of a dog, an annoyance. Disposable. Unimportant. Never forget that these men are paid to do our bidding, but there is no loyalty to us if not the one our purse can buy. And they have numbers on their side, and this, combined with their desperation is their greatest strength, whether they realize it or not, and it can prove to be the cause of a whole pandemonium, if not controlled.“ He took a deep breath, before talking again. “Never underestimate what desperation could make a man do. As for this “Rook”…I assume you have already sent out your “ghosts” around the city to gather more information?” Phillip nodded, a light of solemnity painted on his sharp features. “Good. I will speak with the Grand Master at the earliest and discuss a proper strategy.” "I will ensure to keep you informed of any new information that may come to my attention." "Very well," he murmured, and with a small bow, he took his leave, making way toward the stairs that would lead to the ground floor. But he stopped before he could descend, clenching his fist. “Lord Starrick.” “Yes, Master Harrison?” “Not a word to Dorothea,” he murmured, his tone one that didn’t allow the possibility of compromise. After the young man nodded in agreement, Byron finally took his leave, his heart heavy. Not yet, he thought, looking above his shoulder, toward the library. Not just yet.

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER - Homeward Bound ]

[NEXT CHAPTER - "A Touch of West" ]

*pokes head out of the borrow*

OMG I AM FINALLY DONE. I AM FINALLY DONE.

It was so LONG overdue, but allow me to finally present the latest chapter!!

Ngl, I am so happy to be done with this, and I am so happy with how it turned out!! And I am so happy to finally start to introduce my Templar Squad! I don't know how to explain, but it makes me feel like the story is truly starting rolling! :)

Dear gods, this is truly one of the longest chapters I have ever written! It started as a small chapter, I was envisioning maybe 6k words. I DIDN'T EXPECT TO END UP WITH DOUBLE THAT NUMBER.

good gods, i feel like my brain is mush lolol

But anyway, I truly hope you will like reading it as much as I loved writing it!

--Nemo

[playername-player-of-games]

Cleo strides across the deck to the gangway where Lizzie is waiting for her, gripping the straps of her bag. The sun is rising, the sky and the sea the same color as Lizzie's hair and cheeks, her expression set and determined.

"Hello, trinket," Cleo greets, towering over her.

Lizzie straightens her back, chest puffing out a little more. She frowns up at Cleo, "You're the one looking after me today?"

"I am."

"Good."

Lizzie seizes her wrist and starts down the gangway. Cleo stumbles after her, startled into laughing and nearly losing her hat. She manages to catch herself before she can fall into the water, and falls into step beside Lizzie.

"Alright," she says, amused, fixing her hat, "where are we going?"

Lizzie drops her hand, her face a light, dusty red, "you'll see."

They step onto port and Cleo checks behind them to make sure someone's still there to babysit- she spots Grian and Scar chatting on the rigging, good- and follows Lizzie to wherever it is they're going.

Past all the busy ship hands and reloading cargo, out of the port and into the town proper, down cobblestone paths and past old brick buildings. It's a shopping district of sorts, and Lizzie looks just as determined as she did on the ship, though has the air of someone who is desperately lost.

"What are you looking for?" Cleo asks.

Lizzie does not answer, instead perking up at one shop sign and taking Cleo's hand again.

It's a white building with a deepslate tile roof. A bell dings as they step inside. Lizzie releases Cleo's hand, approaching the counter, while Cleo stays by the door.

"Just a minute!" comes a shout from another room.

It's a cozy interior, packed with shelves upon shelves of magical trinkets- she spots dragon statues and crystal balls, belts, armor pieces, loose bits of cloth. There's black curtains around the windows, letting in the natural light as the sun continues to rise, and fading fairy lights strung about the ceiling. Lizzie is looking down at a glass counter full of jewelry, tracing her fingers lightly over the top.

There's a crash and a yelp, a hurried "I'm fine! No problems here!" before a man comes bustling into the room, his face round and freckled, his hair orange, and his eyes a bright, friendly blue.

"Hi!" he beams. There's something strapped to his back- black wood and red cloth, clattering together as he hurries to put a box down behind the counter.

He straightens, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt and stepping over to be across from Lizzie, "you've caught us just before we close for the night! What can I do for the two of you?"

"I'm hoping to get something for me and my captain," Lizzie answers, "I think jewelry, maybe?"

"Of course!" the man presents the counter with one hand, "take your pick."

Cleo raises an eyebrow, caught on something the man said, "you close at dawn?"

The man winces, "yeah, well, they'd only let me have the space at night so we're making due with what we have."

Cleo frowns. Lizzie points to something in the case and asks him about it.

He directs his smile back to Lizzie, easily rambling about practically everything in the case. A pair of bracelets that let you read each other's thoughts. Rings with the power of fire and ice, one keeps you warm and the other cools you down, no matter the weather.

"This here's a disguising bandana!" the man demonstrates by tying it around his own head- his skin turns more green and his ears grow longer and pointier, "perfect for traveling pirates!"

"Not what I'm looking for," Lizzie says. She scans the counter again, pointing out something else in the case, "what about these?"

"Teleportation rings!" he provides, whisking off the bandana and smiling again as he explains the enchantments- this time Cleo notices how sharp his teeth are- this man has fangs. Cleo folds her arms, keeping one hand close to her sword, and leans back on the doorframe.

"No I'm-" Lizzie sighs, offering a sheepish smile, "I'm sorry about all the questions, I just want this to be perfect."

"No worries!" he returns, "I'll close up after we're done, it's no trouble."

"How about these?"

"Earrings that let you hear each other's heartbeats."

Lizzie's eyes widen.

"Bad choice, trinket," Cleo pipes up, "I don't have a heartbeat."

Lizzie waves her off and hurries to open her bag, "how much?"

The man offers a price- surprisingly reasonable- and Lizzie hands over the gold in exchange for two simple, golden hoop earrings.

"Thank you," Lizzie says, and returns to Cleo's side.

"Did you miss the part where I don't have a heartbeat?"

"Don't worry," Lizzie waves one of them in Cleo's face, "if your heart ever starts beating again I'll come back and kill you myself."

Cleo laughs, pushing off the wall, "thank you, dearest trinket, I'll be sure to remember that."

She smiles. There's a clattering and a rushed, "ah- don't go! I have to help you guys attune to those."

Cleo follows Lizzie back to the counter. The man beams at them again, all fangs and freckles, "put the earrings on and hold hands."

Putting the earring on is easy- Cleo swaps out one of her old ones easily. Lizzie laces their fingers together and gives a squeeze. Cleo squeezes back, a little harder.

"Okay, now," he wraps his hands around theirs and begins murmuring to himself, a spell of some sort, his eyes glowing a slight red. The magic is warm, comforting, spreads up Cleo's arm, shoulder, into her neck and splitting off to her chest and her ear, and-

A slight, phantom hearbeat begins to thump lightly in her ear. It's a little too fast. She smiles.

He pulls away, the warmth evaporating as his eyes fade back to blue.

"And there you go!" he offers one last dazzling smile, "thanks for coming in, you two."

Lizzie reaches up to feel her new earring, her heart still a little too fast, "I-I'll hear something if my captain ever gets her heartbeat back, won't I?"

"Yep!" he says, "so long as it's attuned to your captain it'll let you hear their heartbeat."

Lizzie sighs, looking relieved, "thank you."

"No problem!" he waves as they go to leave, "come back anytime!"

[blackjackkent]

Good news, everyone! There are TWO Spectators in the House of Hope dungeon, not just one.

No sign of Raphael yet but probably only a matter of time.

First order of business is to get Hope out of her chains.

The chains are anchored on giant crystals on each side of the arena, which possibly we could also destroy, but the hammer comes with a unique attack, "Unshackling Strike", which says "Smite the magical bonds keeping a a creature restrained, paralyzed, or stunned, freeing it." So we just need to get into melee with Hope and smack her with it.

I loaded Jaheira up with the hammer since she's the one of us least dependent on weapon attacks; unfortunately she's also the slowest of us so it took two turns during which I had everyone else start clearing the room.

The spectators, as usual, are scary as fuck and have 3 billion attacks; the most concerning bit was that one of them managed to land a paralyzing ray on Jaheira, which puts her out of commission temporarily. Unclear if this was deliberate because she had the hammer or just unlucky.

However! Hector has a freedom of movement potion, and we have Magic Pockets(tm) meaning Minsc could throw it on Jaheira before her turn. TEAMWORK! STRATEGY! I'm SO GOOD at this VIDEO GAME!

(Not really, but I try. XD Throwing the potion apparently doesn't work if you're ALREADY paralyzed, which is fucked up. >:( )

I think their target must not have been random, because they KEPT doing this to Jaheira, forcing us to kill them before we could cut Hope free. A surprisingly scary bit of this ended up being maneuvering everyone so they wouldn't get yeeted into the abyss by the knockback on the imps' eldritch blasts. (I did have to do a reload for this because Karlach got knocked off; I considered a feelsy drabble about it but it didn't really feel like it served any greater character point beyond "oh, whoops, shouldn't have stood there." XD )

The reload went much better; I was able to get Jaheira over to Hope and hit her, at which point absolutely nothing happened. >:( So I guess we were supposed to go for the crystals after all.

At this point I just got annoyed and beat everything up before trying to continue. XD This had the added benefit of letting us short rest and heal up before actually cutting Hope free.

Strike one.

Strike two. And she's out!

"FREE! I never thought I would be, believed I could be, hoped I might be. HEADS WILL ROLL!" she crows, waving her arms around. Then her face falls sharply and along with it, her voice.

"But we must address the hollyphant in the room. I can see how you avoid looking at me. I must be so terribly mutilated after all these decades of torture. Don't hold back. Tell me how bad it is."

Her head bows, her shoulders hunch.

Hector looks at her with some bemusement. "You look perfectly normal," he says, because she does - really more normal than one would expect under the circumstances.

She smiles weakly. "We both know that's not true, but thank you for being so kind."

He blinks. "No, really... you look fine."

The smile strengthens, but turns all the sadder for it. "You truly are the kindest fool I've ever met..." she murmurs. A pause, and then she turns away sharply. "We'll carve our way to the entrance hall and chop Raphael into messes! That's the hopeful version of course. The likely version is that WE ARE THE MESSES AND HE IS THE CHOPPER! ONWARD!"

-----

Hector and the others watch her leap back to the platform where they came in, and all of them look more than a little troubled.

"What's she talking about, Hec?" Karlach asks in a low voice. "She looks fine."

"I don't know," Hector answers grimly. "I'm more than a little concerned that perhaps she doesn't at all. It wouldn't be the first thing we encountered here disguised under a glamour."

The deep red of her face pales slightly. "Oh. Oh gods..."

"I hope I'm wrong. Gods, I hope I'm wrong."

[honeybeewhereartthee]

Crystal Hearts

Previous || Chapter Five || Next

»»————-　i love candies　————-««

The moment you arrive in the familiar household of Oukawa. You were greeted by a kohaku and the rest of his family.

The certain fiancee of your have a very empty gaze as he stare at you coming down from the car while being dragged by his second older sister.

"Oh! Your finally here!" The head of Oukawa beam at the sight of you and his daughter and greet you two with a soft chuckle.

" I can't believe you running around doing your usual fairy job like you aren't engaged. So like my wife! " He tap your shoulder becoming painful as he said each words.

"... I don't know I was engaged???? " You mumble as you remove his hands on your shoulder before he could dislocated it.

" My! You sound like my wife when she first discovered it too! Ahaha ~ how I miss her~" he cross his arms as he have his eyes close with a smile, hiding the glint of emotion from the view.

But you could see Crystalized heart of bloody red color in which mean deep obsession of love he have for his wife.

" I-is she dead...??" You shake like a left in a Windy day as you walk beside the ever silent kohaku inside the house.

You felt purple gaze stare at you in very mix emotions which shaken you more.

As if you ask very bad question, you wanted to apologize when you heard the head laugh again.

"Of course not! But she said she would go buy soy sauce a couple of years back and never return!" He open the sliding door which leads to a combat like room.

' soy sauce... The fuck. Is this the mother version of buying milk (・_・;)' you thought as you wonder how he so free spirited as he went to the weapon area, picking and choosing from those very realistic blades they have here.

'those aren't real deal right ???' you thought as you too get curious and poke the edge, feeling the sting as wounds bleed from the finger, your fear arise.

"Choice your weapon and draw your blade with intent of winning..." He says as he pick a set of Tanto swords.

"What if I don't?" You look at him and the weapons, then at kohaku who's giving you a dead fish eyes as if not wanting to talk to you either, making you feel even worse!

"I will practice my way to keep my sweet wife from escape then ywy." He trace the non sharp edge of the blade.

"If you lose. I will harvest your organs to sell." He innocently says with a smile as if it was a just a bloody joke.

"I don't want to dishonored the family line when they know I let the person who defeated my sole heir leave without binding them in..." He added.

"..." You gulp a mouthful of painful gulp. Fuck my life.' you thought as you sigh into your fate.

" I-i am a HEARTLESS PERSON! SO EVEN IF I WIN... ITS A BAD THING FOR HAKU-TAN!" you tried to proceed him. Telling him this is very absorb, very crazy!

"It's ok. You will learn to love my baby boy! His very lovable after all! Since you two are friends, it be easy to have a heart to love him too ~" he seems to not take your words at heart.

"My, how confident you have to win! Very likable treat!" He added with a nodding of approval of your attitude.

"...agh... Fine." You thought about it and look around for a weapon, after picking it and outting it to inventory to use in the fight, you look at him with a contempt on your eyes.

"Your family tradition sucks." You throw a middle finger as you two went to the mini arena. He chuckle at your attitude before the oldest start the fight with a wave of her hand.

BANG

BANG

BANG

You pulled a gun and shoot the incoming projectiles (knife) toward you and reload it as he is quick with his legs and run toward you to clash but you shoot his legs with a bullet earning a muffed chuckle of pain as you deflect the blade with your blade in another after summoning it.

"My, your too open!" He says before he knock his head toward yours, causing you to back away and black out for a moment.

At that moment you remember a moment when you once trained and having a friendly match with Kuro.

"Lil mc, you fight very well, it's too surprising too... I wonder what type of fae are you really are. But it's your secret to hide. I won't ask for it. But always remember never be unconscious or black out in a fight. It's not dangerous for you but for your opponent..."

.

.

.

" DAD !!??"

the moment you return to conscious later, you saw a bloody mess in front of you and something wet on your face. You heard a soft

Chuckle as the person who have a blade embed on his side stomach spit out a mouthful of blood yet your gaze seems glow ember with your glowing golden rings in your eyes as if still out of it.

You were about to slice his stomach open when someone pulled you away and feed you magi candy, the moment you taste sweetness. You finally snap out of it.

"...shit." you curse as you see what kind of mess you did. You quickly thank kohaku before you went to reach out for Mr Oukawa wounds.

[ Reverse passage Link ]

The wounds and blood slowly went back as if the time went back but it never said it won't occur again but it would make the wound not fetal till there's a help in hand to have surgery on it.

You can only reverse the moment for one hour and the fact your powers is partly locked it made you feel sick.

"S-sorry... Haku-tan... I dont mean too..." You felt bad, felt really bad about it as tears fall from your eyes as you realize how bad your action is.

"Sigh... Ya were threaten and win. Yet ya still felt bad about it. It's fine... The old man can live another day. He been through worse pain." Kohaku who finally spoke to you, pat your head and wipe the blood on your face.

He was amaze at the sight of you becoming a living monster but instead of fear, he felt thrilled at the thought of wanting to fight you again.

"Congrats! Your now our in law!" The second sister says with a glee as she hug you from behind.

"...I'm a heartless fae... And the idea of marriage of you humans have, are far different from the way of faes..." As you says that, you slowly felt very drained and everything become dizzy.

" I'm ... Seeing double..." You mumble confuse before you slowly fainted toward kohaku open arms. Knocking you out cold for days yet the moment kohaku check your pulls, his eyes widen as he chuckle softly.

" Kokoko... Indeed your heartless..." He mumble after he notice your still breathing either way. He look at his sister's who's beside his father who give him a signal he could leave the room.

Carrying you in his arms, he soon put you to your own room, right beside his.

"It's very nice to meet you, MC.." he mumble as he gaze at you and toward the falling leaves from outside the window. The sign of autumn is here.

»»————-　✼　————-««

(1) There's are different type of Fae, but they have category of Light and dark fae but under it there's many type of it

(if want to be tagged pls comment or Send mail) Tag List : @valeriele3 @yinenovica

[bladesfromthedark]

@rage-reloaded liked for a starter!

Another day of wandering went by. It was… fascinating, to see how quickly Hallownest was recovering from the Infection. Relatively speaking, that is. Aside from that which was already naturally aggressive, many of the land's fauna have returned to more passive states. The Husks are motionless. More travelers seem to pass through…

Uncertainty remains regarding what lies ahead for them. They've never been in a position where their fate was entirely their own… But for the moment, they would find a spot to rest. The vessel ran through the Crossroads, intending on heading towards the nearest bench -- but the sight of a figure cloaked in red far ahead of them gave them pause.

That color… Hornet?

Some amount of relief was felt. They had not seen their sister since reawakening from the gold-hued dream. There was concern over what happened in the waking world, as they found the temple empty afterwards…

…Though it appears she hasn't noticed them yet. Knowing how swift Hornet is, it would be easy for her to vanish from the area. That won't do. They at least wish to check up with her, to ensure all is well.

Fortunately, they have ways of moving quickly, too.

Little pink crystals began to form on the ground surrounding them… With a flash of light, the crystals burst, the unleashed energy shooting Ghost through the air at high speeds. They had done their best to aim at Hornet's location -- so hopefully they'll land nearby.

…Without crashing.

[yugiohcardsdaily]

Posted Cards Master List - 58.0

April 2024, 1st thru 20th

Heroic Gift

House Duston

Justice of Prophecy

Magic Deflector

Mecha Sea Dragon Plesion

Memory of an Adversary

Metallizing Parasite - Soltite

Mind Pollutant

Missing Force

Mogmole

Moulinglacia the Elemental Lord

One-Eyed Skill Gainer

One-Shot Wand

Onomatopickup

Papa-Corn

Planet Pathfinder

Rage of the Deep Sea

Red Dragon Ninja

Retort

Shore Knight

Snow Dragon

Snowdust Dragon

Snowdust Giant

Snowman Creator

Solar Wind Jammer

Spellbook Library of the Heliosphere

Spellbook of Eternity

Spellbook Star Hall

Stoic of Prophecy

Tannhauser Gate

That Wacky Alchemy!

The Humble Sentry

Thunder Sea Horse

Tripod Fish

Uminotaurus

Unification

Utopic Onomatopoeia

Xyz Xtreme !!

Zubababancho Gagagacoat

Battlin' Boxer Chief Second

Battlin' Boxer King Dempsey

Battlin' Boxer Promoter

Battlin' Boxer Uppercutter

Battlin' Boxing Cross Counter

Blaze Accelerator Reload

Tri-Blaze Accelerator

Blaze Accelerator

Burning Draw

Chevalier de Fleur

Crystal Clear Wing Synchro Dragon

Fire Ejection

Fleur Synchron

Fleuret de Fleur

Hi-Speedroid Clear Wing Rider

Hi-Speedroid Cork Shooter

Liberty at Last!

Necro Fleur

Necro Synchron

Number C79: Battlin' Boxer General Kaiser

Pennant of Revolution

Quill Pen of Gulldos

Quillbolt Hedgehog

Rush Warrior

Salamangreat Almiraj

Salamangreat Balelynx

Salamangreat Burst Gryphon

Salamangreat Charge

Salamangreat Fowl

Salamangreat Foxy

Salamangreat Gazelle

Salamangreat Heatleo

Salamangreat Jack Jaguar

Salamangreat Miragestallio

Salamangreat of Fire

Salamangreat Rage

Salamangreat Raging Phoenix

Salamangreat Revive

Salamangreat Roar

Salamangreat Sanctuary

Salamangreat Spinny

Salamangreat Sunlight Wolf

Salamangreat Tiger

Salamangreat Transcendence

Salamangreat Weasel

Seventh Force

Sorciere de Fleur

Speedroid Dupligate

Speedroid Fuki-Modoshi Piper

Speedroid Ultra Hound

Speedroid Wheel

Stardust Warrior

Stardust Assault Warrior

Synchro Dilemma

Synchron Explorer

Tornado Dragon

Totem Bird

Unknown Synchron

Volcanic Blaze Accelerator

Volcanic Doomfire

Volcanic Emission

[1358456]

Pokemon Crystal "Free to Play" Run Part 2

Back again. Had to restart the game, and picked Totodile this time so I can actually cross bodies of water.

So the random egg I get from this guy contains a random pre-evolution of a Generation I Pokemon. I don't remember all of them, but... I guess that means I can get Pichu, Cleffa, Igglybuff, Magby, Elekid, Smoochum, ... Tyrogue? Hmm... Well, as long as I don't get any of the first three... Time to save before picking up the egg and try over and over and over!

And after about 12 Cleffas, 2 Pichus, and 4 Igglybuffs...

... Shiny. A random "encounter" shiny of a garbage Pokemon that I would never want under any circumstances. "But a Clefable is pretty good!" ... Yeah. After it got the Fairy typing, and with access to moves. So... nope. Reload!

And after about another 10 Cleffas, 3 Pichus, and an Igglybuff...

... Another one. I kid you not. And another f*cking Cleffa at that. I don't know how RNG works in Generation II, so I can't tell if this is the result of hitting two separate shiny frames, or I just hit the same one twice. Either way, f*cking random ass shiny Cleffas!

I did once say that I had tremendous luck in running into random shiny Pokemon. And that I would much rather have that luck in practical situations, like... not missing Rock Slide 3 times in a row. Well, here's another instance of that. I would rather have gotten an Elekid or Magby MUCH sooner than hatching TWO freaking shiny Cleffas.

Another 6 Cleffas and 3 Pichus later...

FINALLY! I'll take it! ... Not shiny, but eh, I don't care. Shiny depends on IVs in Generation II, and the possible IVs are hot garbage anyways.

Well, time to face Whitney again. And just like last time, I only have one Pokemon I can use for this. And this time, I don't have access to Smokescreen.

That said, the only reason why Miltank becomes devastating is because of Rollout snowballing out of control. So... let's just not let it snowball.

Easy. What a scrub.

And it turns out, by going through Mt. Mortar, I can get to Mahogany Town without using Surf. Not that I can get to Red Gyarados since... I don't have Surf.

Who died and made this prick the boss of this place? Go spend time to do some sightseeing? Don't tell me what to do! And what sightseeing? There's nothing in this town! In Generation I and II, NPCs block your path for nonsensical reasons. "I'm thirsty. So the city's closed."

Time to go get Surf. Since I actually can use it.

Oh ho, the dance theatre! Time to get on that stage and show 'em what I got!

Yoi, yoi, yoi, YOI! SAMURAI ENBU~! ... Oh. I'm not performing? ... Fine. I'll just beat up those who's upstaging me.

... F*cking Jolteon. At least my team isn't critically weak to... wait. Feraligatr, Togepi, Fearow. ... Damn. I might as well be critically weak to Jolteon. Hence the importance of the Magby here. Even if it is garbage until level 30. At least this Jolteon is level 17, and not 65.

Hey, this is that gate that shakes you down when you try to pass. But...

I literally have no money. I am dead broke, and I don't have the "Treasure Hunt" ability that Kasuga Ichiban has to dig for spare change under vending machines. What happens now? ... Oh. "Please pay what you have." ... Well, the joke's on them, I guess. My gift to them is the sense of shame for trying to shakedown someone who has no money at all. Like those thugs in Judgment who try to pickpocket Yagami during a fight. If you have no money at all, they try to pickpocket and then finding nothing, they just give you a pat on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, dude."

... So Chuck's Poliwrath... used Dynamicpunch 5 times. And it hit me 5 times. How. This is the kind of sh*t I had to deal with in Pokemon games for like 15 years. How about I don't hatch two shiny Cleffas, and instead, I avoid being hit by every Dynamicpunch, Supersonic, and Hypnosis?! Just a thought.

1/2 chance of getting hit by 1 Dynamicpunch. 1/2^5 = 1/32 chance of being hit by all 5. ... I have "prevailed" in worse odds before. Like... the game Cho-Han in Yakuza. "Even or Odd?" 50% success chance, and I lost 11 times in a row. 1/2^11 = 1/2048. ... And of course, the odds of 1 random shiny, which is a select few IV combinations out of all possible IV combinations which I believe gets simplified to 1/2^13 = 1/8192.

Anyways. After all that bullsh*t, I have access to Fly. And since I have Surf, Strength, and Flash (and Rock Smash), I can try to get Tyrogue! ... I think. The guy who gives you Tyrogue is the guy who gives you Hitmonchan/lee in Generation I, but he's training somewhere in Johto. Mt. Mortar, I think? And I also need to find things like Carbos and Calcium to raise the friendliness of the Eevee to get an Espeon. So... time to scour the map.

... Where the f*ck am I now... I think these were Crystal version additions to the Unown puzzles. And each of these give me... bitter medicine, which LOWERS friendliness. ... F*cking useless ass Unowns... I have bad memories of completing the Unown Dex in Gold version. And getting all of them in Platinum version too because I apparently did not learn my lesson. Never again.

I have scoured all of the currently accessible caves, and... nothing. No Tyrogue. ... Do I need Waterfall? If that's the case, then the hell with Tyrogue. I'll have a Dratini at that point. Time to progress, I guess.

... How does this guy know what medicine with work on Ampharos, if he doesn't know what the Ampharos is sick with? "I got just the thing." ... Do you, though?

Just go buy a Full Restore, lady. "Will that mystery medicine work?" ... Sure. It ain't my Ampharos. ... I would absolutely try it on my Ampharos though. For science! "Oh, that killed it. ... Ehn. I can just go get another one."

Huh. So Togetic CAN use Fly! ... Then I guess that Fearow is garbage now. I guess I'll finish the delivery quest, and... oh right. The purpose was to deliver the mail that was attached to it... that I sold. Whoops. Go file a missing delivery claim or something. That Fearow will soon be going in the box where it will stay there for eternity. ... That Shuckle too. That sucker gave me one for no reason at all. I think he'll want it back later. What are the odds he gets it back? "It's mine now. I don't know where it is."

So is this guy like... not pissed that he lost to me over and over and I kept calling him a worthless piece of garbage that's not worth the stain on my shoes? ... Is he... a masochist? ... Go to the red light district in Goldenrod or something. Surely someone would be willing to step on him.

Random worthless goons don't get special intros. This is years before this dude became promoted to being a named admin in HGSS. In GSC, he's a nameless "Rocket Admin". Then again, all the named Rocket Admins in HGSS were nameless in GSC, and not all were admins! That dude with a Koffing in the Slowpoke Well was just a grunt! Probably because of that, I still don't remember their names.

Huh. So if I just make a beeline to Blackthorn without bothering with the Rocket takeover of Goldenrod Radio Tower, Claire just abandons her job. Great.

So now I can finally get an Espeon, stomp through the Goldenrod Radio Tower because dealing with a kanto yakuza invasion is apparently the job of a kid, murder Suicune because it's not a gift, and then finally take down Claire. And...

Hooray, another gift! ... One that needs to be level 55 before it becomes useful! ... Oh boy. Exp Share on that thing, and I have saved all the Rare Candies I came across for this reason. ... I have 3. Hmm... It'll be useful by the time I get to Red, I guess.

Oh right. I forgot that's what it was called. Yes, the Tojo Clan has fallen. Even the HQ is burned down in 8.

The kan of kanto. If I remember, in HGSS, there's another gate in the west end of Cianwood City. So that truly leads to the kansai of Pokemon world. And then Johto becomes chuubu.

I keep accelerating the emulator speed in every battle so the play time is insane. "You seem to understand how to use Pokeballs!" ... Do I, though?

... Do I know you? "Can I have my Pokemon back?" Dude, I don't even know who you are.

Is it really being robbed if you just hand over the thing unwarranted? ... Well, yes, since he said it was temporary. But I didn't ask for the Shuckle. He just gave it to me. This fool handed over a Shuckle to the asshead "rival", which he's not using at all. And then he gave his other Shuckle to me because of paranoia, which I'm not using at all. And neither of us is giving it back. So I guess there is something in common...

Well then. Off to Kanto. This fool can just sit in his house, regretting his life choices.

Yes. He's not being paid to dick around. Similar to how we're not paying our employees for 45 minute bathroom breaks every day, on top of regular 30 minute break times.

... Come to think of it... I've never been on a cruise ship before. But... is it possible for random people to just wander up to the captain's quarters? Somehow I doubt that very much. And yet, here we are in Generation I and II...

So this is the Machop that people once said that if you talk to it twice and then check your Coin Case, the game crashes. I never bothered with it but I might as well now.

And... nothing. Figures. Then again, people have said that you got Mew in Generation I by completing the Pokedex, or getting a level 100 Sandslash to use Strength on that truck in the harbor. And that you got Celebi in Generation II by completing the Pokedex or by breeding a Meganium with an Abra. Someone once said that you could get a Celebi by getting the C, E, L, E, B, I Unowns in your party and then talking to the Ilex Forest Shrine. There has been a lot of bullsh*t. The only way to get Celebi without the event is by glitching a Sneasel or a Sneasel Egg. I had a Celebi with Outrage in my Gold version!

Well then. Now that I'm in Kanto, that's a good place to stop for now.

[swagphilosopherdragon]

My physical media list: January 2024

The Addams Family and Addams Family Values collection

And Then There Were None

Barbie (2023}

Balto (3 Movie Collection)

Black Cat the complete series

The Book Of Life

Cinderella (Rodgers and Hammerstein)

Death Note/Death Note: The Last Name (Japanese live action)

Doom Patrol (the complete first season)

F is for Family (the complete first season)

Fright Night/Urban Legend double feature

The Ghost and the Darkness

The Ghost and Mr. Chicken

Ghost Stories

Godzilla

The Greatest Showman

Hercules: the Legendry Journeys (first and second season)

The Hobbit and Lord Of The Rings theatrical trilogies

Howls Moving Castle

Kiki's Delivery Service

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Maleficent 2-movie collection

The Magnificent Seven

The Mummy Ultimate Collection

Once Upon A Time (seasons one through three)

Planet of the Apes trilogy

Red Riding Hood (the bad horror movie I got from blockbuster and I bet you haven't heard of it)

Rigoletto

Romancing the Stone

The Rocky Horror Picture Show: Let's Do The Timewarp Again

Saiyuki (volumes 1-7)

Saiyuki Reload (volume 1)

Samurai Champloo

The Seventh Brother

Shin Godzilla

The Silence of the Lambs

Steel Magnolias

Tangled

Thirteen Ghosts

Titanic

Trick R Treat

Treasure Planet

Van Helsing

Warcraft

What About Bob?

Wolf' Rain

Yu Yu Hakusho: The complete series volumes 1-4

Physical media, collection collection:

Barbie 10 movie classic princess collection

Beetlejuice the complete series

The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth: blurays in a VHS-style box

Descendants of Darkness: dvd collection

Futurama: the complete series, seasons 1-8

Gravity Falls: the complete series

Universal Classic Monsters: 30 film collection

Puppet Master: 9 movie collection

[nintendeez]

We’re All Noobs at Heart

In the vibrant realm of video gaming, three titans have long held court, each carving out their own magical kingdoms and leaving an indelible mark on the annals of history. Nintendo, PlayStation, and Xbox — these names conjure images as different as they are entwined in our collective consciousness. Join me now on a whimsical odyssey through their respective domains to unravel the tapestry of influence these colossal entities have woven into the very fabric of gaming culture.

We begin our chronicle in the Mushroom Kingdom ruled by an unlikely plumber clad in red cap and overalls; it’s none other than Nintendo’s flagship hero Mario! Since 1985, this portly plumber has been leaping across pipes while rescuing Princess Peach from Bowser’s clutches. Their saga reads like an epic poem spanning decades — a tale older than time itself or so it seems — fighting Bob-ombs and Koopas alike with shells adorned by stars that grant invincibility when touched.. A legacy as impactful as few others could hope for; not only did he define side-scrollers but also paved the way for generations after him with his platforming prowess!

Next, we venture to the realm of PlayStation where third-person action and open-world games reign supreme. Here, Kratos dons his chain blades, ready to unleash a torrent of chaos upon the Greek pantheon in God of War. The PS2 ushered in an era where narrative storytelling took center stage as much as gameplay innovation; GTA San Andreas raised eyebrows with its groundbreaking adult themes and interactive world that left nothing sacred (or off limits). Sony’s domination over console exclusives cannot be understated: Nathan Drake swung across Uncharted vistas while Joel and Ellie braved post-apocalyptic journeys. Each character etched into our minds like figures on Mount Olympus — larger than life yet humanized by their plights against insurmountable odds!

The Xbox’s emergence into the fray, led by the stoic Master Chief and his AI companion Cortana, breathed new life into the FPS genre with Halo. Swords clashing against alien energy rifles redefined what it meant to be a space marine, as they waged an interstellar war against Covenant forces across ringworlds and battered colony worlds. Meanwhile, Gears of War ushered in a gritty brand of third-person action set amidst the Locust horde invasion; chainsaw bayonets and active reload became battle cries for armchair soldiers everywhere. Their tale of camaraderie stands tall amongst the greats of gaming..

Regardless of allegiance to Nintendo’s Mushroom Kingdom, PlayStation’s diverse landscapes or Xbox’s sci-fi battlefields, the very act of spreading enthusiasm enriches all involved; an alchemy that transcends console wars and fanboy divides. Like a well-honed master sword forged in collaborative storytelling fires,the gaming ecosystem flourishes when fans unite over shared experiences. Imagine how dull it would be if only one kingdom ever held sway over another?

Of course, we cannot forget the enigmatic PC master race; perched upon their high thrones of RGB-illuminated towers, sipping from the finest liquid cooling loops as they sneer at mere console peasants. But even these arcane lords cannot deny that Nintendo’s whimsical charm or PlayStation and Xbox’s cinematic experiences have shaped the very fabric of gaming itself. So let us raise our Hutton Orbital mugs to those mouse and keyboard overlords who remind us that 60 frames per second is but a meager flicker compared to the uncapped framerate hells they tread on a daily basis…

While I may poke fun, PC gaming undoubtedly pushes boundaries with crystal clear visual splendor & modding magic , forever blurring lines between fantasy & reality.

In the end, the true victory is not found in the console war’s ashes but rather the bridges forged between fellow gamers. As a community we thrive when celebrating each other’s conquests, be it Master Chief’s latest PVP triumph or Link’s daring dungeon crawl. And while PC gaming may boast of their 4K exploits, history will remember Nintendo’s innovative controllers, PlayStation’s narrative leaps and Xbox’s online revolutions as the bedrock upon which all others stand. So let us raise our controllers, keyboards and mice alike to coexistence, for it is through a shared love of pixels and polygons that we transcend the physical and become integral parts of legends forged in the unlikeliest of places.

[kingdiamond1]

Mv! Knighttale chapter 4 part 3

Looks like my job is done now

Have ya checked out the new recruits?

......

WHY DO I HAVe TO?

Because I don't have the time, red is hurt, and no one right now is able to do it

But.... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 💢 AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 💢 AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 💢

* leaves *

* At a forest *

We are hidden

That Robot is still there

We need to not worry about the robot

You just need to worry about you're love

O a flower

I give you a chance to go away ...if you're just a living flower

Am not a Human either

What....what are you then?

I'm your best NIGHTMARE

* Uses a couple of vines on Carnage soul *

That was close

You are going to feel CARNGE

Look behind you

O no...=(

It's time to get this showdown over

Wait let's just talk about this

PREPARE

I'm about to die

* Encounter starts *

Let's just check

Mettaton Neo 122 attack 9999 defense The hero of everyone's hearts

That's too much defense

DIE!!!!!

* uses a lot of beams *

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

* runs away *

I need to reload

* Uses true check *

Mettaton Neo 122 attack 12 defense 55000 hp

Not a lot of defense

=)

* Strikes Mettaton *

That was a lot...............1377

Wow....

Time for the beam

* Runs for life *

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

This isn't working he is just going to run away every time.......well it's time for the ball of light

* A crystal ball come out of Mettaton's pocket *

Welp this is silly

It's hard to dodge

* Hits Carnage soul *

3 damage that's it

* Keeps getting hit *

It doesn't give I frames

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

29 hp =(

You monsters are really strong....................but I won't give up.....I will spread CARNAGE

* You equipped the Carnage knife *

NOW DIE

* Strikes Mettaton *

53444 damage

=)

* A lot of vines surprise the Carnage soul *

What....

He he he

You idiot

I will kill you

You can't kill anyone

Robot you must kill him now

What.....o well * Loading his canon * let's end this with a....BLAST

.....

* Soul is starting to shatter *

Give me that soul

* Grabs it before it can shatter *

FINALLY

A SOUL!!!!

Thanks darling

You are...welcomed

Now let me become stronger

* Absorbs soul *

Welp you absorbed it....I hope it doesn't mean you don't want to join my fan club?

Sure....

[femininebabe]

Uses Of Feng Shui Crystals

Self-Esteem, just exactly what it? Well is certainly the way we see ourselves for for instance. Liking you for the company you are. Knowing your strengths and also knowing that the a worthy guy / girl. As the sacral Chakra is also the gateway in our inner being, to the things that our body likes or dislikes, to your talents and abilities, in active state of the Chakra we are in a position to healing crystals dwell in harmony of mind and also the soul, which at identical shoes you wear has a positive effect on all forms of interpersonal contact. Crystals are usually used that will help heal, energize or calm the aspect of the body that should be balancing. Cash by vibrating or drawing energies for. Here are some crystals and their powers. Crystals get their dream like colours from tiny quantities of another substance being present whilst structure. Thus distorting the crystal grid and the sunshine passing implies of. Clear Quartz for instance can show as a violet or purple colour when moderateness of Iron are present - thus turning it into Amethyst or if Titanium or Manganese exist when always be forming rrt's going to become Pink Quartz. Sarah demonstrated how I will treat myself with my own personal personal pair of chakra crystals to commence with. I must say I've from time for time needed a reload on my first treatment and i can now do botox cosmetic injections for people. I have also had the oppertunity to help my wife when she goes through her menopause crystals and healing power really assists in discouraging the discomfort that is associated with the a menopause. I have also been able to help a friend with his problem hiatus hernia, what has been causing him sever problems with reflux. I have used urates that I understand helps you employ problems for Crystals Amber, gold, tiger's eye, topaz, calcite, citrine. Place this direct to your skin imagining . on your solar plexus. This helps your body with this enzymatic system, the liver, and also the gallbladder.

Rose Quartz comes in various shades starting rose red to pale pink. It assists to heal heartache and loneliness. In addition, it soothes grief and eases fear. Psychics use it to help create inner peace, acceptance and self-forgiveness. Used for aligning of chakras: "Chakras" are those places of your body which will help to make our body pure. Effectively considered in order to energy centers of at the very least. There are seven places in the body. In this way bodies are made clear of diseases and pains. The crystals are have on these "chakras" for healing the a member of the body. The crystals are added to different chakras depending exactly how to the aligning is to be done.

[gertlushgaming]

Remnant II Review (Steam)

 For this Remnant II Review, where we play the sequel to the best-selling game Remnant: From the Ashes which pits survivors of humanity against new deadly creatures and god-like bosses across terrifying worlds. Play solo or co-op with two other friends to explore the depths of the unknown to stop evil from destroying reality itself. To succeed, players will need to rely on their own skills and those of their team to overcome the toughest challenges and stave off humanity’s extinction.

Remnant II Review Pros:

- Decent graphics. - 69.86GB download size. - Steam achievements. - Full controller support. - Action RPG gameplay. - Graphics settings - display mode, resolution, brightness, motion blur, v-sync, framerate, more upscale, more upscale quality, graphics preset, shadow quality, post-processing, foliage quality, effects quality, view distance quality, fov modifier, and minimize input latency. - Hud settings - Hud size, Hud opacity, minimap size, minimap opacity, enable minimap pitch, hit indicators, and advanced reticle. - Controller settings - Invert axis and sensitivity sliders, deadzone sliders, and gamepad aim snap. - Allow auto-equip setting. - Five character slots. - Game join settings - offline, friends, and public. - Skip tutorial choice. - Hardcore one life character choice. - Four difficulties - survivor, veteran, nightmare, and apocalypse. - Five archetypes each with unique weapons, abilities, and gear - medic, hunter, Challenger, handler, and gunslinger. - 3rd person perspective. - A full 3D game world with 360-degree camera control. - Disgusting yet oddly beautiful locations. - Checkpoints allow you to rest, fast travel, level up, respawn and heal up. - Earn EXP and level up to get trait points to put into stats. - Plays like the old game. - The tutorial is well-paced and adds all relevant information. - Ward 13 is the main hub of the game where all survivors live and here you can buy/sell/upgrade weapons and items. - The map locations fill in as you play with the main objective markers. - Multiple choice encounters. - Find and earn materials and resources for upgrading gear. - You get to see what an upgrade would do before you commit. - Equip any found/earned mods and add to your weapon like healing shots. - Favorite weapons for quick selection. - Play how you want. - Possible to just go out and farm enemies for materials or level up a chunk. - Hitting crystal checkpoints reloads/respawns enemies. - General load out is ranged, melee, and an ability that is usually tied to your archetype, you get more as you play and build a character build. - Relic fragments enhance and change how stats work and abilities go. - The re-roll campaign option resets and changes the dungeon/world roll you have, you lose all progress but keep items. - You can revive each other, if you are playing the handler archetype then your dog will revive you. - Hidden voice notes to find and listen to. - The mini-map shows red areas as u discovered and uncovers as you move through it. - Breakable objects. - The worlds are huge. - Ridiculously addictive. Remnant II Review Cons: - Cannot rebind controls. - Have to unlock the apocalypse difficulty. - A lot to take in. - Takes a fair while to have everything click into place. - Very easy to die as the feedback on damage isn't great. - Feels like you have to always go back to the hub just in case you can do an upgrade. - I got lost and did a whole area I thought was moving me forward but it turned out it wasn't. - The marking of mission directives is not great. - No real pause button even when playing offline. - Due to the 3D nature of the mini-map/map, it can make knowing where to go tricky or hard to see. Related Post: OXENFREE II: Lost Signals Review (Steam) Remnant II: Official website. Publisher: Gunfire Games Developer: gearboxpublishing.com Store Links - Steam Read the full article

[lamesorrow]

Heart of Stone

Time: The San’layn assault on Eversong woods.

-

“This is such a bad fucking idea,” Calathea said as she reached for the artifact.

The Heart of Sanguinius looked perfectly innocent. Laid out on its suede little pillow, it might’ve successfully pretended to be just an ordinary trinket... if not for the magic it radiated.

Ancient. Breath-taking. Red.

Calathea hesitated. She was no weakling, especially after the gifts of Fel had unleashed her full potential, but the pure power swirling enticingly right under the surface of the crystal filled her with a feverish sense of impending doom.

All power could be trifled with... All power could be bound and used... All power was available to her… But, for goodness’ sake, after some proper examination! That’s always been her modus operandi as a warlock: power comes at a price and only a fool agrees to a deal blindly.

There she was, breaking her one and only rule.

Sensing her hesitation, Leothias exchanged meaningful looks with Nemelia and said, “I’ll do it. Calathea, I can do it. Let me.”

Calathea just scoffed.

Like hell she would. Leothias was a brilliant researcher, but he had less self-control than a toddler. Nemelia on the other hand was a machinist through and through, great with a toolbox and schematics but horrible with anything even remotely resembling a weapon. All those who knew how to fight and could be trusted to use an ominous Mogu artifact were currently trying to stem the tide of undead pouring into the courtyard.

The experimental anima golem their little team had just reactivated was going to be invaluable to the defenders, but Calathea still remembered the last time the undead had assaulted her homeland and she had no interest whatsoever in going through that hell ever again. It was overkill or be killed, so they needed to win this fight and they needed to win it hard. And to do that they needed something to pack a punch. The Heart of Sanguinius was one of the less understood artifacts; all they knew about it was that it was a potent power-up meant to considerably empower the user’s magical abilities.

So… Between the three of them, Calathea was the only reasonable option; she was a capable combatant in her own right, she had military training, experience handling powerful magic, and no relatives that would miss her should this little endeavour go south.

She boldly grabbed the crimson crystal and had about three seconds to experience a sudden rush of dark euphoria before everything went red.

*

She woke up to a cloak covering her face, an argument in the background, and the entire world still tinted red. It became only marginally less red when she weakly pushed the cloth away.

“—the desk here, it should provide some cover. Just… aim for the heads, alright?”

“Aim how? I don’t even know how to reload this thing, Leo! Don’t just leave me here with a fucking corpse!”

“I need you to stay here. Calathea died to keep us safe, to keep you safe—“

“I’m up,” said Calathea, and rolled to the side to cough up a frankly concerning amount of blood.

What surprised her was that nothing hurt. There was blood on her mouth and probably in her eyes and oh, so much of it on the ground around her, yet Calathea herself felt fine.

She felt fucking fantastic.

People think being drunk on power is a figure of speech. Those people are weak.

Calathea ignored Nemelia’s fretting and Leo’s disbelieving silence. The polished edges of the crystal were digging into her skin, so she slowly uncurled her fingers.

Her hand was empty.

“How’s that possible? Calathea? Are you—are you okay? You were dead—“

Her fingers closed on air. There was nothing there, yet she felt the crystal’s presence—it felt more solid to her than the floor she was sitting on.

Something else—something potentially far more pressing—caught her attention, though.

Her tits were bare.

Calathea blinked drunkenly. Her shirt was torn open—quite violently, if a stray black button in a puddle of what she was starting to realize was probably her own blood was any indication—and her normally pale skin was bright red, obviously inflamed to hell and back.

And right there, in the space right between her breasts, sat the crimson crystal.

Calathea was vaguely aware of Nemelia’s fretting hands, but her attention was completely focused on the red thing sticking out of her chest. In the first thoughtless moment she tried to scratch it, see if she could make the edge of her skin peel away from the polished surface of the obviously foreign object, but to her surprise it didn’t happen at all—no matter how much she scratched and tugged, it was as if the crystal had merged with her on some fundamental level. The skin around it was oddly stiff, but it didn’t pull at all when Calathea experimentally stretched out her arms.

The more she looked at it, the more she realized that something buried deep inside the crystal was pulsing faintly in the rhythm of blood roaring in her ears.

A potent sense of wrongness battled inside her with genuine elation. With each passing second she understood more of this power, felt it become hers. And oh goodness, was it glorious. Glorious and metallic to taste.

It already made her dread the time she would have to give it up. Something this potent would never be allowed to remain in her grasp.

Calathea concentrated. The puddle of blood she was sitting in rippled.

Ah, she thought. So that’s how it works.

She finally looked up at her companions. Nemelia was teary-eyed and obviously shaken, but with frantic hope shining through the grief. Leo on the other hand seemed openly horrified. One of his flintlocks was pointed dead between Calathea’s eyes.

“Calm down, Leo. I’m not a bloody monster,” said the Heart of Sanguinius.