#retrod

[gluesenkampart]

Lighthouse illustration for a ttrpg book I'm working on.

[aaronmeterchanges]

Using a Retrode 2 to back up some of my Genesis carts. Happy to find out that my copy of NBA Jam is the slightly more coveted version with Charles Barkley!

[the-alfreton]

Cant stop thinking about them…

[marypsue]

⛅🌧

[from this meme]

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

You didn't specify a WIP, so how about...from the Steve/Nancy/Jonathan bodyswap AU, why can't we be ourselves like we were yesterday:

Robin’s still looking suspiciously at him. Jonathan swallows, hard. “I’m – trying something new. With the hair.”

“Yeah?” Robin gives the top of his head a long, assessing look. “Try something else.”

🌧️Share something angsty from your WIP.

From later in the same WIP:

“Nance?”

“You don’t know how much I’ve thought about it,” Nancy starts, slowly, raising her face to study Jonathan’s window like the midday light pouring through it is absolutely fascinating. Steve wonders, a little, if that’s how Jonathan looks when he’s really absorbed in taking just the perfect photograph. If Nancy ever notices the way the sunlight at just the right angle casts Jonathan’s brown eyes in gold. He hopes so. Somebody should.

“The only reason Barb was there that night,” Nancy continues, relentlessly, “was because I asked her to come. The only reason she cut her hand was because I pushed her into doing that dumb drinking game. The only reason she stuck around after I told her to go home was – to keep me from doing anything stupid. Like I asked her to. She was my ride. She was my best friend. She wasn’t just going to leave me stranded, if it turned out you – if I changed my mind, or -”

She takes a deep breath in, and lets it out slowly and soundlessly before she turns to Steve. “You didn’t kill Barb.”

[kowaindar0u]

[marathedemonoverlord]

Yes.

Local is bored and has opinions

[macgyvertape]

Saw a post about shows adapting when cost/scheduling reasons prevent a guest actor from returning, and it made me think about Destiny narrative limitations especially since without insider info it seems some characters like Orisis (Oded Fehr) and Crow (Brandon O'Neill) are easier to get than others (like Nathan Fillion infamously so). Especially when considering things like voice actor line budget and how Episode Echoes seems to have less chatter than previous seasons during the seasonal activities.

So there’s a number of “how the sausage gets made” reasons aside from reissuing season of the Dawn weapons that Saint and Osiris got the Vanguard ally storyline, though I thought it was the weakest part because it retrod thematic ground that has been touched on before (the game wasn’t going to break up the one onscreen happy couple).

If money wasn’t a concern (nor voice actor scheduling) I think it would have been a really interesting season to see Ana Bray, Elsie Bray, and finally see Camrin Dumuzi (Ana’s girlfriend) onscreen replacing Osiris and Saint for the vanguard ally storyline. Things line up well enough that Lakshmi’s storyline wouldn’t have changed much. Elsie fits into both the traveled through multiple timelines/realities storyline as well as is an Exo who could be affected by The Conductor. Ana has experience with AI and it would be great to see her interact with Failsafe especially since she’s been at loose ends since Resputin was killed off. Also if the devs wanted to address alternate versions of yourself doing monstrous things there is that version of her that fell to Darkness in The Dark Future. Finally for the romantic parallels between Maya/Chioma and a happy couple that isn’t putting their wife through the Torment Nexus, it would have been great to see Camrin onscreen since there hasn’t been an onscreen f/f couple. (Feel like I need to clarify there have been onscreen sapphic characters but their partners are dead/missing/lore appearing only). Also bringing in Ana and Elsiewould have tied into Conductor!Maya’s end of season remarks about Clovis’ Bray’s hubris and her remarks about a new golden age really well. Last reason but not least I would have loved to see a reference back to the version of Maya from Clovis’ logbook that stopped his medical procedure to flay him alive with these words:

““Something like this happened to me. I was an explorer, once. One of… hundreds of myself. Then I fell into a… a trap, I think? And they drew me out of it with a hook, and turned me inside out to see how I worked, and then they made billions of me. All of us shouting at each other, shouting for Chioma, screaming for mother. They were looking for the right one. And when they found me, they killed all the others. I knew I was different, because the quiet made me happy. I was glad to be alone.””

Because what a difference “I was glad to be alone” is from the Conductor version of Maya Sundaresh.

[novankenn]

Turbulent Waters (Revised)

/==/

The rusalka (plural: rusalki) is a female entity, often malicious toward mankind and frequently associated with water. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rusalka)

/==/

Chapter One

Jaune’s ichor streaked blade sliced through the air, cleaving through the forelimb of the closet Beowulf of the pack that had descended upon him. Ducking his head behind his heater shield, he tilted it slightly, deflecting a side on attack. All about him, several Grimm corpses slowly dissolved, but there was no time to rest. Pushing with his shield, he shoved back one while thrusting with his sword into the neck of the one he had injured.

“Bastards!” Jaune cursed in a gasp. Chambering his sword, he struck out at the Beowulf he had knocked off balance. The keen edge chopping down at the joint of the neck and shoulder of the beast. 

A spray of the foul slime that functioned as blood in their unnatural bodies, caught him in the chest and face. In a moment of blindness, he was hit from the side. His armour absorbed the brunt of the attack, with the remainder causing his aura to flare. He felt the intense pressure of something biting him, and in an act of desperation Jaune raised his sword, and drove it down. The pommel cracked against something hard, and the pressure suddenly was gone. Blinking his eyes clear, he staggered away from the direction of that attack.

His irritated eyes focused on the cracked, bone white faceplate of the Beowulf that had latched on to him. In its mindless rage it charged, straight into a hit from Jaune’s shield, followed by an arcing upswing of his stained blade that decapitated the beast. 

It was the last one, and as he stood there his chest heaving, his limbs heavy his mind drifted back to a better time…

It was her eyes. That was what drew him to her. Eyes of the colour of deep emerald, that seemed to shine when she smiled. She was perfect in his mind. A mane of flaming red hair, that framed her elegant face. She had a slim and athletic build to her body, that she draped with tasteful and modest clothing. If Jaune had been religious or even spiritual, he would have said she was an angel. It didn’t matter. He was smitten with her, beguiled and enchanted by her.

“That’s Helena Nikos.” Jaune’s partner Jade Hadera told him as Jaune watched her from afar. “She’s single, and she’s been noticing you.”

“What?” Jaune chocked on his sandwich.

“Girls talk, and a few of them noticed the looks you’ve been shooting her.” Jade teased. “Go for dude. What’s the worst that could happen, her telling you no?”

“No, her saying yes.” Jaune muttered.

“Come on bro. You can’t hold on to that shit from Signal.” Jade commented. “That bitch played you. It was a twisted game with her, and you did nothing wrong.”

“Easy for you to say.” 

“Hey, that girl wouldn’t have known a good man if he slapped her ass, and kissed her.” Jade chuckled. “Ask her out, or at least go up and say hi.”

“Maybe.”

“Jaune, do it. Take the chance.” Jade advised with a firm hand squeezing Jaune’s shoulder. “Take the chance.”

So he took the chance. Approaching her just before Combat Class, and introducing himself to her. She smiled at him, and just started to chat with him. Her voice was sweet and gentle. Her demeanour was kind, and a little flirty. From exactly that point, Jaune was totally captivated by her, and took a risk. He asked her out for coffee, and she accepted.

Jaune was torn from his memories, by the sound of snapping branches. His eyes quickly scanned the battle torn ground of the small clearing he had been fighting in. He was sore and tired, and knew he needed to get out of here. It had been a mistake going out into the foothills. Leaving the protection of Beacon behind him while consumed with rage. It had drawn the Grimm in, and it was bringing more to him.

The growls and snarls grew closer. Jaune recognized he was in a very bad spot, so with his sword and shield still in hand, he took off at a run. He retrod the winding, barely visible walking path that he followed into the foothills. He strained his ears to keep track of the sounds of any pursuit, while keeping his gaze upon the trail.

The snap of a branch to his right alerted him only a fraction of a moment before the attack. It was not enough time to get either his sword or shield into proper position, but it was enough for him to twist and take the hit on the thickest part of his armour. Knocked backwards, Jaune flailed about to keep upright, as the Beowulf pressed its advantage. Catching it with a glancing blow from the edge of his shield, Jaune gave himself just enough room and time to thrust his sword forward.

The attack was off mark, but the damage was lethal. Jaune’s aim was to impale the beast dead in the throat, and while he did catch it in the throat, it was off the mark. A gout of inky black fluids spurted out. The keen edge of Jaune’s blade splitting the Grimm’s neck open like an overripe fruit. The sound of others closing told Jaune he couldn’t stop to rest. With a grunt of pained exertion, he started running again.

The second attempted ambush, he was better prepared for. The beast appeared before him on the narrow trail, snarling and set to pounce. Tucking his shoulder behind his shield, Jaune plowed forward, bowling it and himself over. Rolling to his feet, he thrust his weapon home, and with a savage twist of the hilt, opened a gapping wound in the Beowulf’s exposed chest. Yanking his blade free, Jaune turned on his heels and continue his flight down the trail. His chest burned, and his legs throbbed. Behind snarls, and growls, grew closer.

Helena gasped in surprise when Jaune, took a single knee and presented her with a small black box. They were sharing a desert at their favoured café. It had been five months of sharing time with each other. Of dates and late nights. Of good times and stressful ones. But Jaune knew Helena was the woman for him. The woman he wanted to spend his life with. To raise a family, celebrate special occasions, and support even in times of adversity.

“Helena, I love you.” Jaune squeaked out. His nerves making his throat dry and his voice hoarse. “I want to be with you, forever. To honour and love you. To stand at your side as we move through this life together.”

“Oh, Jaune…” Helena gasped with tear filled eyes, from behind delicate hands clasped to her face.

“Will you marry me?” Jaune asked, as he opened the small box, showing off the ring he had gotten from his mother. It was his grandmother’s engagement ring, and he wanted her to have it.

“Y… y… yes!” she answered before throwing herself from her chair to embrace him.

At that moment, nothing could keep Jaune from smiling. Nothing.

Two more of the monsters appeared on the trail before Jaune. He wouldn’t be able to just bum-rush through this time, so he veered to his left into the brush. It took about five strides for him to go from the poor trail to be standing at the muddy banks of a slowly flowing river, of moderate size. Jaune considered fording the body of water, and had just about made the decision to do so, when a fresh quartet of Beowulf bust into from the trees.

“Fuck!” Jaune swore. He didn’t have much left in his tank. In combat class, against opponents that would give up, he could play a battle of attrition. But here, now. With no backup and against a foe of inhuman nature, that was not an option. Squaring himself up, with the river at his back, he prepared to make another stand.

As he eyed the beasts, he considered once again taking his chances with the river, but there were too many unknowns. If it was deep, his armour would pull him down. If it wasn’t then it would only slow his movements. No, his only option, he reasoned, was to fight. Fight hard, and put them down fast.

“Alright, you bastards!” Jaune shouted, using his booming voice to drum up his own lagging courage. “Come On!”

As if spurred on by his shouted challenge, the quartet rushed for him. Jaune returned the favour. Charging straight into their midst. The muscles of his legs and arms screamed in pain as he moved. Backpedalling, lunging, and side stepping while his sword’s edge cut, slashed, and cleaved through inky hides and flesh. Jaune’s armour and aura took a beating. It flared again and again, as fatigue began to slow his reactions. But it didn’t matter. He was determined to not die out here. To despite the mistakes of others to do something good with his life.

“Die you fuckers! Die! Die!”

Helena wasn’t answering her scroll and was over an hour late for their training session. Concerned, Jaune still in his gear headed towards the dorms. This had been happening more and more often over the last few months. Cancelled dates. Missed appointments and meet ups. Rushed conversations. 

Now, normally if she was going to be late or unable to attend the session, she would call and tell him. But for not to hear from her, and her not to be answering his calls and texts, pulled at a dark thought in Jaune’s mind. A memory he didn’t want to recall.

“Helena, please pick up? Why aren’t you answering? Are you okay?” Jaune spoke into his scroll, leaving another voice message as he closed on her dorm room. As he rounded the corner from the stairwell, Jaune say Ivy Greene, Helena’s partner, leaving the room. “Ivy!”

“Jaune? What are you doing here?” Ivy replied in actual real surprise. 

“Is Helena with you? She didn’t show up for our training session, and she’s not answering her scroll.” Jaune asked her, his words rushed. 

“No, she’s not here.” Ivy seemed puzzled. “I thought she was out with you?”

“No, I haven't seen her since the end of classes.”

“But…”

“Ivy?”

“She left our room like two hours ago, saying she was going to room.”

“What? That makes no sense.” Jaune commented, “She always just meets me there.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Ivy responded. “That’s what she told me.”

Jaune shook his head and walked off, as Ivy watched him. She suddenly had a sinking feeling and with a little gasp looked at Jaune’s retreating form and start to run after him. Jaune’s team dorm was a floor down, and he was walking with purpose. He was on his floor landing before Ivy could yell for him to wait. Reaching his door, he pulled out his key card, and paused. He thought he heard voices, but dismissed it. Swiping the card and opening the door. The card fell from his nerveless fingers as he stood in the threshold.

“Jaune? JAUNE!” Helena screamed while trying to pull a sheet up over her naked and sweat soaked body. Laying beside her just as naked was Jade… Jaune’s partner and friend. “It’s…”

“Hey Jaune.” Jade stammered out, as he slowly climbed out of his bed, moving to put himself between Jaune and Helena. 

“Shit!” Jade yelled as he ducked out of the way of the desk chair Jaune threw at him. It exploded against the wall, causing Helena to shriek in fear. Jade looked up from where he had landed, and saw Jaune’s hand tensing about the hilt of his sword. “Jaune?”

“I love you… “ Jaune hissed, as Crocea Mors began to slid free of its sheath. “I love you…”

“Jaune don’t!” Ivy screamed as she rushed into the room, grabbing him by the wrist. “They’re not worth it. Not worth it! Do you hear me? They're not worth it!”

“Jaune?” Helena sobbed out pitifully, “I’m…”

Helena never got to finish speaking, as Ivy rounded on her and slapped her so hard that she was knocked sideways to the bed from her seated position. Jade didn’t make a move, keeping his hands in full view of everyone.

Jaune howled. A sound filled with rage, and heartbreak, before racing out of the room. Leaving an irate Ivy, staring down his former love, and ex-friend.

Jaune was panting, his body battered and bruised. The final of the four, Beowulf, sliding limply off his blade. The other three had already started to decompose. Their inky forms breaking up into an almost snow like substance and floating up into the air to vanish like the light of a snuffed out candle. His mind was hazy, pain and emotions clouding his thoughts. His armour was dented and hanging haphazardly off him. Blood trickled from shallowed wounds to his face, and deeper ones on his upper arms.

His arms were heavy, and he was struggling to continue to hold his armaments. He took a couple staggering steps towards the river. He was thirsty and desperately needed to slat his thirst. Jaune heard its bellow just as he had knelt to cup some water in his hands. He grabbed for his sword as he was struck and flung sideways along the riverbank. Gasping in pain, he rolled to his knees and faced his attacker. The Ursa was massive compared to him. Its red eyes burned with unfiltered rage, as they bored into Jaune’s cold blues.

“Fuck you!” Jaune spat out, as he pushed himself to his feet and charged forward, Crocea Mors clasped in both hands. “Fuck you!”

Jaune’s world turned upside down, as the Ursa met his charge head on. Even as his goo stained blade struck home, his body weight and that of the Ursa assisting its progression through the tough hide and deep into its chest. But that same mass also carried Jaune backwards into the river, and as the beast spasmed in death it, fell upon Jaune crushing him beneath’s its immense weight. Jaune struggled, raged and flailed about, as the cold waters closed about him. 

One day later, Jaune was reported as missing. A day after that, an extensive search of Beacon’s grounds was started. With no sign of him, the search was expanded further from the school. Reaching out into the Emerald and Forever Fall Forests. It was on a hunch, that a young fresh-faced young teacher’s aide by the name of Glynda Goodwitch, checked the back gate. Finding it unlatched, she stepped onto the poorly marked walking trail. 

It was the stench of decay that brought her to the site of his death. She retched and emptied her stomach in the underbrush, at the sight of Jaune’s mangled and swollen corpse. Activating her scroll, she called in her discovery. With in minutes a bullhead appeared and Beacon’s Emergency Response Team repelled down. They all knew they were too late. Much too late.

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

its really really interesting to see people even here go to bat for them bc while i do think that the medium has potential (and even i've used them) by and large the sub has been oversaturated with a very specific brand of them that is neither clever, nor witty, nor funny or even entertaining, but just poor taste. a lot of it can basically be boiled down to female characters fighting over the male mc, and within that theres a lot of misogyny, sexual assault, fetish material, flanderization and general unpleasantness

the mods made a collage of some of the worst and said collage is 240 mb large, thats how pervasive it is, i cant even try to scale it down to post it here

They’re banning sprite comics from r/grandorder

[pokemoncenter]

I’ve heard some rumours and talks from big league Pokémon trainers about a thing sometimes found in wild Pokémon called “Poke-virus” or something? Apparently it makes Pokémon stronger. Feels kinda immoral if it’s true.

Pokerus is a known, though still not terribly well-studied, infectious disease which Pokemon can contract. It is transmitted through air, so a Trainer who has one Pokemon who caught the virus will likely find their entire team has been infected.

The virus is known to cause fever and shortness of breath. There are, oddly, no known cases of fatality to Pokerus, unless it exacerbates other major health issues. However, it is generally highly unpleasant, as it will cause difficulty in respiration, which makes exercise difficult.

There is a strange side effect of this, however, that a Pokemon who has it will find it easier to build muscle via training and exercise. It apparently affects myostatin production to increase skeletal musculature, or something to that effect.

Others have written much more in-depth discussions of the morality, so I will simply leave you to do your own research on that front rather than retrod old and worn arguments.

[forgottentristan]

whoops eithne + tristan <3

dslkjfaslkdjfkldjf <3333 (shhh but i love them already sldkjfkljsdf ;DDD)

Name: Ciarán Malconaire

Gender: Male

General Appearance: With bright-burning blue eyes arched over with prominent brows, a slender nose, high cheekbones, full lips, and a sharp jaw, Ciarán is a masterful reflection of both his parents. It is perhaps his eyes, inherited from his mother, which are most noticeable in his face: a clear, bright blue that can seem warm as the sky above or cool as winter seas.

Personality: Ciarán, like many children, is both a portrait of his parents -- and a reaction to them. Though deeply loyal and supportive, Ciarán also yearns to carve out a place for himself entirely his own but, born an eldest sibling, can't seem to quite escape what he feels he owes his family, retrodding many of the same questions both his parents have known. Clever and bookish, Ciarán often strikes one as the stoic, bookish type, at first glance -- which he is -- but getting to know him better uncovers a more jocular fellow buried underneath, albeit a rather arch and sardonic figure as well.

Special Talents: Raised as heir at his mother's knee, Ciarán knows Malconaire so well, it is as if it were a part of him and, indeed, he thinks sometimes that the great tree whispers to him, but he has rarely known of any male seers and often dismisses this as foolishness, as a result. (They both come from a long line of seers, so this just made sense to me...)

Who they like better: Eithne

Who they take after more: Tristan

Personal Head canon: Ciarán perhaps suffers from the lack of just the thing his parents fought to escape: I think he at times feels a bit rudderless with sm freedom open to him from such a young age and knowing that he'll have his parents' support, no matter what he chooses to do. Ironically, I think chosing to come in and pick up the reigns of Malconaire -- but, critically, also while knowing it is a choice of his own and not something thrust upon him -- allows him to finally come fully into himself and become the best version of himself.

Face Claim: Nicholas Hoult

[ormir]

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯. // a flashback.

Featuring: Prince Orhan Gökhan. Location: The plains of Astoria, some twenty years ago. Trigger warnings: Gay yearning, suggestive themes.

"Back to the hedgerows where bodies are mounted Ah, but I'm flying like a bird to you now I was housed by your warmth Thus transformed By your grounding and giving And darkening scorn"

The canvas tarp breathed in deep, languid pulls with the warm night breeze. Light danced at the end of a candle, giving the illusion that the red and gold tarp walls moved organically, reactively, like the cavern of some great organ. A silent womb. Only the sound of cloth and buckles disrupted it. Ormir was lifted from quiet sleep by the kiss of the light against his eyelids. A silhouette passed, obscuring the source, just as he realized how cold and spacious the cot felt around him. The world was still and black beyond the tent’s walls. Awake already? The Raven-Feeder’s naked chest arched on a full breath, and the deep stretch cured all his ails. The bloom of pollen had set off like a bomb after weeks of steady rain on the Astorian plains, and the Iskarans were only just recovering. Adding wet vision and congestion to the mucky pit fight that had been made of the battlefield resulted in quite the miserable cocktail. A few days of sun and silence had been bliss.

Lately the prince had been distant, absorbed in thought. Ormir had tried not to internalize the neglect he felt, nor to be disused as the sounding board he’d offered to be. He tasted how his obstination had soured into regret as he slept. When their antlers locked in a difference of opinion, as was inevitable, the natural progression was for the two men to plant themselves equally firm in their beliefs, stoking their own flames higher and hotter in contest, until the passion morphed into the harmonious, desperate roll of bodies that brought a little death to the argument. It was unlikely that they’d touch the subject again until Orhan broached it in daylight.

Ormir watched the backlit shape of him now, as he laced his trousers by candlelight. The gold cast distinguished the weight of his body through the sheer drape of his tunic, defining how his muscled form moved like sculpture. In his trance, Ormir was torn between inking the image into memory and disrupting it, to call Orhan back to him and illustrate an apology. But the conviction in the Prince’s movements told him that he’d already made up his mind.

“They won’t be expecting you until dawn, you know.” Ormir perforated the silence, the rasp of sleep and sex grating in his voice. Some water would soothe it, but he let it be.

“Yes.” Orhan’s silhouette responded without a hitch. He must have sensed his company waking, and must have already braced for questioning.

“And you’re aware that they still fully intend on undermining your plans?” The soldier retrod the ground they’d pulverized in argument the night before.

“Yes, I know.” Defeat rang in the noble’s words. Orhan sat and gathered his long, dark hair with a comb of his hands to pin it in a high knot. The practiced motion was fluid, and called attention to the thread of silver that was coming in at his temples.

The younger man groaned softly in protest, lifting onto his elbows so that the lithe lines of his body were visible. His eyes strained to find focus in the dim light. “So you’re comfortable with losing sleep to them?”

“I need my rationale to be perfect,” Orhan said matter-of-factly, as he was arranging parchments in order on the table’s surface. “If only so that I can put it to rest gracefully.”

Or you could just have them choke on it, Ormir bottled the thought, once again annoyed by the grace his counterpart commanded. He rose slowly, found his long, moth-eaten tunic among the scattered clothes and slipped it on. He poured water from Orhan’s carafe and drank it. Old sweat and grime was dried on his skin, and Ormir yearned for a bath. There was a standing offer for one, if he chose. The luxuries of the Prince’s life had largely been extended to him. Something always stopped him short of opting in, though. Unworthiness? Guilt? Jealousy? Or would it just make what they had together too real? It probably wouldn’t help to unearth it. Against his intentions, Ormir found that he’d gravitated to where Orhan sat, massaging the meat of his shoulder while the Prince laced his boots.

This life, his reputation, his choice of companion, would have been bile-inducing to the back-alley tradesman he was a year ago. He’d come from nothing, he’d rescued himself from the feral Skjaldwoods, bought his own blades for vanity’s sake and was catalyzed into a butcher and the prince’s personal lap dog. Perhaps he hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

“You should come.” Orhan spoke suddenly, in the cadence of an epiphany. 

Ormir’s expression tightened. “I’m sorry?” The first instinct was to laugh, because he must’ve misheard.

“You should come, Ormir.” The Prince repeated. The words commanded from the diaphragm, in the confident, regal timbre Orhan used in reserve. The Raven-Feeder would be flustered by it if he hadn’t been so shocked. “Listen in, watch the moves in play. Deliver your stratagem straight from your mouth – you know I always botch the details anyway.” The prince’s voice softened, as did his eyes. “Sit at the table, beside me.” Squared, calloused fingertips brushed over the delicate skin of Ormir’s wrist, hot as a brand. “Or just stand in the corner as a fly on the wall if that’s too demanding for you.”

Breath was slippery and hard to hold in constant rhythm. The weight of expectancy was suddenly crushing with Orhan’s deep, trusting gaze trained on him, and Ormir was squirming to find a way out of it. 

“You’re not thinking clearly,” He stammered, convincing his hand to pull from the caress. The Prince’s added diversions would not work on him, as he’d recently allowed them to. “I’m a conscript, I’m no strategist.”

“I am, and you are.”

“I can’t sit on your council.” He insisted. The power was attractive, of course it was. Rumors and embellished fantasies of the blademaster and The Raven-Feeder were already making the rounds through Iskaran campfires, and a wealth of penetrating glances lanced in him each time he’d leave the Prince’s tent. To feel the condensed heat of judgment within the closed circle of Orhan’s advisory, though, would be too much to bear.

“Why not? You’d be welcomed.”

“No, I’d be pitied.” Ormir’s voice raised and shook on the edge. “I have no more merit to weigh my opinions into Iskalrdik’s future than any other mongrel in this camp who can smell a storm approaching.”

A moment passed without words, just the steady exchange of wounded stares. Ormir pulled out of it first, casting his eyes into unfocused space above the Prince’s shoulder. He knew looking down meant seeing the crimson drip of Orhan’s trust coating his hands, wrung out by his cowardice.

“Do you think so little of me?” Orhan asked, decoding the subtle shifts in Ormir’s face. The Raven-Feeder was naked before him, a vivisected spread of wounds and resentments exposed to the open air. “I extend the offer as your liege, and a solid judge of talent where I see it. I would not make the mistake of inviting any ponce who warms by bed to pillow-talk about Iskaldrik’s war strategy, so you can rid yourself of that delusion. You would do good here.”

When he was met with silence, Orhan stood and gathered his materials from the table. Anger didn’t announce itself in his manner. That was saved for the cathartic surge of battle, or for their rituals at night. Ormir rode the wave of discomfort until Orhan closed the distance and kissed him, softly, in parting. The gesture burned with sincerity, and it took everything in Ormir not to be consumed by love for him. Even then, The Raven-Feeder knew he’d feel the man’s ghost for the rest of his life.

“Think about it.” The words breathed into his mouth. Then the warmth was gone, and the canvas door flapped shut and left him alone.

[ellorypurebloodculture]

Summary: Miss Minerva McGonagall will not behave as her mother did. She will not seek to deceive the person she loves, especially not someone as noble-hearted as Master Orion Black.

[tarsusingkirk]

SO WHAT if im retrodding the did u hurt urself scene s o w h a t .

this is not that but in this paragraph it is

[lebuc]

enlighted ( hope is borne )

* by the night of a thousand stars among those yet unseen

is cradled a moon - reflecting, revealing the sins of the day

in the fires of fury & pride down treaded paths, retrod without retreat.

on the smoke from embers hope is borne on nocturnal breezes.

stoked by eternia, we attend to ticks & tocks,

modern clocks trained through tech & observation;

past disbelief & bathos we bellow into the ether, contending

against angst & error, revelling in conjunctions as these;

that we understand how much sin is in the eye of the beholder

& he/she who claims to be without such has not eyes either, to see any light -

neither in the post-dusk illumined mist, nor by dawn's early. so - for all who seek to condemn, first - shine your searchlights within & hope to find. * 4/23 - lebuc - enlighted ( hope is borne )