#stone island shadow project

[theridge1979]

[diamondregime]

[closetofcuriosities]

Stone Island Shadow Project AW18 - Scarabeo Utility Anorak

[als0als0]

[freshthoughts2020]

[grrl-beetle]

Stone Island Shadow Project

[erikbjerkesjo]

#ErikBjerkesjö footwear work for Shadow Project #StoneIsland

[mageofcolors]

sonic characters playing minecraft headcanons bc i cant sleep:

-tails is a huge redstoner. he builds giant farms for everyone on the server to use and also has a tendency to be responsible for most of the server's lag. in their umiverse tails is the one to invent wireless redstone

-tails also likes building house exteriors while amy builds the interiors. they work on a lot of projects together

-amy also runs a business making interiors because shes known to be the best at it on the server

-amy runs a shop selling mob loot because she loves killing things. she's also a master pvper and everyone fears her so you know no one would dare steal from her. she kills withers on the regular and makes bank off the nether stars

-she's also very skilled at using both the axe and the sword, but not as good at ranged weapons.

-sonic is an explorer and likes mods that allow for gear that makes him faster and increases his step height. mountain biomes are the bane of his existance in vanilla

-sonic used to live in tails' house but he would ruin his item sorter system all the time so he asked sonic to get his own storage. sonic now lives in a hole under tails' house

-sonic's a big potion user. he likes speed potions + water breathing / night vision potions for dealing with water stuff. he's soooo brave about it. he forced himself to take on a water temple because he couldnt stand the idea of there being an enemy he couldnt defeat. being underwater makes him sick tho

-knuckles is a miner and his house is a series of tunnels that blends into his mine. he also likes building things mainly with stone materials. he takes inspiration from irl angel island.

-rouge is a big flyer. shes possibly the best elytra user on the server

-rouge collects all the gems in the game and stacks them in shulker boxes in a vault nobody on the server has found yet. she does randomly flex by taking them out and showing them off. she'll go up to knuckles and just place a shulker box full of diamond blocks in front of him to taunt him, then quickly grab it and fly away.

-rouge doesn't mine so much as she'll trade or steal. she mainly steals from knuckles tho just to mess with him. knuckles always gets confused where his stuff has gone and still hasnt figured out rouge is the one taking it.

-rouge will also trade random missions for gems. these missions will often consist of helping with playing pranks on other members of the server.

-cream runs a flower and dye "shop" where she has super cheap prices, but half the time she will just give people flowers as gifts. everyone returns the favor with much more valuable items to make her happy but it technically doesn't count as selling/buying because cream never asks for anything in return. she does like receiving gifts tho

-big is always on the server, fishing. little do they know big is actually physically in the minecraft world. he doesnt know how he got there but he's vibin

-knuckles is very into minecraft lore. he likes exploring to learn more about the world and he likes finding old ruins. while sonic is also an explorer it's not too often they'll actually team up unless theyre specifically going to fight a difficult enemy. usually they prefer to go solo

-when time came to fight the ender dragon everyone showed up (except cream because she didn't think the dragon is evil and didnt want to kill it). shadow, sonic, and knuckles were all fighting for the final hit on the dragon. shadow got the hit but sonic stole the egg before anyone else could. he's hiding it in the hole under tails' house. rouge has her sights set on that thing and will figure out where it is any moment now. she just has to wait for tails to leave the house so she can search without being seen or heard

-shadow was the first on the server to get the achievement for collecting all the cats

-shadow is also a pretty good builder and he lives in a nice house with his cats. he has the most maxed out armor on the server

-tails has a solo world as well where he runs like 1000 mods that nobody else's computer could handle. i thought this was important to mention

-sonic likes to collect heads. both mob heads and player heads. he has 20 knuckles heads and 13 shadow ones but he could not get a tails one until tails donated one himself to the collection.

[ultrajtb]

Making day 4 a bit later than normal. Sorry guys, I’m a bit sick.

So wrapping up origins today because I’ve run out of characters that I think are necessary to include

So hypno steve

I originally planned on fully overhauling the design, but found it to be really difficult with how complex the skin is, so I opted to give him faint steve detailing on the body, some hair, and brighter colors.

In terms of story, nothing really changes. He’s still an experiment created by dark with the ability to manipulate a person’s mind. Really all I want to do with him is expand slightly on how he was made.

So basically, Dark butchered several steves and stitched bits and pieces of them together to make hypno. He then infused a bit of shadow stone alongside several more steves to give his creation life. Unfortunately for dark, Hypno was fully aware of what he was, and more importantly, who each part of himself was before the experiment.

In the end, dark couldn’t control hypno because every part of Hypno wanted vengeance on him. This ended in dark having to lock him inside a machine for his own safety.

Months after the experiment went wrong, Sabre and blue steve stumble upon the island that dark did everything on, eventually finding a lever that they flip to see what happens, inadvertently turning off the machine and freeing Hypno from his stasis.

Hypno quickly finds the two and starts messing with them, starting out small by making them hear each other in different directions, separating the two. Hypno proceeds to focus on rainbow, having a fascination with him since he too is a combination of steves. He starts probing Rainbow’s mind, searching his memories and dreams. He then projects a twisted image of what rainbow wants to the hero, showing him a world ruled and corrupted by him. A world of nothing but rainbow color. Hypno joins him under the guise of blue Steve, explaining what this world is.

Rainbow is obviously horrified by it, which convinces hypno of his intentions. However, rainbow freaks out and starts trying to attack hypno out of fear, which ends up with him actually attacking blue Steve in reality. Hypno, now sure of Rainbow, leaves for the time being.

Hypno’s story ends when Rainbow is at his lowest. His best friend is dead, nightmare is stronger than ever, and he still doesn’t know how to use his powers. Hypno makes him the offer to put him into a deep, trance-like sleep for generations to allow him to build up power. Rainbow accepts, giving hypno the remaining artifacts. After putting rainbow to sleep, hypno destroys the artifacts, feeling that they had no more use.

From then on, he’d act as a sort of guardian from the shadows; forcing himself to stay alive until Rainbow safely reawoke, at which point he finally let go and allowed himself to move on.

Yes I’m taking hypno out of the actual steve saga. He made a single appearance and honestly it kind of ruined the moment for me when he did.

So finally starting the actual steve saga with the main character himself, Sabre

Now, I actually have 2 redesigns for him

The left one is obviously a proper redesign, keeping the chicken body while making it look a bit more detailed. Fun fact about the chicken skin, Sabre has said before that it isn’t actually a onesie. It’s in fact, his face on a humanoid chicken’s body. I just think that’s funny.

So design 2 on the right is based on his modern skin. I felt like the chicken skin was a bit goofy so I put together a fully human one that I think looks pretty nice.

Shared design traits between the two are reshaded/recolored hair and a blue blindfold

So starter lore. Sabre enters the steve world, discovers the steves, and out of curiosity starts making machines to see how they work. He eventually meets and captures the awakened rainbow, and accidentally breaks him during his experimentation. This makes rainbow more hostile towards him as well as begins a slow decay from the damage, corrupting him more and more over time

That’s all I have for today. Lmk if it’s any good

Have a good day/night guys

[diversegaminglists]

Games Finished in 2023

Didn't get as much gaming as I usually do, due to a combination of health issues, my cat having cancer (she's fine now) and my computer breaking in a couple of infuriatingly nebulous ways.

Games I recommend are bolded.

Archvale

Franken RPG

Symphony of War: The Nephilim Saga

Signalis

Bound by Flame

Monster Train

The Last Door Season One

Unforgiving: A Northern Hymn

Dirk Smallwood HD

The Excavation of Hob's Barrow

Flynn: Son of Crimson

Dishonored: Knife of Dunwall

Dishonored: The Brigmore Witches

Sands of Salazaar

Adios

Talk to Me

Dishonored 2

Power Wash Simulator

Power Wash Simulator: Tomb Raider

Power Wash Simulator: Midgar

Pilgrims

Stone

Teacup

Cloud Gardens

Memory Traces: Japan

Khimera: Puzzle Island

Katamari Damacy Reroll

I was a Teenage Exocolonist

100 Hidden Frogs

lure

Lights Off...

Viltnemda

Suspicious Downpour

The Lost Dachshund

Resonance of the Ocean

Swallow the Sea

Shadow Burglar

Kore

Fears to Fathoms: Home Alone

Greedfall

Rapture: The Beginning

Adventure Escape Christmas Killer

Apeture Desk Job

Corridor Z

Hero of the Kingdom: The Lost Tales 2

The Shore

Alder's Blood: Prologue

Mirlo Above the Sun

Stillwater

The Call of Karen

Karisvale

Momotype

Epic Battle Fantasy 5

Aztlan Uncovered: Prologue

Good Dog

Adventure Escape Mysteries: Cluedo

You are a Whale Also Part 1

Adventure Escape Mysteries: Midnight Carnival

I want to be a Triangle

Behind the Frame: The Finest Scenery

The Case of the Golden Idol

The Darkside Detective

Project Exhibited

The Case of the Golden Idol: The Spider of Lanka

The Test

Fayburrrow

Faefever

You Will (Not) Remain

Bad Dream: Stories

Star Apprentice: Magical Murder Mystery

Arcanbreak

Glass Masquerade 3: Honey Lines

Dot's Home

Westwood Shadows: Prologue

The Suicide of Rachel Foster

The Looker

Nancy Drew: Legend of the Crystal Skull

Without a Voice

Escape Academy

One Night Stand

Nancy Drew: The Phantom of Venice

Janosik

Don't Escape Trilogy

Spirit Cleaning

Fatum Betula

Viridi

Sarawak

Baldur's Gate: Siege of Dragonspear

Riddles of the Past

Desolatium: Prologue

Apocalipsis

The Vagrant

Apocalipsis: One Night in the Woods

Hayami Chan

Ginkgo

Alba: A Wildlife Adventure

Memory Traces: Egypt

Wilful

Distraint

Baldur's Gate 3

Zombie Admin

The Lost Night

Inside

Kingdom Hearts 2 Final Mix (PS4)

The Painscreek Killings

Eiyuden Chronicle: Rising

One-Eyed Lee: Prologue

Nasty Little Man

Halo CE: Anniversary

Technoccult: Covenant

To be a Herpwitch

Seethe and Scab

Neverwinter Nights: Enhanced Edition: Main Campaign

Moons of Madness

Dragon's Crown Pro (PS4)

Paradise Killer

Amnesia: Rebirth

Dave the Diver

Zemblanity

Fighting Fantasy Classics: The Warlock of Firetop Mountain

[theridge1979]

[bogusfilth]

Spain

Yesterday all the past. The language of size Spreading to China along the trade-routes; the diffusion Of the counting-frame and the cromlech; Yesterday the shadow-reckoning in the sunny climates.

Yesterday the assessment of insurance by cards, The divination of water; yesterday the invention Of cartwheels and clocks, the taming of Horse. Yesterday the bustling world of the navigators.

Yesterday the abolition of fairies and giants, The fortress like a motionless eagle eyeing the valley, The chapel built in the forest; Yesterday the carving of angels and alarming gargoyles.

The trial of heretics along the columns of stone; Yesterday the theological feuds in the taverns And the miraculous cure at the fountain; Yesterday the Sabbath of witches; but to-day the struggle.

Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines, The construction of railways in the colonial desert; Yesterday the classic lecture On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle.

Yesterday the belief in the absolute value of Greek, The fall of the curtain upon the death of a hero; Yesterday the prayer to the sunset And the adoration of madmen. But to-day the struggle.

As the poet whispers, startled among the pines, Or where the loose waterfall sings compact, or upright On the crag by the leaning tower: "O my vision. O send me the luck of the sailor."

And the investigator peers through his instruments At the inhuman provinces, the virile bacillus Or enormous Jupiter finished: "But the lives of my friends. I inquire. I inquire."

And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets Of the evening paper: "Our day is our loss, O show us History the operator, the Organiser, Time the refreshing river."

And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life That shapes the individual belly and orders The private nocturnal terror: "Did you not found the city state of the sponge,

"Raise the vast military empires of the shark And the tiger, establish the robin's plucky canton? Intervene. O descend as a dove or A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend."

And the life, if it answers at all, replies from the heart And the eyes and the lungs, from the shops and the squares of the city: "O no, I am not the mover; Not to-day, not to you. To you, I'm the

"Yes-man, the bar-companion, the easily-duped; I am whatever you do. I am your vow to be Good, your humorous story. I am your business voice. I am your marriage.

"What's your proposal? To build the just city? I will. I agree. Or is it the suicide pact, the romantic Death? Very well, I accept, for I am your choice, your decision. Yes, I am Spain."

Many have heard it on remote peninsulas, On sleepy plains, in the aberrant fisherman's islands Or the corrupt heart of the city, Have heard and migrated like gulls or the seeds of a flower.

They clung like burrs to the long expresses that lurch Through the unjust lands, through the night, through the alpine tunnel; They floated over the oceans; They walked the passes. All presented their lives.

On that arid square, that fragment nipped off from hot Africa, soldered so crudely to inventive Europe; On that tableland scored by rivers, Our thoughts have bodies; the menacing shapes of our fever

Are precise and alive. For the fears which made us respond To the medicine ad. and the brochure of winter cruises Have become invading battalions; And our faces, the institute-face, the chain-store, the ruin

Are projecting their greed as the firing squad and the bomb. Madrid is the heart. Our moments of tenderness blossom As the ambulance and the sandbag; Our hours of friendship into a people's army.

To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue And the movements of packers; the gradual exploring of all the Octaves of radiation; To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love, The photographing of ravens; all the fun under Liberty's masterful shadow; To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,

The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome; To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers, The eager selection of chairmen By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.

To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs, The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion; To-morrow the bicycle races Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle.

To-day the deliberate increase in the chances of death, The conscious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder; To-day the expending of powers On the flat ephemeral pamphlet and the boring meeting.

To-day the makeshift consolations: the shared cigarette, The cards in the candlelit barn, and the scraping concert, The masculine jokes; to-day the Fumbled and unsatisfactory embrace before hurting.

The stars are dead. The animals will not look. We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.

— W.H. Auden, March 1937

[taliaxlatia]

Rating: G

Summary: Xehanort continues to haunt Kairi's dreams. She hopes to find a way to uproot his phantom presence for good.

Wordcount: 2,011

Notes: Written for @kairizine with illustrations by @mellekist! This was super fun, so glad I got to be a part of it!!

XXX

In the Weeds

Sweet scents fill the crisp spring air, wafting up from blossoms of every shape and color. The flowers are separated within geometric plots: tall from short, leafy from bare, vibrant from muted. Blue-gray paving stones wind between each bed, like island chains connecting blooming continents. 

In the center of it all, a fountain gurgles. Shimmering water flows out like spokes of a wheel, giving life to flowers spreading past the horizon.

It’s a beautiful world. It resembles what would’ve been, should’ve been, her world—if not for the silver-haired man kneeling in the plot of flowerless dirt before her. 

“Good evening, Kairi,” he says, even though the sun hangs directly overhead, casting no shadows on the world below. He doesn’t look up from his work—though why he’s bothering to weed a plot of nothing but weeds is anyone’s guess. “I hope that your day was sufficiently pleasant.”

How can it be, when I have to see you at the end of it? she wants to snap, bitter as the violet garlic blossoms in the plot behind her. 

It doesn’t matter what she says, though. Nothing has been able to uproot this shadow of Xehanort from the soil of her dreams.

Tonight, he resembles his complete self—the one who had taken her as a child and sent her adrift. The one who had connected her heart to Sora. It’s his favorite form, from what she can tell, though he seems as helpless to choose between his alternate selves as she is to banish them. 

His purple ascot hangs untied around his neck. His lab coat has been set aside, folded neatly on the ground between the budding plants, leaving him in a collared shirt under a ribbed gray vest. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, but dirt has still managed to stain his cuffs.

If he’s a phantom, he’s a very vivid one. And if he’s not…

“Ah. No words to spare for me tonight? And here I was rather looking forward to your clever barbs.” He plucks a thorned weed from the plot of leafy stalks, twirling the stem between his fingers. 

She doesn’t know why a magical dream garden grows weeds at all, much less why Xehanort bothers to remove them, night after night. If not for his sisyphean effort, she would attribute the thorns to his corrupting influence. Of course, maybe he’s the reason this plot lacks the blooms that color the rest of the garden.

“I’m not here to entertain you, Xehanort,” she sighs.

“I suppose that’s true.” He nods thoughtfully. “I am meant to entertain you, more likely.”

She snorts, plopping down on the curved beam that edges this flower bed. If she has to be awake during her dreams, she can at least stop standing like she expects to be attacked.

Xehanort won’t harm her. He can’t. He’s tried a few times, when he first began invading her dreams. He seemed to believe that destroying her would free him from this dream-prison, but she’d just respawned, more frustrated than ever. 

His idea of “entertainment” is likely just as violent. If she hadn’t sparred so much today, she might’ve picked a fight with him, just to see if her training would show. 

Not that she expects to destroy him, either. No matter which form he’s taken, she hasn’t been able to best him—unless she counts the one time Sora had projected enough of his consciousness to assist her. 

(She doesn’t.)

“Well, if you have nothing to say, then you won’t object to me filling the silence.” He hums, inspecting a narrow, slightly yellowed leaf that looks just like every other narrow, slightly yellowed leaf in this plot. “I have not been able to determine what time of year this place is meant to mirror. Every bed seems to run on its own timeframe. I’ve spotted zinnia and hellebore blooming in plots barely two stepping stones apart.”

“It’s a magic garden.” Kairi yawns. “You don’t expect it to make sense, do you?”

“Not particularly. But that’s why this bed is so fascinating. None of these plants have flowered, despite every other species’ state of perpetual bloom.”

Kairi’s brow furrows as she inspects the plants. A few leafy stems end in tiny bulbs, with the hint of orange petals hiding within. For the most part, though, they just resemble tall grass.

It is strange. Not as strange as hearing Xehanort sound so interested, though.

“I assume you are familiar with these flowers, considering this is your garden,” he continues. “Asclepias tuberosa. More commonly known as butterfly weed. But are you aware of their significance?”

He’s wrong. The garden is as much a mystery to her as it is to him. She hesitates to give him any more power by admitting her ignorance, though. 

“So… they are weeds?” she asks tentatively. 

“‘Weed’ is merely a title given to any plant that grows where it isn’t wanted. It isn’t a very useful classifier, botanically.”

She frowns, leaning forward to pick at one of the leaves. 

“Something that grows where it isn’t wanted, huh? Sounds like you might know something about that.”

“Ah. There’s that wit of yours.” His smile looks entirely too genuine. On anyone else, she’d call the expression warm. “But yes, I do. What about you? You haven’t answered my question.”

She sighs. Unfortunately, she has nothing better to do than humor him. 

“I don’t know anything about butterfly weed,” she admits, deciding that his opinion of her doesn’t matter enough to pretend otherwise. 

“Really?” His eyes go wide with surprise. “I must reevaluate my hypotheses. That is what I get for assuming, I suppose…” He shakes his head. “Butterfly weed. In the code of flowers native to Radiant Garden, it is gifted as a goodbye—particularly to someone from which one desires long-term distance. The literally translated meaning is ‘let me go.’”

“Let me go…” she echoes quietly. 

If only the buds would bloom. This is the only flower she’d want to share with Xehanort.

“How do you know all this?” she asks, caught between suspicion and curiosity. She can’t imagine him studying flowers alongside the experiments that plunged her homeworld into darkness. 

“Ah. Let’s just say my former Master had plenty of chores for me to attend to… and my former companion had plenty of trivia to distract from the menial labor.” He smiles again, reminiscing fondly. “Of course, the meanings he assigned to each flower weren’t always accurate. I recall him trying to convince me that daffodils meant someone was ‘daft and smelled like dill.’”

He snorts softly, and Kairi’s teeth grind together to keep a shocked laugh from escaping. 

How can he sound so normal? This is the man who stole her from her birth family, who used her as a pawn against Sora time and time again. He doesn’t deserve to be here, tending flowers without a care in the world.

“It would be wonderful to see him again…” he murmurs while caressing one of the stems.

“You should’ve thought of that before you tried to destroy the worlds,” she says sharply.

Before you destroyed me. 

She can’t listen to this anymore. She doesn’t care if she’s stuck here all night; she’ll find another section of the garden to hide away in. 

She stands, only to be stopped short by his melancholy voice.

“Yes… I suppose I should have.” He sighs. His hand falls to his side, index finger tracing aimless trails through the dirt. “If I had only been content with what I had… perhaps my life would not have ended alone.”

His form flickers like static, and a black coat replaces his gray vest and pants. The spikes of his hair split and darken a shade. 

Xemnas. The Xehanort who delivered her up to her final fate.

“If that’s your way of apologizing for kidnapping me, it could use some work,” she huffs.

She refuses to flinch away from his more intimidating appearance. He’s still kneeling in the dirt. He still can’t hurt her. Not this time.

“You would accept an apology from me?” he asks, brow furrowed. His voice is at least a half-octave deeper now. 

Jarringly, it reminds her of when Wakka’s voice dropped in junior high. At least the ridiculous mental comparison makes it easier to stand up to Xemnas.

“No. But it wouldn’t hurt.”

He chuckles ruefully, dipping his head. 

“Very well. I am sorry for the pain you have suffered at my hands…” He takes his original form again, and his shoulders relax a little. “Though it is impossible for me to honestly apologize for everything.”

She frowns. She doesn’t believe he’s honest about anything—but if he’s going to lie, why not go all in?

“What do you mean?” 

“Radiant Garden was already doomed, before any of my actions took effect. The Ansem you call ‘Wise’ made sure of that.” He snorts. “But you… you were our hope, Miss Kairi. If not for your bond with Sora, who would have come to pull us from the dark?”

He snaps a closed bud from its stem, holding it out to her like a peace offering.

“I sent you off. And you found a home that you treasured, did you not? The same home that half of me hailed from.” His visage flickers to that of Master Xehanort, but thankfully becomes his younger self again. She can’t look into the Master’s eyes without feeling like she’s choking. “And so the wind blows the next generation of seeds back out to sea…”

She does treasure the Islands. But most of all, she treasures the friends she has there. Her adopted parents. Sephie, Tidus, Wakka. Sora and Riku… 

Sora, trapped in a realm beyond her comprehension. Riku, searching for him alone.

“I just want my friends back.” Her throat tightens. She doesn’t take the offered bud. “If you really cared, you wouldn’t have sent me to them just to take them away.”

“This is true.” Xehanort’s arm drops, letting the snapped stem fall. “I did not care. It is only in death that I can see how shortsighted that was.”

He looks up, and for once, she believes the regret in his brown eyes—a different color from the other Xehanorts. 

(Why? It can’t be Terra’s influence. Terra’s eyes are blue.)

“But there is nothing I can do for them now. I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “You and I are both seeds drifting far from those we called friends.”

“Don’t—don’t compare yourself to me.” She shakes her head, her hands trembling.

He can still hurt her. He doesn’t need keyblades or magic—he just needs to be human. To nurture her sympathies the way he attempts to nurture this garden. 

She hates that she wants to fall for it. She wants to believe the man trapped in her mind isn’t as evil as he appears. Is she really this desperate for someone to understand her?

Xehanort simply nods, returning to his silent plucking of weeds. Red wells from the pads of his fingers where thorns prick them.

It’s what he deserves. To be alone and forgotten. 

(As alone and forgotten as she is.)

…Light, now she’s comparing them. The seed he’s planted has already taken root.

She brushes one butterfly weed bud—and a single petal peels free, facing the sun.

Her breath catches. How…?

Xehanort looks up at the sound, then to the opening orange bloom. His eyes widen.

“How did you…?” he echoes her thoughts.

She nearly says she doesn’t know. But—but she does.

She knows. And she knows how to make him leave.

(Asclepias tuberosa. “Let me go.”)

The flower bloomed when her hate had wavered. The question is, can it waver again? Can she let go of this pain for good?

Not yet. Not yet, but eventually. Hope blooms in her chest, bright as the flower in her hand.

“It’s my garden, remember?” She grips the blossom tight, its stem leaking warm sap against her palm. “I still hold the power here.”

And with that power, she’ll set herself free.

[queen-lucy-the-valiant]

I wrote part of the 'golden age pevensies in prince caspian' it's below the cut, but I also posted it on ao3 if you want to read it there.

The beach smelled of ghosts. History as thick as smoke hung in the air, it seeped out of the forest like fog and meandered down to the ever shifting line where sea meets sand, where Trumpkin lay. When he had left the How that morning, he had not been expecting to find anything, not even the ghosts of his vague fears. Still then again, this morning he would not have believed he would be foolish enough to be caught by Telmarines. So maybe he shouldn’t put so much stock in his beliefs, if the world insisted on overturning them at the slightest provocation.

Even his reasonable expectations had turned to dust. On the first half of his journey, he had expected to flinch at the rustling of leaves, at the occasional snapping of branches, and the scurryings of small dumb animals. Then, when he had been captured by that fool of a lord, when he laid, bound and gagged in the bottom of a boat, he had expected to be delivered to his death, he had not exactly expected to become a ghost himself, but he would not have been surprised if they had had a hand in his death. But even less had he ever expected to be rescued by one.

Yet here he lay, miraculously alive, on a beach that smelled of ghosts: after the water had taken shape around him and dragged him from the rocky bottom, out of the drowning deep and onto the safe sands; after watery, webbed fingers had untied his bonds and pulled the water from his lungs; after they had melted away into the water again. Here he lay on the beach, waiting for the moment that those idiot soldiers would come back and finish their job. But the longer time stretched out, the less likely that seemed. They feared the ghosts as much as he did. 

Clumsily, Trumpkin pushed himself to his feet and took stock of the world around him. A pale beach boarded by a dark, looming forest stretched before him, curving away before long. He hoped, as much as he ever did, that it curved back towards the land. Not a sound could be heard, even the lapping of the waves or the crunch of sand under his feet sounded muffled. As he began to walk along the beach, staying as far from the forest and its stench of history as he could and keeping an eye trained on the dark, nigh impenetrable, border of tree and underbrush, lest something move on the other side.

Long Trumpkin walked in this way; looping the island twice, for it was an island, totally separate and impossibly distant from the shore of the land he knew. He made note of every rock and branch that littered the beach, every shadowy break in the forest's defenses, every stream tricking out from its borders. Every once in a while, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of white shadows beyond the border of the forest: tall crumbling columns with ghostly figures, or big broken blocks of shimmering white stone. If he strained his ears, he could occasionally catch a faint strain of song that wafted out of the forest; sometimes the high voice and other times a deeper one, both so full of rage and mourning that Trumpkin could pick it out of the faint half notes that reached his ears. 

More often than either the ghostly rocks or the haunting song, the trees would rustle as he passed by, though no breeze had blown by or stirred his beard. At first their branches swayed slightly, gently, moving their leaves softly, like the stretches of the newly woken. They shook more fiercely, more angrily; they stretched out beyond the bounds of the forest, reaching towards Trumpkin as if they knew he walked by them and wanted to catch them.

If Trumpkin had been a dwarf of the Golden Age, he might have called upon the saltwater naiads, and bargained for a crossing, or hired a boatman to ferry him across the channel. If Trumpkin had been a dwarf of the Golden Age such things might have been possible. But then, if he were a dwarf of the Golden Age, such things would not have been necessary; the island was not an island during the Golden Age. Under the rule of the Telemaries, Trumpkin had two choices: to stay on the beach and die as the soldiers had meant him to or brave the forest and its threatening trees to seek fresh water and whatever food it may contain. Trumpkin, being a dwarf of the Telmarine age, chose the second option, though fear of what might lurk in that darkness had turned his blood to ice in his veins. A death at the hands of the ghosts of days gone by held more honor than satisfying the wishes of the Telmarines.

Trumpkin marshaled what remained of his courage: he took a deep breath of the clean air of the sea; he chose a stout stick, though it would pass right through the immaterial bodies of any ghosts he may encounter, it gave him a modicum of reassurance, an illusion that he would be able to defend himself from any enemies he might encounter within the woods. Then, he took his first step into the forest. 

Darkness filled the forest and swallowed Trumpkin whole after his fifth step. What light that managed to sneak its way past the canopy above rarely found its way down to the forest floor. Trumpkin soon found himself wishing for a light, any light, even if it meant making a beacon for the ghosts to flock to, among other things; even the prospects of moths flocking to his light sent a shiver down Trumpkin’s spin. But in the suffocating darkness of the forest, broken only occasionally by the faint white light emanating from the fragments of stones, and the smothering history hanging in the air, Trumpkin almost found himself wishing for that light, as impossible as that seemed to be; the Telmarines had relieved him of his tinder box along with his sword. 

Every step he took brought him deeper and deeper into the woods. Trumpkin, being a dwarf, even a dwarf of the Telmarine age, knew his woodcraft well. No twig found itself broken under his foot; no leaf betrayed his position with a crunch; no root succeeded in tripping him. But even if Trumpkin had not been well versed in his art, he would not have found himself in need of it. The forest opened up a path before him, all the underbrush and forest litter seemed to scurry away from his path; even the trees danced away from him; only the huge white stones, remnants of walls and floors, stairs and windows, remained where they lay and the path lead him around them in large aches. 

Further up and further in the forest led him, always clearing the way before him. Brighter and brighter grew the forest, until he could see the brush and bracken shift away from his path as he walked. 

When the fallen, rotten apples began to roll away from him, sending small swarms of wasps up into the air, Trumpkin almost rejoiced, so great his hunger had grown. He gathered all fresher apples he could find, and filled his pockets until they almost burst. He munched away at them until his stomach stopped its grumblings; never ceasing his walking as he did so. Soon he quenched his thirst at the steam when the path led him by and almost forgot his worries as the wood lay out a feast before him. But the smell of ghosts and the bygone forgotten history never ceased. Nor did the song. Stronger now, more sure of itself and its anger, it danced between the trees of the overgrown orchard and pulled at Trumpkin’s heartstrings. 

Only when his path led him to the rusted and broken gates, did his present pleasant mood cease. 

Even in their present state of decay, he could see their extravagance, their workmanship. Surely these gates would lead him into the ruins of a grand palace. The ruins of the storied palace Cair Paravel. Surely these gates and the ruins that lay beyond proved the stories and myths; that those grand kings and queens of old once ruled in a shimmering palace by the sea. Only here did Trumpkin pause. Only here, for the first time, did he turn back. Only here did he see the dense blackness of the trees as they closed in behind him. Only here did he realize that he could not go back. Only here did his courage wane. 

Trumpkin took one more steadying breath, closed his eyes, and pushed forward. He wriggled his way through the gates and surged forward. He felt more than heard the trees push up to the gate, blocking his way back more surely than they had before as their branches twisted into the curving latticework of the gates. The path lay before him, the barely apparent ghost of a hallway, now reduced to scattered stones and moss. This he followed. At each fork, the trees showed him where to go by blocking the other way. 

The singing grew louder the deeper he went into the ruins of the palace. But now, it sounded less like singing and more like speaking. Beautiful and cadenced speaking, conversation set to song. He could now distinguish four voices. Arguing. Yelling at each other in a language he did not understand, sending shivers through his very soul. But he kept walking, kept bringing himself closer and closer to them, though at every step he longed to flee. Worse than Telmarines, these ghosts. At least he could see the Telmarines.

Suddenly, the voices ceased. Suddenly, Trumpkin found himself in a bright space, an open space; suddenly the blank blue sky opened up above him. Suddenly Trumpkin was in a throne room–what had once been a throne room, but now lay in ruins. Ceiling open to the sky, windows shattered, so long ago that the glass no longer lays scattered across the stones, which have now been carpeted in moss, pushed apart by grass and the young trees who will never succeed but who will and have disrupted the stones past all semblance of flatness. 

Before Trumpkin, at the end of the long Great Hall, four figures sat on crumbling thrones, arrayed in a splendor he had never dreamed of, all shining crowns and glittering jewels and rich rippling fabric. Each appeared as still and solemn as stone; they betrayed no signs of life, Trumpkin caught no blinking eyes or rising chests, no finger twitch or wavering gaze; not even the breeze dared to ruffle their hair, or shift their clothes. They might have been stone, if it hadn’t been for the shining in their eyes and the tears streaming down their faces. 

They might have been made of stone. They might have sat sentry there since the end of the Golden Age, placed as a memorial to the missing monarchs for as long as the stone would stand. Those piercing gazes, those stern and serene expressions might have watched over this place as it slowly crumbled before them. They might have sat here, vibrant splashes of color in an otherwise green and gray world, since the day Narnia fell, untouched by the ravishes of time or siege. In this place, where History hung so thick in the air that Trumpkin could smell it, almost taste it, it would not seem so strange, if these statue-like beings had remained untouched by time, if the world before them had crumbled while they remained standing, the same as the day they were painted. 

For a moment, Trumpkin believed he’d stumbled across ghosts, that he himself had become a ghost, and that the four kings and queens of old sat here, ready to judge him for his crime of disbelief. But then he met the High King’s eye, nothing but a living, breathing being could hold that gaze, nothing but a living breathing being could look into his eyes and through his skin into his very soul. 

The four Kings and Queens of Old, pulled out of their own time, sat in the ruins of their home; as solemn and unshifting as stone, they stared down the length of the Great Hall and pinned Trumpkin where he stood.

[grrl-beetle]

Stone Island Shadow Project

[whispersafterdusk]

Halcyon

With sand beneath him, sun above him, and waves lapping at his toes, Roaring felt content. Or, as content as he could be, all things considered; he was technically taking a break - from both Scion duties (they may have disbanded but there was work to be done yet) as well as the myriad duties that came with heading this latest project of Tataru's - and knew it was only a matter of time before one of the mammet laborers or--

"Heeeey, there you are!"

Roaring sighed. Break time over.

He sat up and brushed sand from his arms, peering over a shoulder to see Broti heading toward him. Tataru had sent the man along to "help" Roaring Whisper but he suspected she was tired of having him underfoot; under the woman's tutelage the would-be merchant had started a proper, if small, trading depot. She was pleased with his performance overall but still couldn't stand how chatty he was, and kept shifting his responsibilities around to keep him from driving off customers or being taken advantage of by the more ruthless ones, and finally had sent him off with Roaring to handle the importing and exporting duties being set up here on this tiny island.

Why she'd wanted Roaring himself here he had yet to figure out but it had been nice to have a ship under him again, and the weather had been nothing but pleasant since they'd arrived a week ago.

(While he didn't think Tataru would go this far to force him to take a vacation, he did have his suspicions)

Broti marched up and flopped into the sand in Roaring's shadow, fanning himself with his overly large sun hat. "Pheeeeew. I think I prefer Ul'dah's heat to this humid mess but it's, um, it's a lot prettier here, you know? Could do without seafood all the time though. Once we're back home I...think I want a steak. A big one! The size of, of ME - with onions, and mushrooms on top!"

Personally Roaring enjoyed having the bounty of the ocean right here; it reminded him of the good times of his childhood -- family dinners when he hadn't been the hated son. "Did you need something?"

"Oh, right! Tataru sent another-- hey, what's that?" Broti interrupted himself, staring at a spot on Roaring's left shoulder.

Thoughts of happy suppers were replaced with the memory of burning, stinging - of skin pulling apart and hardening like stone, traces of light bleeding across his shoulder in a marbled pattern. He wrinkled his nose and reached to grab his discarded shirt and pull it on to hide the scarring.

"Did you get hit with some kind of lightning magic or, or something?" Broti went on.

"Tataru sent another what?" Roaring prompted instead.

"Uh...what did she... She- Ah! She sent another projection report and wants us to focus on 'exotic woods,' which I guess is just the trees here? They just look like trees to me so I'm not sure how exotic they are."

Roaring let out a hum to acknowledge him then pushed himself to his feet, further brushing off his short pants and sliding on the sandals he'd trudged out here in. "I'll find a place to start logging."

"All right! I'll go make sure the mammets clear an area to stack it in." Broti hopped up and looked out over the water. "Sure is nice and calm out here. Still too humid though, and still too much fish."

Shaking his head Roaring started to trudge back up the beach; he would need to change clothing and get his boots back on before he headed back out into the wilds. If memory served there was a dense thicket to the northwest of their main camp that may be suitable for some logging.

He heard the scattering of sand behind him and then a loud 'oof' as Broti tripped trying to catch up to him but didn't pause to check. If he got changed quickly and headed out immediately he could get to the thicket and back before the sun set.