#scorn fluke

[dappermola]

i wish my life was a less immersive experience actually

[ambereddragonfire]

Charles and the Scorn-Fluke, a short comic!

Read the other 9 pages under the readmore:

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [2]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

If I cannot be loved, I must be feared.

Simon Riley doesn’t consider himself a violent man.

Practical, perhaps. Purposeful.

The life he has lived has invariably demanded a brutality from him; a sanguinary ruthlessness, one that he would never foolishly deny he has the capacity for. He had told himself, in his bitter youth, that his barbaric appetite for carnage and control was not innate. Not a sticky black disease webbed in his genetic code, inherited from his cunt of a father, or his cunt of a father before him.

No, instead, his savagery is an incidental asset. An arbitrary talent. Of course, he only uses it when it’s urgently called for, only when no other option presents itself to him.

It was only by chance that in his adolescence he stumbled into the underworld of blood sport and fight clubs, only a fluke he discovered his gift once he started pocketing mounds of cash from countless victories in splattered basements. And it's only happenstance that he found himself a career that necessitates his proficiency, that relentlessly rewards him for it – he can’t help what he's good at, after all.

So, he assures himself - not violent.

Not the kind of violent his father was, anyway. Violent in the sense of haphazard bloodshed, the kind of violence with flagrant collateral. No, Ghost has lines he won’t cross. People he won’t hurt. His fists, his blades, his bullets aren’t hurled indiscriminately; he is scrupulous in his sadism. Not a rabid cur, he doesn’t growl with pointed canines at anybody who intersects his path – he’s well trained. Meticulous. Keeps himself muzzled, tethered on a short leash.

Still, he can’t help froth at the jaws when he’s given the opportunity to play his hand, to boast his brutality. Can’t help but relish in the savage fortuities that his profession provides him, permission to lay waste to the men his mission briefs instruct him to.

Only preys on the evil, he says. Only maims the kind who deserve it.

You, standing tremulously in the open door to the bathroom, you’ll be his prey tonight.

You, as informed by his commanding officers, as described to him by his intel, will deserve it.

You, the very kind of degenerate oligarch filth he scorns so deeply, utterly undeserving of the magnitude of wealth and power you have unjustly acquired without merit - will need it.

Even if you haven’t had an acting hand in in your husband’s machine of depravity, at the very least, you’re a repugnant, iniquitous whore; happy to receive and spend mountains of blood-dripping money for a spread of your honeyed legs, apathetic to its murderous origins, uncaring who had to die to buy you that fucking negligée.  

That sliver of blush pink, so sheer, so short - you might as well not be wearing it at all. A cotton-candy veil, translucent enough to allow the yellow glow emerging from behind you to carve out the shape of your silhouette; the image of a renaissance muse with the contour of your waist, the swell of your hips. The chantilly hem barely grazes the highest point of your thighs, not quite covering the fragile lace of the knickers that conceal your pernicious cunt from him.

It’s almost a sick joke.

As if you’ve been planted there as some test of his fortitude, a trial of his moral compunctions. That voluptuary sway you have on his restraint, just by standing there, with your fingers hesitantly clutching a glossy Beretta, keeping obediently it pointed to the floor; it riles him. Repulses him. Infuriates him.

The pistol makes a dull thud as it tumbles to the dense carpet, your claw still shaky as you hesitantly part your fingers to release it.

“Умная девочка,” he growls, as he flips his night-vision goggles off his eyes, clasping them to his helmet with a click. “Clever girl.”

He makes sure you understand him when he patronises you, putting his near fluency in your language to some use – all the while, he wants you to know where he has come from. To know that he’s not another competitor nor accomplice of your machiavellian prick of a husband. That he’s a foreign arm of justice. Your retribution. Your punishment.

But he’s taken aback, when your syrupy voice glides from your nervous lips, in a language he didn’t expect you to speak.

“What do you want.”

He stalks towards you, slowly, maliciously, lowering his gun and straightening his hulking back to loom even further above and over you. You’ve seen his skull, now, the painted mask that wilfully camouflages his humanity. He can tell, relishing in the widening of your pretty eyes at the sight of it. Your reaper. Your fate.

His objective is to make you cower. To make you question his intentions. To intimidate. To threaten.

Should be easy.

With a vindictive boot he kicks your Beretta, sending it skidding noisily across the marble floor of your ensuite.

“Not a bad accent,” he grumbles at you, mocking, carnivorous eyes swilling the sight of you as he closes in. Exerts every effort to avert his sights from wandering, sinking, from your skittish countenance to the pillows of your oligarch tits, cupped behind their restraining triangles of sheer pink lace.

A disturbed crease furrows in your brow, you stumble onto your back foot as he menaces over you; you’re poised to bolt, light on your little bare feet – but he readies himself for the chase.

“Are you here for Victor?”

Your velvet tone is more austere than he would have anticipated, a cadence of hoarse impatience belying the endearing panic engraved in your features. Catlike eyes flit between his, as though mining into the windows of his mask, puncturing his irises and burrowing within. Maybe you hope to find something in there, in those pinprick black openings, now that they’ve dilated in light of your prying.

He answers with a single shake of his head, a sharp and cocksure suck of his teeth.

“Comrade’s got him already,” he gloats, deeply coarse voice resonating from his throat, an arrogant grin audible in his words while concealed by the thick knit of his balaclava.  

He lets you sit with that news, expecting a tearful exhibition of some histrionic spousal grief, at the very least. But, no, you remain steadfast in your quiet courage. Unnervingly indifferent to the possibility that your husband had been coldly assassinated, a mere few feet from where you had been preening yourself in the ensuite mirror.

Fitting, he thinks, that an avaricious, gold-digging slut like you is entirely unfazed by the sudden and savage death of your malefactor husband. You’re probably glad of it; if Ghost weren’t here to terrorise you, maybe you’d be beaming with glee, knowing his exorbitant wealth would trickle down into your manicured little fingers.

But your husband isn’t dead yet, perhaps to your dismay – instead he has been wrapped up with duct tape, suffocatingly tight, and carted off by the Sergeant with a sack over his head. Probably on their way to exfil. Efficient, that Scottish sergeant. Focused.

Unlike Ghost. He likes to play with his food.

He justifies it, though, knowing a bit of terror will loosen up your lips for later. After all, they have questions for you. Demands of you. And there’s nothing like a squealing, pleading, sobbing wife to pry open the shut jaws of an obstinate prisoner – that is, after other, uglier methods fail to extract the intel he desires. He quietly hopes that it comes to that.

So he prods, head stooping down to callously address you.

“I’m here for you.”

Your cautious yet analytical glare jumps down the length of him, before you surprise him, again – tempting your fate with a temerarious retort.

“I’d sooner let you shoot me. Чертовски уродливый укол.” Fucking ugly prick.

He cocks his brow, sniffing irately as he adjusts his low ready grip on his gun; he raises it just slightly, a malignant push of its vertical barrel into your soft belly. Reminding you of its presence, its size; the length of your entire torso, from mound to forehead. Reiterating its willingness to shred your ripe flesh, your cowed bones with its lead rounds.

“Tempting.” He snarls, as gravelly as cruel.

There’s the tiniest movement in your legs, a minuscule shift in your muscles, your agitated eyes dart past him just briefly – Ghost is seasoned in the hunt. The unconscious change in your breathing pricks his ears, from heavy and quivering to shallow and pointed; a small nibble on the meat inside your lip, a fluttering of your eyelashes as you scan for an escape route. His perception is honed and inhuman, predatory vigilance akin to a stalking wolf, he can smell your next move, it oozes from you like sweat.

So when your weight shifts onto your front foot, prepared to bolt, he lets you.

It’ll tire you out, a healthy chase. It’ll terrify you, and exhilarate him.

He watches insouciantly as you dart to his left, almost condescending in his apathy, as he makes no effort to snag you, no attempt to ensnare your body and trap you with a hook of his heaving arm.

No, that would be too easy. You dash past him, elbowing him in the side of his shielded ribs as you flee.

He listens with perked ears to the sound of your bare feet pattering against the carpet, the silent whisper of your negligée brushing against the doorframe of the suite.

You’ll figure out eventually that there is nowhere for you to run. That there is nobody left to save you. Your options are extremely slim – he made very certain of that. Escape your fortress and brave the Russian midwinter, and endure the agony of your bare flesh freezing black in your pitiful excuse of a nightdress. Or, face him. Which, he concedes, in your eyes may well be a more horrific fate.

He has knowingly been keeping his intentions ambiguous. And a woman that looks like you, in a piece of fucking fabric like that, must be excruciatingly familiar with the kind of intentions most men in this position would have.

No, Ghost isn’t that barbaric, temptation notwithstanding.

He just wants you to believe that he is.

So with heavy feet, he stalks you.

Taking measured steps, he follows the trail of your sweet perfume, your vanity betraying you once again as it lingers in the air behind you, leaving a conspicuous path of jasmine and silk down the extravagant hallway.

His boots tread over the Persian runner that spans the length of the hall. Velvet. Ostentatious.

How much did that cost you?

Disdainful glares observe the hideously gaudy and indubitably priceless paintings that hang on the walls, framed by ornamental moulding, taller than him. Florid. Tasteless.

How much did you spend on those?

How many roubles did you spend on all this garish fucking décor? How many lives did all of it cost?

Can you see the blood on that avant-garde sculpture when you look at it?

Do you see the redness of that blood emulsified in the oil paint of those hideous paintings? Does it stain the wall behind them?

Do you see the coagulated mess when you remove them, to replace them with newer ones?

His jaw clenches involuntarily with the disgust that swallows him. Sucking cold air vexedly through his nose, he slings his rifle over his back, freeing his hands for the catch.

His blood, viscous and dark, thumps in his temples, prickling cold under his skin; like Pavlov’s dog, he salivates at the quiet noises that barely echo from elsewhere in the mansion, the sound of you scuttling away from him. He hears your frightened panting through the walls, soft little squeaks like a hunted mouse.

“Any luck, L.T.?”

The gruff Scottish voice emerges through the crackling speaker of his radio, dampening the thuds of his bestial heart, dispelling the blood red that encroaches his vision. If only slightly.

His thumb goes to press the talk button. He contemplates how honest he will be.

“Having some trouble.”

He makes no effort to speak quietly. He wants you to hear him advance on you. He wants you to wonder hopelessly which corner he might turn, through which door he might check.

“Don't do anything I’ll have to defend you for.”

Ghost grumbles deeply as he exhales. Soap is keenly aware that he is purposefully taking his time with you. You could only ever cause him trouble if he allowed you to, after all.

“D’you think I’m that much of a brute?” Ghost retorts, growl doused in facetiousness.

“Only when you want to be, sir.”

He jerks his head at the echo of a quiet thud, the chime of crystal glasses vibrating on impact.

Dining room.

He’s silent for too long, though. Soap follows up.

“We’re waiting for you, mate. It’s fuckin’ cold. Get a move on, will you?”

“Won’t be long, Sergeant.”

“You'll have plenty o’ time with her when we’ve got ‘er in captivity, eh?”

He hears a stifled squeal escape you, through a single wall. He’s found you. No need to answer Soap – the boy can wait.

With smug nonchalance he strolls the corner, in no rush, he steps through the flamboyant archway into your dining room, vulturous eyes squinting to scan for you in the shadows.

Banquet hall might be a more apt label for the sheer magnitude and glitz of the room, soaring ceilings bordered with ornate floral plaster, moonlight glowing through the towering windows reflecting in diamonds off the polished parquet floor. He imagines you must have hosted and overfed many of Zakhaev’s snivelling accomplices at that very teak dining table, that could easily seat sixteen.

He wonders what their Soviet maws might have snarled at you through their greedy teeth as you bent over that table to top up their chalices. He wonders which cut of your meat they would have liked. He wonders if your husband would have served you up for them if they asked. He wonders if they ever dared to.

Your shadow reveals your whereabouts, dead still and peeking across the floorboards through a second archway, in the wall to the right.

Not very good at hiding, are you?

He sees you flinch at the deep sound of his boot on the wooden floor, closing in on you once again. His ready hands clench into reactionary fists at the sight of you standing motionless in the grey moonlight, arms tight by your side, frozen solid like you might have already ventured out into the subzero night.

Only as he approaches you, does he see what you’re stuck on.

One of your mercenaries.

Ghost thought he had executed him, with a stealthy blade to the throat, a crude slash from jugular to jugular. A ragged incision into his windpipe to ensure his silence as his life drained out of the gaping wound.

But the prick is still alive, by the sounds of it, the unpleasant music of his wet choking; the squelching and popping of him sucking air through the hole in his throat, impeded by the flow of fizzing blood.

It seems to have alarmed you, the sight of the slaughter, sending you into trembling shock as you fail to break your sight away from the twitching corpse.

“Y-you–”

He’s uncertain if you’re addressing him, as you stutter so winsomely, that brave little show you put on for him earlier now crumbling delightfully at the recognition of your fate.

“You’re – why did you…” you stammer, before drawing in a steadying breath. “You’re a fucking animal.”

Ghost releases an ireful sigh as he lurks to stand behind you, tugging a pair of cable-tie cuffs from one of the many pockets on his thoroughly outfitted tactical vest.

With a careful spin on your heel, a floaty dance of your negligée, you face him. Glowering up at him through wet lashes, lumps of mascara stick to your cheeks like tar, flushed from your eyes by a spate of tears.

Now you’re emotional.

That convulsing, blood-drenched cadaver is real enough for you, is it?

It must be easier to compartmentalise, easier to dismiss like flicking spilt salt over your shoulder, when the bloodshed you’re responsible for is mourned miles and miles from you.

No, that carnage can never reach you, can it? Not while you’re in your fucking fortress, lazing on a velveteen chaise lounge, painting your toenails with that glossy coat of cherry red as if it were the very blood your regime spilt.

Well, here it is. The kind of brutality you’ve been sheltered from, safeguarded against, blissfully ignorant of.

You pampered bitch.

He can’t help but be disappointed you’ve given up, you’ve let him gain on you. His muscles, his bones, his teeth, were ready for a hunt, aching for the catch. His carnivorous body had primed him for a breakneck pursuit through the halls of your mansion, and he now felt viciously unsated.

He wanted to hear you shrieking, pleading to be spared, squeaking like a bitten rabbit when he finally caught you in his jaws. He wanted to be the one to stifle your squeals with his gloved hands, gargantuan weight crushing the air from your weak lungs, thwarting your attempts to flee. He wanted to relish in your squirming, fighting, kicking underneath him, and he wanted to watch the flickering light of resistance in your darting eyes be snuffed out by the futility of your escape.

Yet even as you evidently surrender, still quaking with frigid trepidation, that glimmer still glows. A stubborn little flame.

“Are they all dead?” You murmur, defeat weeping through the monotony of your dull voice, hoarse from exertion.

Ghost grants you a solitary nod, a flick of his head. “They are.”

He observes as you sip in a slow, quivering breath, not parting your wary lour from the window of his mask – still reading, still digging, still burrowing.

“Are you taking me somewhere?” You cautiously probe, your sweetly soft tone a likely effort to temper the ferocity of your hunter. “Or are you just here to hurt me?”

A gritty huff of laughter jumps from his chest, muffled by the densely knitted mask that sits over his nose.

With a languid hitherto gesture of his fingers, his head bowed from his towering shoulders, he answers you.

“Both.”

You oblige him, you clever girl. Lifting your timid hands and holding your wrists together for him, you make it easy for him to take you.

He slips the loops of stiff black plastic over each of your pristine hands, tugging the tails though the head and tightly ensnaring your wrists. His dark eyes bounce to your twisting face as you wince, the shrill zip of the teeth jerking through the pawls rings piercingly in the silence of the room – music to him, torment to you.

“Will you make it quick?”

He finds himself dissatisfied by your resignation, your stoic defeat; as though you were so disillusioned, so expectant that this fate awaited you, that you had long girded yourself for it. It deflates him, your capitulation, your impassivity – leaves him high and dry.

From a pocket on his utilitarian trousers he unveils a fabric sack; thick black cotton with a drawstring closure.

“No.” He responds dully, as he tugs the bag over your head, finally veiling your probing eyes. With gloved hands he holds you by the crux of your shoulder, thumb gripping tightly over the base of your throat. He tightens the drawstring of the sack under your jaw, constricting it around your neck. Just snug enough to be uncomfortable, to impede your swallowing, to dampen your breathing.

“Fucking pig.” You seethe through the fabric.

Grasp of you not wavering, he yanks you toward him, you stumble over your bare feet as he cranes his head so it hangs beside yours, mouth by your ear.

“Don’t make me gag you.”

He faintly makes out the sound of you scoffing in silent contempt. “You won’t.”

Standing upright, he tilts his head in bemusement. “Won’t I?”

“You want a challenge, don’t you? That’s why you let me run, isn’t it?”

He’s flummoxed for the moment, speechless, only allowing an inaudible grunt of dispute to escape him. 

“Like a little fight, do you? You sick fuck?”

He’s careful in his reaction. Prudent. Controlled. Refuses to let you believe that you’ve read him like a book.

No, instead, he toys with your conjecture.

Sinister, guttural, he growls,

“Maybe I do.”

[theflagscene]

Wait! How!? When!? Where!? How is White suddenly there!? How did Tee meet White!? You can’t just play upbeat music and have the boys running around to show the passage of time and not explain how the fucking villain of the story got the most adorably innocent lil princess boyfriend on the planet!

Phee, bringing Jin on a date to the same place you and Non liked to go is just weird. I hate people who use the same ‘date’ spots for their new partners that they used with their past partners and no, this isn’t me projecting, why do you ask!? Lmao 😂 shut up it’s still tacky af

‘Friend’ the dreaded word.

What is with the ass slapping and window sex!? I mean, I get that they’re supposed to 18 year old boys, who are by definition perverted, but that was some porn level shit. Also, again, no prep. Phee wasn’t even the one blown so it’s not like they were even using spit for lube, or an already lubed condom. What is this, another ABO show? Just having the dudes slick and sliding all over one another apparently.

Ta’s got a decent ass at least, good for him.

“Did you cheat on my brother?” Nah, pretty sure they broke up when Phee saw him being raw dogged by the teacher and then told him to go die, but whatever helps you sleep at night Tan.

“Don’t fall in love with him.” Yeah, I think it’s too late for that.

Oh, mom is not looking so great. Hmm, something tells me that video isn’t real. Mom knows what’s up, it’s finally hit her, her baby’s dead. The actress did a fantastic job of a mother realizing the truth of the death of her child, it’s a startling realization that does take your legs out from under you. Your mind blanks, you can’t think about anything but the last time you saw them, the last terrible thing you said, all you can do is try not to scream. - That got a little too dark and real, sorry.

news.boc.com Cute BoC, very cute.

How long were Phee and Jin supposed to have been fucking by now? Weeks? Months? Because Jin has gotten very emotionally invested very quickly, which is appropriate for teenagers I suppose.

Two years, so they’d be in their what, second year of uni? Tan has gone full mad scientist I see.

Wait, he called to tell Tan that his mom was dead and it was her funeral that day and he just showed tf up! When his dad thought he was still in England!? Lmao, that’s fricking hilarious. I know, I know, wrong reaction to this scene but I’m weird, what can I say.

Oops, bye bye daddy. No wonder Tan is so fucking nuts! That would drive anyone insane. He literally needs Non to be alive otherwise he’s lost everything for nothing.

Is Tan his own guinea pig for his drugs!? Jesus dude, get some help.

Question, were Phee and Jin fucking during their time at university too? Or are you telling me all this ‘I love him’ crap was from one night of decent dick and a few ‘best friend dates’? Like the math ain’t mathing, establish a better timeline here for me when it comes to their relationship because in the first episode it made it seem like they were screwing around for a really long time, months at the very least. But now it seems like they fucked around a couple times in one 12 hour period, Jin decided that was enough to wanna date, caught Phee in a mood because of the fake news report and then they just… what? Kept fucking? Stopped? Jin carried a torch for him for over two years after one night together? Acted like a scorned lover for years because of a single teenaged tryst? Not to be that guy, but girl, you’re coming off a little desperate. I need a more accurate timeline!!!

“This won’t kill them.” Tan, could you try and be a tad more convincing when saying that?

That was a fantastic look from Tan to end on, ngl. Although someone needs to save baby White!

Next episode, we’re back in the present for the most part it seems. Jin somehow still trusts Phee, Fluke somehow gets the gun back and oh look, he holds White hostage, poor bb did nothing, leave him alone! And Tee clearly does know what happened to both Non and Keng as he runs up onto the roof where his uncle is to see the pair… unconscious? Dead? One of each?

I want some backstory about how White fits into all of this next time as well, that would be great. Although considering how little the timeline of events during grade 12 are fully explained, I doubt knowing more about White would make very much sense at this point.

[dragonthunders01]

Spectember D26: Break a biological record

Some hundreds of millions of years far into the future around 300 million years hence, after the formation of a big supercontinent, one that was not predicted to form, a lot of existing terrestrial and marine fauna look so alien compared to the animals that once man witnessed as the difference is as much as a human being would have to the first terrestrial tetrapod. Phylogenetically speaking many of those animals would be related to something like a crown, a snake, a varanid, a goby, a frog, a bat and so on but they are totally anatomically, morphologically and physiologically far from those, mammals and birds are a fraction of what they were, more mole or reptile like, varanids and frogs suffered of varied radiations and now they have been as much diverse as how dinosaurs and synapsids went through the Mesozoic and Cenozoic, and small fishes survived and radiated from freshwater species over and over from different mass extinctions, and just for matter of convergence they looked something like the modern species man saw, but they aren’t anatomically close to those.

In land mammals are just small and ectothermic creatures, in the ocean however one lineage managed to thrive as large swimmers, is not like any other group however, they have lost their forelimbs, their tails barely help them to swim and often depending of the species they have a rigid fluke or a seahorse-like prehensile tail, they managed to re-evolve some structure similarly to gills from a part of a nose cavity, a result of its proper ontogenic development as they did born not fully developed. These aren’t descendants of placentary mammals, but marsupials, a lineage that stood almost unchanged for many dozens of millions of years in the Americas and took a turn after the major calamities through the last 200 million years that drove their group to become reptile like, adopt peculiar adaptations for their lethargic metabolism and ended up in this stage, these aquatic animals were the last descendants of the opossums.

The Scorn Figoeq are a twisted form of the more seahorse-like herbivorous relatives that lives in the surfaces, living at depths of 4000 to 5000 meters under the surface is by far the deepest species of tetrapod that has ever lived, the deepest mammal to have diver so low under the ocean. It adopted the lifestyle of the already gone anglerfishes as well some other deep-water fishes, is among the last of an experimental lineage of the Figoeqs (Derivation of Figoeqqus or "shaped like horse") that tried to become pelagic planktonic feeders which ended up becoming extinct in the last 50 million years, remaining as a relic of that group. With 25 cm long, anything that could be considered mammal like only is exposed by looking at the embryo of this species as it starts with the basics of mammal anatomy, but reaching adulthood they resemble a mix of a jelly and a bizarre abyssal fish, with their short body, large head with a deep gelatinous cover that protects part of its head and eyes that now grow inside the flesh, with long dorsal spines that helps it to stabilize while swimming, their long hind flippers that look more like ray fins, and the tail that has grow a fluke to push it slowly across the darkness of the abyss.

[lizardsfromspace]

Warner Bros et al deleting shows sucks but I'm starting to see people overcorrect by praising the era pre-streaming and. The time pre-internet/DVD Netflix was far, far worse for shows just vanishing off the face of the Earth?

When something was cancelled it was just gone. No home media, no streams obviously, no syndication (~100 episodes was the bar). There are tons of short-lived shows from the 50s to the early 00s that are, at best, collecting dust in a vault and at worst erased bc they didn't have enough commercial value to be rereleased. That's to say nothing of hit shows that were vaulted bc they didn't draw enough numbers in syndication; there's plenty of shows that made it past 100 episodes, only to be ditched quickly by syndicators. Unreleased shows, too, are a long standing phenomenon

(shows under 100 could fluke their way into syndication. The original Star Trek was 21 episodes shy and was only syndicated bc one chain of local stations bought the rights and it proved unexpectedly popular - if that choice wasn't made, Star Trek is a cult curiosity that eventually creeps onto DVD from Shout! Factory in like 2018)

Really, this isn't a new state of affairs but a return to the old one. Lionizing the Three Networks era's media availability is a weird choice since. It basically is the Three Networks era reborn, but with less of a chance that you'll literally never see something again once it's over, depending on how strong your antivirus is

It's like Blockbuster nostalgia. Some companies being shitty shouldn't cause you to scorn what is still, by any standard, the most freely available era for art in the history of mankind and lionize the time before it

[minubell]

Haha, how does Celebrimbor eventually get back to Eregion? Do people start mysteriously dying? Does Galadriel show up with an army (and, resigned to her fate, a cat carrier)? Or does Numenor just, like, give up, the rings were clearly a fluke, you are a terrible smith and your cat is not normal.

Celebrimbor's forging of the Rings of Power leaves this bitter feeling in the mouths of Men. It's a catalyst for the King's Men to come into power naturally rather than seize it-at the time that Ar-Pharazon sets into motion his plan to capture the Ring Maker, the number of Faithful in Numenor is shockingly small. It's not even about persecution at that point, it's just hard to maintain a belief in the nobility of elves when you have so clearly been scored.

But that changes with Celebrimbor.

Because Celebrimbor is, despite the fact he has been kidnapped and being held here against his will, a good person. It's hard to keep this resentment towards the elves when Celebrimbor is so polite and smiles and does not look down his nose as Men. It takes time but Men can feel his frustration towards his lack of progress and the fact he is genuinely trying to help them. This narrative that elves have forgotten about Men is hard to maintain when Celebrimbor clearly cares so much.

(Too much. Men have to start encouraging him to take a moment, to rest. There are bags under his eyes again, and Men aren't sure how much sleep Elves need to live but NONE is clearly not the answer.)

After a hundred years or so, they probably would have decided to release him naturally. As much as the apparent scorning of Men by the Elves made Numenor bitter, seeing Celebrimbor here as a prisoner also begins to feel... wrong to the Numenoreans. The Faithful begin to see a reemergence, and in time they would have petitioned their new ruler to return Celebrimbor to his lands.

That would be the case, if not for Sauron and his grudges. Ar-Pharazon may have been permitted to peacefully acquire the crown in this universe, but it returns to the rightful hands of Tar-Miriel covered in blood.

[ahmedmootaz]

Personally, I quite dislike the Dante = X/Ayin theory, in part because of how what (admittedly little) we've seen of their past self acts completely different from him and also because it would make the world seem a lot smaller, yknow?

But I would very much like to see him again, this time talking through the light in a similar way to Carmen. He's a man who spent so much of his time devoting himself to some else's dream, what would he think of what it's become, of what *she's* become during all this time?

With the knowledge gained through his time as X, as well as his insights towards his own self from the other A's as well as his guilt from his actions, I feel as if he's more poised towards becoming a guiding light to others, an alternative from Carmen's overwhelming acceptance of one's current self. Especially as Dante has shown a lack of self esteem and prioritises others over themselves, I think it would do them some good to have a conversation or two with Ayin. With some of their abilities seemingly having a connection with the light (like how they can tell monsters, distortions and abnormalities apart as well as being able to hear the voices of distortions) I do think it's a possibility in the future of Limbus' story - though farther from where we are now.

In the Divine Comedia, there is a part wherein Dante becomes aligned with God's love, and given how A and C are basically God in the light, I believe that at one point or another wherein their goals may align, fighting together for or against something or other.

Sorry for rambling, but to summarise: I feel as if Ayin as a character is one better suited to act as a guiding hand in Limbus rather than going through it all as another blank slate. His current status as one in the light allows for him to act as more of a mentor, which I believe suits him better.

Dear Anonymous,

Yeah, I agree that bringing Ayin back through the same 'twist' of LC would be a tad lame, which is why I do think it would be a much, much better way to say that he's in the Light, but at the same time, part of me wonders if his character can be done justice like that.

I mean, we knew enough about Carmen to realise that she's definitely changed from her pre-Light self, but I simply don't feel we've gotten enough of Ayin on screen, and given how Carmen gets a lot more spotlight than he ever does and yet so far in Limbus her presence, while tangible for sure, is quite muted...Eh, I dunno. It could be the Ayin fan within me clamouring for him to get something more than the 15 minutes of screen time the PMverse gives him so far.

Although part of me does think he'd interact with Dante one way or another...maybe with him being the 'funny voice only the main character can hear' trope to some extent. After all, we know Carmen's voice in the Light is a lot more...eldritch, in a way, referring to her victims and Abnormalities as 'children' and pushing people to Distort...it would be funny if Ayin was just very normal, snarky, and wholly unsupportive in comparison.

-"And there it goes. Your chance to get a Golden Bough. You lost it to a circus of madmen and a woman old enough to be your granny."

="Listen man I'm trying here okay?!"

-"Yeah, guess what, I also tried in life and it didn't stop people from trying to tear me a new one. Man up and take the scorn like you're meant to."

="I got some Golden Boughs before you showed up and started talking in my head, you know?!"

-"Yes, and now I'm wondering if those were flukes."

="Why are you like this?"

-"Do you want an alphabetical list or a numerical one?"

Hehe, thank you for sharing your thoughts, Anon! Until next time, be well, take care, and see ya'!

[feivelynart]

Dawn Fluke for Sunless Skies Mod

ingame test, It will get different attacks than Scorn Fluke for release

[odd-kid-42]

POV for the writing meme!

I did a random number generator and got Scorn Joy, Scorn Touch, Scorn Tragedy, my AU that remains a one-shot instead of a multichapter fic about the dads if they were evil rulers in different regions of Faerune and had their lost sons stolen.

This is probably cheating, but the Henry perspective has been written for a while now and will not likely see publishing otherwise:

(Context: Ron inherited Castle Ravenloft via patriciding Willy as published. This is background for how King Hen of the Oaks from roughly seven years prior got his heirs.)

The trees told him of their presence long before he saw them. The same child twice, clinging together and faces kaleidoscopic between sorrow, fear, and anger depending on where they turned their heads as they walked through his land.

They were young, small, barefoot— the brown of their shirts a mixture of poor fabric and poor upkeep. The brown of their skin meaning they were farmersons— too much sunlight.

“Why do you come from the woods?” Hen asked as he stopped in front of them. He received the startlement of appearing without notice but their expressions barely shifted from before he stepped forward. They only stutter-stepped to a stop.

Their eyes met like flinting stones. One spoke, “Walking.” with the other following, “Trees.” Eye contact again. An adjustment to interweave fingers tighter.

“What of your parents? Family?”

A hand was raised to one’s chest, and the boy smiled at his mirror following. They did not speak or look at him.

One, the one closest to sorrow, hugged his brother and tucked his face into his brother’s shoulder. The second met Hen’s eyes, and Hen took in, with the mystical element of the identical twins interrupted, how truly young and exhausted they were. “Father left us.”

Hen felt that they both understood the greater meaning of the action. “How long ago?”

The second closed his eyes, tired, before opening them. The gaze was steady underneath exhaustion. “Two nights. Almost night when he took us into the forest with eyes covered. Tied us to a tree.” Hen could see anger kindled. It was a familiar type of anger. “We escaped. We waited for him. We walked when Brother grew hungry.”

The boy tried to maintain the steady glare, but within several seconds, his eyes had closed again. He rested his chin on his brother’s head.

“Father called Brother a changeling,” the other one spoke muffled against his brother’s shirt.

“What of your mother?” Hen Ry’ said doubtful, of which part and towards whom he couldn’t tell. Surely the boys’ mother would know which boy was which. Who had been born first, who was the spare to be rid of.

Both blinked into focus; a hand tightened in the other’s grip. The one who had been speaking less smiled shyly. “Mother never told who was firstborn. She died.”

Hen Ry’ did not move as he considered the situation. The boy’s eyes closed and head was beginning to sag with exhaustion as they waited. The second sat down and pulled the first down with him. The one had been speaking more gave a weak glare as his brother buried his head into his shoulder to give in to exhaustion. He rested his head against his brother’s shoulder, and their fingers held onto the other’s shirt as they fell asleep upright against each other, adjusting and heads nodding until they had found comfortable positions in the lean and still except for the rise of their breaths.

Hen Ry’ glanced back to check if anyone watched. None were. He cast Detect Magic and found no difference between them. They were simply twin boys, a fluke of nature— a cell that had split in two threatening their existence.

Amongst the quiet of their sleeping breaths and silent oaks, it began to snow.

Hen Ry’Oak stood watching the two young boys cling to each other in their sleep, their faces relaxed, and something deep ached within him. Snowflakes fell on their peasant-long brown hair and remained, a gentle promise of the weather to make the abandoned twins disappear.

He didn’t want them to disappear. He was king. Entering his land, they were his.

Hen approached and squatted down before realizing what he was doing— how he should call someone to touch the dirty foundlings.

He gently eased a boy against each shoulder and lifted. He found them heavy but not as heavy as they should be. One mumbled, “Father.” against his shoulder, and Hen Ry’ froze. The boy pressed his face into his neck, and it was cold. He held the half-frozen children within his winter robes tighter in fear of what he was accepting.

Entering the proximity of the village, the outer guards offered to take them from him, but he deferred one to alert the inner tower that he wished his bedroom heated, bath drawn, and no one to disturb him.

He found the tower empty according to his command, raised the elevator up to the top floor, and entered his warm bedchambers. After a pause of consideration, he eased the boys onto the bed.

One of them blinked awake— Hen could not tell whether the one who had threatened or one who had called him father— and looked at him. Hen Ry’Oak straightened but glanced away beneath the lost stare. “You may spend the night. Your brother and you.”

He glanced back and watched the young boy blink heavily at him with true exhaustion. The boy reached for his still-sleeping brother’s hand and held it as he fell back into sleep.

Hen watched the unconscious gravity of the two boys to each other. Momentarily, Bear ‘Ry’s sins were expanded to having never conceived a second son for him a brother. He dismissed the childish thought, going towards the drawn bath and filling a bowl with the water. He would have had to kill the brother with his father.

He set the bowl by the bedside and dipped a cloth into the water and strained it. He gently brushed the hair out of the closest boy— the one who had awoken briefly— and wiped the cloth over his head. The boy frowned in his sleep and mumbled, but Hen shushed him gently— gentler than his father shushed him and he felt himself treading on new ground. He was watching himself with interest in the sensation— what being gentle towards these boys felt like.

“Intruders dealt with masterfully, sir!” Cana Ry’ chirped. She saluted with the sudden, surprised heat of his glare at being seen.

“I thought I said I wished to go uninterrupted.” He wrestled the anger beneath the surface. His father’s voice mocked him as juvenile to show emotion.

Cana Ry’Oak cast her eyes downward, fingertips on her shoulder blades to show loyalty on the surface. “I assumed I was the exception, sir!” Her smile remained, her own shield from displaying emotions and thoughts. Hen Ry’ hated her again for the simple nature, which was either genuine or a masterful performance.

She looked up at his bed where the two small boys slept. In the several seconds of silence, her expression softened. She looked at him and said quietly, like reverence, “Are these the new princes then, sir?”

His eyes flickered over, away from her gaze, to the two sunbrowned boys. They were sleeping deep and peaceful in his bed. His stomach rolled uncomfortably. He didn’t love them, yet.

He thought of carrying them through falling snow and his robe being clung onto as he held onto them.

He continued to watch them sleep peacefully, their small bodies warming after an alleged two days spent trekking through the woods, holding each other’s hand.

He needed to do something with them. The effort to live deserved something, was something useful to his kingdom. Princedom was impossible for two whelps. He was meant to access concubines for hiers though he understood the threats to the method and his own unwillingness.

“They would not be accepted if they were,” Hen Ry’ mused. “Better to turn them over to be raised by guards.”

Cana Ry’ made the start of a noise like she was going to speak but stopped herself. At his attention she composed herself unsmiling. “May I offer advice, sir?”

Hen Ry’Oak weighed the motive for providing advice— attempting to establish a higher position for herself as an adviser, which identified he could ignore— and the meaning if he took the advice— he and she would always know she had given it. He resisted the idea of anything being held over his head. His predecessor lived with the same fear. Meaning came from that which he assigned meaningful.

Hen Ry’ answered, “You may proceed.”

Cana Ry’ bowed her head. She focused back on the boys and seemed more collected. “Your people will accept the two as princes because you are King Hen Ry’Oak of Oakvale.” Her eyes landed on him steadily. “Sir.”

[sokkas-first-fangirl]

I absolutely love “You Used To Tell Me I Was Brave”! It’s such an interesting take on the Link/Zelda role reversal AU. Out of curiosity, what do you think the Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity story would be like in this AU? Would Link be the one who invented Terrako?

Thanks so much! 💕

I’ve got a whole plan regarding Age of Calamity. Doubt I’ll ever write it, but I know how I’d want it to go

Buckle in, lads, this is gonna get long

So, first things first, the battle at Hyrule Field. Nothing really changes there; Zelda kills some moblins and catches Queen Lianna’s attention. Finds Terrako, meets Impa, they kick ass together

The only real change would be dialogue from the soldiers. There’s whispers against Queen Lianna, wondering why she’s not using her golden power to help them. She’s trained in combat and highly skilled. Her own mother used to join the knights and soldiers, and fight by their side. Hylia’s blessing could vanquish the monsters so quickly. So why is the queen only watching from the walls?

When Impa and Zelda find Link, he recognises Terrako. His father, the late King Oberon, created him when Link was 5. Since Link was such a sickly child, often stuck in bed, Oberon made Terrako so Link wouldn’t be alone. Terrako acted as a friend/nanny/walking music box. But Queen Lianna took Terrako when Link was 9, shortly after Oberon’s death. Lianna claimed she had “that nuisance” destroyed. So how is Terrako here?

No one knew that King Oberon gave Terrako the ability to fight. No one knew they were meant to double as Link’s guard. Even Oberon didn’t know Terrako could time travel- that part was a genuine fluke (though Oberon would be pretty smug he managed such a thing by accident)

Link fully expects Lianna to destroy Terrako again (if indeed she ever did in the first place), but when Lianna hears Terrako has information on the Calamity, she instructs Link to bring “that thing” to Purah and Robbie.

On the way to the lab, when the group is attacked by a “rogue” Guardian, both Zelda and Link use themselves as bait to lure the Guardian into range for their attack. Impa despairs of them both. She’s stuck with TWO reckless gremlins now

The response to Terrako’s images of the Calamity is mostly confusion. After all, Lianna and Princess Lia have their powers. Does this information mean they don’t find Hylia’s Chosen knight on time? Did they not recruit pilots for the Divine Beasts? What exactly went wrong?

When it comes to recruiting the pilots, Mipha and Zelda immediately click. Total besties. These two get along like a house on fire. Mipha is incredibly protective of Link and Zelda notices how quiet and stiff Mipha gets when Queen Lianna and Princess Lia are brought up.

Daruk takes one look at all these teenagers and says “Guess I’m a dad now.” (Zelda is horrified when Link actually eats a rock roast. Highness, please, she’s meant to be guarding you. Don’t break your teeth on her watch.)

Revali’s pride is admittedly ruffled that the scorned prince is sent to recruit him. The powerless prince, the “useless” twin that the royal court openly ignores? It irks him. But, more than anything, he’s pissed that Zelda fought him to a standstill and everyone saw it. And Zelda isn’t Link- she sasses him back and returns his insults and has a temper of her own.

As for recruiting Urbosa, the Yiga still infiltrate Gerudo Town and Kohga disguises himself as Urbosa…but the Yiga are pissed that Link is here. They were hoping to get Princess Lia, maybe even Queen Lianna herself. The queen sent the useless one? You’ve gotta be kidding! Kohga feels cheated, but his anger makes him sloppy. Urbosa nearly kills him before Sooga rescues him.

Urbosa gladly accepts the role of pilot, but Zelda notices that Urbosa addresses Link directly, no mention of the Queen; “You are precious to me, and you need my help. I cannot refuse.” It interests Zelda, but also confuses her a little. After all, Link’s not a Champion. No magic powers. He’s meant to help the Sheikah. But Zelda’s noticing, more and more, that regular soldiers and peasants love Link, even if the court doesn’t. And now Lady Urbosa herself says she’ll join to help Link. It gets Zelda thinking

Of course Queen Lianna doesn’t thank Link for doing all the work. Neither does Princess Lia. Zelda comes across a difficult exchange: Queen Lianna confiscating a Sheikah relic from Link. It’s the first relic he ever found on his own, no help from the researchers. Link couldn’t figure out what it was, and neither could the Sheikah. Still, the researchers let Link keep it. It’s a unique relic; nothing resembling it has been found since. The Queen scolds Link for focusing on a “dead end” and orders him to go to the Spring of Courage and “make himself useful” by praying for their success.

Zelda’s pissed. The Queen orders Link to help with research and then confiscates his relic?? She calls him useless but she’s sent him all over Hyrule to recruit the pilots??? What the actual hell???

Zelda goes and beats up many, many knights in training. So many, in fact, that people begin to whisper about her abilities.

Just in time for the Master Sword to enter the plot! The main difference here is that Zelda is…Zelda. A girl. Everyone was expecting a boy. Once Astor flees, Zelda meekly asks if she should put the sword back for the “real” hero. The Deku Tree reassures her that she is the real hero; she’s been chosen, the first Heroine in a long line of Heroes. The Deku Tree then addresses Link, telling him he has more power than he knows.

Not much changes until the Calamity hits. We see a few moments of tension between Lia and Link. We see Rhoam pressuring Zelda to uphold a strong and fearless image. We see Zelda and Link grow closer and a few flirty remarks from Zelda. We see commoners getting help from Link and how quiet they get when the Queen rides by. We get some bonding moments between the Champions.

Then we have the Calamity. Link, Zelda and Impa race through the castle, fighting hordes of monsters. A surprise comes in the form of Crown Princess Lia. She speaks directly to Zelda; “Your orders are to protect my brother, do you understand?”

Lia seemingly dies as the trio flee. No one has seen Queen Lianna. Once they’re hiding in a safe spot, Link begins to panic. The Divine Beasts aren’t firing at Ganon. His sister just sacrificed herself and there’s no sign of his mother’s magic. How can Zelda possibly fight Ganon alone? It’s only made worse by Terrako’s images of the Divine Beasts being possessed by Ganon, just like the Guardians. Link has a full blown panic attack and Terrako begins to play an old lullaby. Light shoots from him, up into the sky. As far as the trio can tell, the lights didn’t do anything…but it helps calm Link down. Impa rallies Link and Zelda, reassuring them that, so long as they work together, they can do anything. They can save their friends. They can save Hyrule.

Of course, the “future gang” has arrived to help! Link, Zelda and Impa help save the Champions and team up with Zelda’s father, Captain Rhoam to free Akkala Citadel. Rhoam and Zelda have a heart to heart; he expresses his concerns for her safety, apologises for pressuring her since she drew the sword and tells Zelda he has complete faith in her.

Revali and Teba find and save Tulin in the Lost Woods. Revali accidentally reveals he’s got a major soft spot for kids. Urbosa and Riju fight off Yiga. Riju learns that Urbosa and Queen Lianna used to be friends, but Lianna’s treatment of Link and growing arrogance destroyed their friendship. Sidon and Mipha save Gopongo village (and Sidon bonds with his tiny self). Yunobo and Daruk save Kakariko village from monsters.

Then Fort Hateno. During the battle, Link’s sword is shattered by a Guardian. While the Sheikah slate is useful, it’s not going to keep him safe during a fight of this size. When the Blights and Astor appear, Zelda orders Impa to take Link and run. But Link runs after Zelda. As the Blights prepare to strike, Link pushes Zelda behind him and the impossible happens: light explodes from him, the Triforce appears on his hand, and the Blights and all nearby Guardians are destroyed.

Link just unlocked Hylia’s golden power. Everyone is stunned. Link’s a boy. This shouldn’t be possible. But he’s done it. The tides of battle turn in their favour; Link wields the power like he was born for it, like he’s always had it. They secure Fort Hateno and, as the sun rises, Link kisses Zelda. (Impa says that Revali owes her 20 rupees.)

It’s a big character development moment for Link: he actually gives a speech, in front of hundreds of people, using his voice loud and clear for everyone to hear. He still glows, casting a further sense of awe on the scene. Kohga joins the ranks, seeking revenge for his slaughtered friends, especially Sooga. He finally understands that Ganon will not reshape the world or spare the Yiga.

The gang receive word from one of Urbosa’s soldiers; Urbosa is at the Great Plateau, trying to save Hylian soldiers who were trapped there. With the Sheikah towers up and running once more, the gang races to give Urbosa back-up. They’re in for a shock; at the end of the battle, they find Princess Lia outside the Temple of Time. The royal twins embrace and Lia apologises again and again for how she ignored Link for so long. She sincerely thanks Zelda for protecting him. Inside the Temple, they find Queen Lianna. She’s still badly injured from Ganon; malice burns on her arms, legs and torso and a badly broken arm. It turns out the relic she confiscated from Link was an Ancient Shield, which protected her from a Guardian blast as she tried to hold Ganon back. When she tries to go to Link, he pushes right past her, asking where Urbosa is. When Urbosa comes in, Link runs right to her, and Urbosa keeps him close to her. Queen Lianna seems stunned, maybe even a little jealous.

During the final battle, Terrako is still possessed, forcing Zelda to fight them. Ganon kills Astor. When it comes to facing Ganon, Queen Lianna is too injured. Princess Lia, to everyone’s surprise, urges Link to go with Zelda to the Sanctum. She’ll help hold the monsters off as the blood moon rises.

Together, Link and Zelda defeat Ganon with their friends cheering them on.

The future gang has to go home and there’s many tearful farewells. The Champions (with surprising help from Kohga) work together to restore Terrako. Queen Lianna tries to apologise to Link, but he doesn’t forgive her. After years of verbal abuse and neglect, with his growing confidence he finally has the strength to stand up to her. Zelda is not surprised, though many courtiers are. They expected that, since Link forgave Princess Lia that everyone would be forgiven.

Queen Lianna, finally seeing things as they are, begins to realise how much the commoners of Hyrule dislike her, and how it’s the same for many knights and soldiers. She’s been harsh, passing unfair laws, raising taxes, holding herself so above everyone and looking down on everyone and everything that didn’t fit her world view. She’s forced to see that, during all those years she called Link useless, he was helping people and they love him. They don’t love her. They don’t even love Lia, not yet.

Lianna is left sitting on her throne, wondering what the future holds.

Princess Lia joins the Champions for bonding activities and goes into Castle Town with Link to help with repairs. Finally a real part of the team she was expected to lead, finally getting to know her people and finally bonding with her twin.

Terrako is restored and the Champions celebrate. Link and Zelda finally go on a real date- or at least their idea of one. Anyone who doesn’t know them expected a fancy dinner or something. Their friends know Link and Zelda won’t do something so simple. The duo takes a weekend trip around Central Hyrule, exploring the area, visiting other towns and villages and racing their horses.

Things aren’t perfect. Hyrule needs to recover from the Calamity. Queen Lianna, though she’s thoroughly been humbled, is still an unpopular ruler with the masses. Link still has years of abuse and neglect to recover from. Urbosa and Mipha both offer to let him stay with them for a while, to get a break from his mother. When Link points out he’s not allowed in Gerudo Town, Urbosa bluntly states she’s willing to make him an exception to the rule if it means keeping him safe.

The future has been drastically changed. All everyone can do now is work towards a better future and hope things go well.

[dappermola]

thinking its probably a bad sign that the suicide calculations have shifted from "i could never do that to my friends" to "all my friends are so strong but i know damn well my mom has never been joking when she says she'd kill herself without me"

[boundinparchment]

Deus In Absentia - X [END]

The first time was a coincidence. The second time was a fluke. But the third time? You were starting to think it was fate. Or, more likely, a calculated trap.

Within a few days’ time, the world as you knew it was thrown into chaos.

Celestia wanted its control over Teyvat and the Sustainer would do anything to keep it.  Even if it meant the deaths of every single living creature that stood in their path.

At first, you kept close to Dottore’s side, using your Delusion to the best of your ability.  There hadn’t been time to properly learn but you took his warning to heart: use it too often, too quickly, especially without the mask to regulate exposure to the Mist Grass, and you would burn out before the battle was over.  You held your own and even got a few good shots in that gave the Harbinger a window of opportunity.  Everything seemed to be going according to the battle strategy set by Pierro and the Tsaritsa.

You weren’t thrilled to have the Traveler on your side, standing with the rest of the Fatui against Celestia.  You were even less enthused to see that there were a fair number of Abyss creatures standing alongside the skirmishers and sharpshooters defending their homeland.

But it had to be done.

The Panopticon wouldn’t topple without a united front.

And then, at some point, the tides shifted.  Other Harbingers fell.  When a messenger brought news that the last line of defense before the Tsaritsa was broken, a difficult choice was laid at the feet of the scientist whose very technology was giving them a fighting chance.

You knew his mind was made up when he looked at you, when he hesitated for a fraction of a second, before he withdrew his Ruin machines and set orders for the throne room.  With an ungloved hand to your wind burnt cheek and a stoic expression, he ordered you to stay behind. 

“But—”

“It is unlikely the route here will be of any use now.  Nothing but stragglers will remain.  You will be safe here.”

Since when had safety mattered to begin with, you wanted to scream.  The man who took it upon himself to learn the technology of a long-lost civilization, to make augmented humans, was citing safety as a priority?

Your eyes burned with fury and scorn but you were too tired for anything close to tears.  Tears were useless here.

“And what of your safety, Lord Harbinger?”

“I am more than mere flesh, Archivist.  I’ll be fine.  Celestia will fall.  And it will be my greatest accomplishment.”

He left you with enough resources, manpower, and machinery, and placed command of them into your hands.  You, who, before this crucial time, had never touched a Delusion; you, who only knew the concept of war, its price and its consequences, in black and white text.

Hours later, as high evening crested and the Celestial Nail hovered overhead, you could still feel the warmth from his hand against your cheek.  Shifts rotated and from incoming intelligence reports, it was clear the tides had changed and not for the better.  One Nail already struck an important grain silo and the largest farm that served the main city.  Without another source, stores would be depleted long before winter was out.  A Sneznhayan winter was hard enough as it was.  You did your best but it was impossible to ignore the ghosts of flat expressions behind masks and the lack of conviction against the stragglers that dared to come this way.  Morale was shit.  Dottore would have ruled with fear but that wouldn’t have been all that effective, either.

So instead, you tried to get their stories.  You recorded what you could, as was your duty.  Those fighting around you were people fighting for a cause they believed in, regardless of anything else.  Their words deserved to be remembered, you rationalized, even if you were the last person to ever hear them.

_______________________

By the next evening, you and your remaining men and machines were relocated to the grand foyer to defend the throne room.  You found yourself fighting alongside an Abyss Herald and a Knight of Favonius and tried not to think about how perfectly in sync you were with the Harbinger now probably sealed inside the room you were set to defend.  It felt off to be pairing attack after attack with two individuals who fought so differently than the Fatui.  Although…the way Childe used his blades was remarkably similar to the Herald…

For a time, the enemy forces halted.  It felt as you imagined it might sitting in the eye of the storm while stuck at sea, the waves finally calm and the rain passing with a momentary respite of sunlight and warmth.

Temporary.

Fleeting.

The blitz was over before you truly knew what was happening.  A burst of cubes, pulsating in a color that would make hellfire envious, unrelenting and overwhelming.  You recalled a figure with white hair floating through the palace, hands glowing crimson, a flowing dress made of blood-red stars billowing behind her.  

Asmoday.  Sustainer of Heavenly Principles.

Her powers heeded her with a mere flick of a wrist.  Everything, everyone, consumed in the name of control, of keeping the pawns on the chess board.

You caught a glimpse of the doors to the throne room breaking open before you, too, were swallowed and contained.

_______________________

Days later, when the Veil fell and the stars were bright and vibrant, you were one of the first to awake and investigate.

Actually, when you took a count, you were one of the first and only ones alive.

The throne room was devastated, the Sustainer impaled on a large ice crystal.  The Tsaritsa survived, her Archon markings like cracks in the ice caps to the far north, fractures crawling up her arms and neck.  By her side, the Traveler, cradling their long-lost sibling.  The twins were the only ones with anything close to a smile on their faces.  Envy churned deep in your gut.  How nice it must be to see the one they cared for, safe…alive…

Nearby, Pierro, bruised and bloodied, along with Columbina, a limp Arlecchino in her lap.  You spotted familiar boots or scarves or weapons, all unmoving.  

You looked at the Tsaritsa again, unable to keep the desperation at bay, a silent plea on your face.   

Her silence spoke every word she couldn’t.  The Sustainer was gone, Celestia had fallen.  Sacrifices were made.

Dazed, you looked around, your eyes unable to focus as you took in rubble, shattered windows, singed banners.  The once-vaulted ceiling covered in a fresco was gone, the brilliant and real stars above sharing space with a dusting of snow.  Nearby, the Little Dove began singing, her voice weak but her will resolute.  It took you a moment to realize that the Ruin Guard nearby was not Sandrone’s, but another’s…

Your feet moved of their own accord, steps heavy.  Pain darted through your legs with every step but you needed to know, needed to…

As you drew closer, you caught sight of a familiar mask, knocked off.  Numbly, you picked it up, and finally reached the collapsed Ruin Guard.  Near it, a familiar white shoe…and then long swatches of gray, and then pink, and then…

The figure coughed and you almost dropped the mask in your hands from the jolt of shock.  You stumbled forward to catch it and crimson eyes, glazed over and unfocused in their moments, settled on you.  

No, no, no, no…

Your body screamed in protest as you fell to your knees near the figure, throat squeezing in agony.  

“See?  I was right.  You’re safe.”

Even at the precipice of life, about to fall over into the leylines, he needed to have the last word.  

He made no attempt to move, other than his head and one arm to raise a hand to lay on you, and it wasn’t until you looked again that you understood why .

Flashes of silver, splashed with blood, caught your eye over and over.  Reinforced joints, circuitry alongside muscle, parts easily replaced, enhanced.  He’d managed to keep it from you all this time but then again, barring the one moment before the War, you never really asked, did you?

But if so much of his body was machinery, didn’t that mean…

Through tears, you realized that no, that wasn’t going to be an option.  The connections were too delicate, important pieces looked to be all but obliterated.  He couldn’t be moved and no one was even fucking alive to be able to…

“And we achieved perfection, Archivist.  We are free.”

Dottore’s gaze fell from your face and up to the sky.  You’d seen pure wonder on his face once, and only once, and you marveled not at the stars above, but the softness that came over him.  You expected it to fade but instead, the hand on your lap fell limp, powerless and without a live nervous system.  

Your screams pierced through the last notes of Columbina’s song as pain swallowed you whole again.

_______________________

The Age of Archons had passed.  And with it, the shackles of the floating island in the sky.  Despite the stars and clouds and possibilities, it felt…empty.  Worthless.  

You were given right and authority over Haeresys by the Tsartisa’s authority.  You didn’t know what to do with the space, not when it felt as if your blood was made of ice and you wondered if maybe, maybe , you should just…

But every time those thoughts occurred, your hands were busy again and you were distracted just long enough to forget them.  The Palace and the surrounding town needed to be rebuilt, leadership re-established, the people taken care of (especially the children, barefoot and without a family to care for them).  You recorded the sights and the people but what good was collecting such stories if they were told?  Stories existed to be told…it was why you ended up owning a bookstore to begin with…

That felt like another life.  In a way, it was.

Eventually, the pain dulled into a manageable ache.  It was never easier but it was better.  You held storytime for the little ones previously taken under Arl’s wings, the orphans left behind, when they visited the Palace, taught literacy, did your best to match a child to a book like you used to.  That was difficult now, with all of the destruction and damage.

One morning, you finally brought yourself to brave the part of Haeresys you’d been avoiding: Dottore’s private study.  A layer of dust had accumulated, casting everything in a duller version of itself.  You weren’t sure where to begin.  Did you clean first?  Did you take the papers and books and other paraphernalia that you would need for a more accurate picture?  What of the vials, their experiments long run their course, and their results never quantified?

He’d never told you what to do if this happened.  The bastard expected to live and he’d like you with…

Your eyes scanned the room again and froze as they fell upon a figure with red eyes in the darkened corner of the room.  Power surged through your body as you called upon your Delusion, never far from your side now (and the mask awarded the privacy to hide puffy eyes), but you halted when they stepped into the stream of light cast by the glowing sky outside.  And then they kept going, walking towards you, and you realized your eyes weren’t deceiving you.  Same shoes, same clothes, same mask , hair, earring…

“That’s close enough,” you bit out, holding out a hand, elemental power curbed and waiting to be released.

“Are you the Archivist?”

Archons above, even the voice was the same.

“I don’t understand,” you said at last.  “You’re dead .”

The figure you dubbed Dottore-Not-Dottore frowned, made a few hesitant hand gestures as he opened and closed his mouth to speak, and then held up a finger.  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter, sealed, and then held it out to you.

“I was given this as way of explanation and told to give it to one called the Archivist.  Is that you?”

From here, you could just make out the familiar handwriting, your name scribbled across the envelope.  Not Archivist.  You .

“Yes.”

You took the letter and broke the seal.  The sheets themselves were hefty, meticulously detailed.  A will in all but name.

So he had anticipated this outcome.

When you were finished, you looked again at Dottore-Not-Dottore, and then reached up and unclasped your mask to reveal your face.

“So you’re…what did he call it, a Segment?” you posed.  “You are him but not him?”

“I am a part of him from the Prime of his life, augmented to have my own will, my own power, my own thoughts.  He purged the rest of us but left me here.  Unlike the others, I am…what did he call it…, ah, ‘imperfect’.”

That didn’t make sense.  He would have left perfection behind, or as close to it as he could get.

“Imperfect in the sense that I…am probably the closest thing left to the person he might have been.”

He removed the mask, unveiling the familiar scars you adored so much.  But his teeth were dull, normal, and you didn’t recognize a hint of predatory fascination.  Instead, he seemed…earnest, wanting nothing more than to be useful, to do something, to explore what the world had to offer.  A man yet unbroken by the world.

You very well couldn’t just leave him here.

“Let’s go see the Tsaritsa,” you said at last, sliding your mask back on.  “She could use a bit of good news.”

_______________________

Warmth in Sneznhaya was a rarity.  So rare, it was almost impossible.  

And yet, you were never without it.

With the Tsaritsa’s permission, you handed Haeresys back over to the Segment, who had a better use for laboratory space than you.  Instead, you focused on putting together compendium after compendium, organizing notes and stories and filling in the gaps.  When you weren’t doing that, you were building a makeshift library, something to provide leisure and familiarity to those who remained in town, now that food sources were reestablished.  

Eventually, you returned to your shop, damaged and picked through and in need of so much care.  The Segment made it easier and together you revitalized the place into something resembling its former glory and then beyond it.

Storytimes were brighter, if only because you caught sight of a familiar figure in the back, sticking his head out from the workshop you insisted be available to him.  More frequently, he began making toys, of all things, and handed them out.  The softness in his face was never achievable for the Dottore you knew.  He would have happily terrorized the little ones to amuse himself.

You let yourself ease into a life with him, one filled with moments of excitement at a new creation or realization, of laughter, of light.  It wasn’t the same, of course.

The first kiss was a coincidence.

The second one was a fluke.

But the third time? You were starting to think it was fate.

Or, more likely, a calculated attempt at happiness.

[yuridovewing]

Playing with the idea of Tigerstar being a direct descendant of Thunderstar in my hyporewrite... I might make the concept of family lineage an important thing for ThunderClan in particular in my rewrite, which is why ThunderClan in particular taking in kittypets is like A Whole Thing. (though of course all the clans are dismissive of them to some extent, I imagine it varies.) But anyways, it's not a hard set rule or anything, but there is an expectation of making Thunderstar's descendants leader. Thunderstar himself didn't start this unofficial rule, but Owlstar did with one of Thunderstar's kits, initially in good faith. "Your father helped me and I owe a lot to him, and I would like to reward his kin in return" or something like that.

So not every single ThunderClan leader was a Thunderstar descendant obviously, Sunstar and Bluestar are important characters to note here, sometimes it's just not feasible, like the available kin are all elders, medicine cats, young warriors with no experience, or kits. But when a Thunderstar descendant IS eligible, then the expectation is that they will be selected as deputy. Sometimes yes, it is outright nepotism, but it's expected from other leaders. Pineheart was never ready to be leader, he never really wanted to be, but Doestar chose him because he's Oakstar's son, and he accepted because that is what's expected of him.

I like the idea of Tigerstar being held up on a pedestal partly because of his ancestry, like that's why everyone turns a blind eye when he abuses Ravenpaw and when he's more brutal in battle than he should. Lionheart being deputy for a short amount of time was seen as a fluke by the elders, and his death was a sign to them that StarClan disapproved of Bluestar breaking the unofficial rule.

It's just another layer to why Fireheart's deputy appointment was so controversial. And I like the irony here- Tigerstar's descendants would go on to be scorned, with cats saying he tainted Thunderstar's bloodline, and Firestar, the one who originally sought out to disprove the idea that bloodline matters, goes on to have his own bloodline seen as sacred by warriors of the future.

The cycle goes on.

[tuulikki]

He was that terrible type, the Silly Cynic, his aim a caustic commentary on all things and all men, his achievement mere vulgar irreverence and unintelligent scorn. Ill-bred and ill-informed, he had (on his own showing) fluked into fortune on a rise in land; yet cunning he possessed, as well as malice, and he chuckled till he choked over the misfortunes of less astute speculators in the same boom.

— E. W. Hornung, The Amateur Cracksman

My god but does that describe people I’ve known in the business, investment, and tech worlds

[offbranddrpepsi]

In Bloom (Astra X Lifeweaver)

A thriving garden full of various flora, both natural and synthetic. A 'hardlight' fountain placed in the middle with live fish swimming in it. A little beacon in the sea of stars that she had just assumed was a place to rest before going back home. Of course, Astra was always weirdly lucky when it came to fate and this garden had been a temptation she fell for.

That is not why she kept coming back, however.

First she had met a woman draped in a blue and gold sari. She had yelled something Astra didn't manage to hear as she fled, telling no one of what she discovered. On her second visit she had met a man, a quite tall one with the strangest equipment and outfit that made him look like something out of a fairy tale. That time she stayed, his welcoming voice breaking through the astral plane, tempting her to physically manifest in this new world.

Lifeweaver he called himself, sticking to a code name in case Astra proved to be more malicious than she claimed to be. She didn't blame him as her entire organization did the same. That second day she sat for an hour, ready for conflict the entire time despite none coming, and she learned. Astra learned who this man was as well as the woman she had seen before and that they claimed to not be threats but were deeply concerned as who she was and how she got there. Astra told them little, stating she was a guardian of the stars who traveled often, investigating places that stood out such as this one. Lifeweaver, though cautious, seemed satisfied with this answer and went to ask more. Astra was at this moment called back to duty, distress on her home world, not even bidding him fair-well as she vanished into star dust.

Astra had swore the second meeting would be the last, considering the garden a fluke on the astral sea, just a little blip of sanctuary she had been treated to. She had even told Sage, a woman she saw as both cautious and knew believed in fate. Sage thought it harmless, she had only encountered two people who didn't seem to wish her harm, although she still cautioned Astra to stay alert and to not pull the threads of fate more than she already did. Of course Astra knew she hadn't really altered anything, she didn't give nor take information or items that could effect the delicate threads that held their worlds together as well as the fabric of the astral plane.

Another coasting through the astral plane proved that the little blip that was the garden was still there, despite the odds being against it, so Astra peaked in once again.

"I was hoping you'd come back," The welcoming voice was accompanied with a soft smile that seemed to almost overtake all the mans features. He bled warmth and comfort into the space around him, and Astra embraced it.

Their visits would last for hours, well into his world's night at times. Astra explained to him that she couldn't disclose anything regarding her work and her world, and that he shouldn't disclose too much either; but things still slipped through. Astra learned of their hard light, it both being similar to some of their own technology but so different. She learned of Lifeweaver's upbringing and how he was a prodigy but also scorned by his parents and community due to not being 'born right'. Astra related to him, though her community welcomed her warmly both for her sexuality and gender. It pained her to see his normally soft and gentle face turn to one of sorrow and pain at speaking of his youth, how she longed to show him the loved life she had lived. But thing weren't that simple, they were rather complicated and she couldn't just pull a random man across the entire astral sea. So she instead brought the love to him.

Astra shared with him her culture, telling him the stories of both Ghana and her world though she left out mentions of radiants. In turn Lifeweaver shared his own technology with her. It was marvelous! Something she had only seen radiants come close to preforming! From his tree of life to the little flower platform he loved to lift her up on, it was all so equally beautiful and whimsical. Days turned to week, weeks months, time seemed to slip away as they two visited each other more and more often.

Of course Astra's mind had wandered as had her heart, it was impossible not to when faced with someone so gentle, kind, and caring as Lifeweaver. His laugh started turned her red, the stories of him and Symmetra as chaotic roommates made her laugh harder than they should, before she had realized it she had started missing him while on her missions for Valorant and was longing for a home that wasn't her own.

"Would you like to leave the garden?" He had asked one day during fall, the leafs turning to vibrant oranges and yellows while the weather grew cold. "I could take you to the cafe i mentioned, the one Hana likes. We could make it a date!" His eyes nearly sparkled as much as her stars did at the mention of taking her on a date. In their time together he had never been so forward, never even hinted at the possibility he wanted more with her or felt the same butterflies she did. Of course, Astra had grown less observant with him than she had initially been. Her guard had fallen almost as quickly as she had so maybe thats why any inkling she was the eye of someone's affections had entirely gone amiss.

"You know every step I take here is another ripple I have to fix," she had told him countless times that she couldn't risk exploring his world. The garden seemed to be contained, a point in the astral sea of stars that was static and seemingly affected little by any pulling on the fabric that engulfed it. As such Astra was confident that this little square on his world was safe for her to inhabit and any steps beyond its boundaries could only lead to disaster if not more work for her that would keep the two apart.

"Sorry," that glowing face of his darkened, head bowing in shame. Astra knew better than to embrace him, but her will strained as her heart swelled, for a moment she even considered taking him up on his offer. "It is easy to forget you aren't from here and are bound by different rules than we are, especially after so long."

Astra could barely hide a stray tear as she said her goodbyes that night, returning to her own world just as day broke. She still had not told anyone but Sage of her adventures, and even the resident healer was oblivious to just how far things had gone. Astra was sure Sage would reprimand her, being gentle once she had learned of where her heart lied but still firm much like her mother once was. But Valorant did had the ability to world hop reliably, at least after a few ventures to Omega, maybe she could talk to Killjoy on a theoretical level. Get the little engineer to work on some prototype that would both benefit them and herself.

Astra decided to pay yet another visit before deciding on basically manipulating Killjoy for her own selfish wants, and she was awe struck by what she was greeted with. A small woman, maybe even an older girl, scurried out of the garden as she materialized. Her brown hair and pink cat head phones seeming familiar to someone Lifeweaver had told her about. Maybe a teammate or friend of his blessed with access to his private garden.

"Astra! You're early, over here!" The voice she oh so loved to hear call her alias, and the one she wished would say her name one day, called from behind her. A small gazebo had been constructed, painted a deep gold that seemed to match her arm and adorned with glittering lights like a canopy of stars. Sat under it was a table and chairs constructed from deep wood with carvings of flowers and vines. Her heart nearly stopped at just how magical it looked. And there, stood behind one of the chairs, was Lifeweaver. He had none of the equipment he normally did, all unnecessary gear seemingly placed away. Lifeweaver wore what appeared to be a more formal outfit, a Suea Phraratchathan to be more exact. It was a deep but vibrant shade of magenta that seemed to fade into violet at its edges. Embroidery of gold ran up its seams as well as covered the outfit in a pattern she couldn't place. At his waist was a blue sash with light pink details that seemed almost painted on. As she stood in silence, eyes tracing over him countless times, she realized he was dressed as she appeared in her astral form, each gold thread a star and brush like stroke of color reflecting her.

A large smile broke out across her face followed by her nearly dropping to her knees, hands coming up to cover her reddening face, "Chaleee! What is all this now?" returning to her carefree self she looked down dramatically at her own outfit. "You got me under dressed looking like a fool!" Despite her playful words she was amazed and flattered more than she had ever been, more than she would possibly ever be. No one had ever gone this far for her, yeah she had been on dates and given gifts but nothing compared to the display and man before her. She half wished she was in some white, gold, and pink dress that mirrored his usual clothes; something to show she reciprocated and appreciated he gesture. But Astra could soar across space, not time, and her usual clothes would have to do.

Lifeweaver's cheeks turned a pleasant shade of pink before he nearly keeled over laughing, a sound so pleasant to her ears she wished she could hear it more, "You could never be under dressed Astra, as i've said you are the peak of style compared to most of us."

Approaching the man and table, Astra noticed the assortment of sweets and drinks delicately placed around it. "What IS all this?" She asked as she looked around, avoiding staring at Lifeweaver to long. It was so much, enough for several people not just the two of them and it seemed so luxurious. Was this what it was like taking Chamber up on his offers of dinner? Was this what it was like to be spoiled?

"You couldn't come to the cafe so I brought it to you," He held his arms out like a showman trying to display his latest act, a nervous smile painting his face. "Hana and Toki helped pick stuff out and get it here while Satya helped me with the gazebo, chairs, and clothes." Astra held back a small laugh at the image of the slightly older woman picking over everything, making sure it stayed perfect but also organic. Satya was someone she wished she could talk to more, the woman being more composed and order loving than herself but still sounding like an absolutely wonderful woman and dear friend to Lifeweaver.

Another moment of silence passed as Astra clearly awed and looked over everything, Lifeweaver looking both bashful and proud as he explained how everything was done and what all the food was.

"So, do you like it?" an unfamiliar anxiety laced his words as he spoke, the normally confident man retreating into a small and fragile one. Astra could only stare for a moment before she wrapped him in an almost bone breaking hug. A laugh bubbled out of Lifeweaver as he returned the hug, his arms just as warm and comforting as Astra had imagined.

"Like it? I love it! Thank you! I'll have to take a tart back for Klara or at least a picture." Astra was sure one misplaced tart wouldn't break the entirety of the astral plane, tarts rarely decide fate or keep the threads of time and space from tearing. "I'll have to bring you something from back home next time Lifeweaver, it has to be special to match this though."

"Niran." He spoke quickly as Astra pulled back from the hug, his face more pink than his flowers.

"Niran?"

"My name," his features shifted from pink to red. "I would prefer that you use it if you'd like, it sounds nice when you say it."

Astra couldn't stop the smile of pure love that covered her features, the last boundary she had set when they met crumbling away the moment the words left his mouth. "Then you can call me Efia, Niran." A pleased smile over took Niran before he ushered her into a seat, the sun already starting to set, and began explaining each treat more in depth as well as filling the air with more memories and stories he had yet to share. In this moment Astra had decided she would suggest a study into independent world hopping to Killjoy in hopes that one day she could bring Niran to her corner of the astral sea.