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obutsuwrites · 5 years ago

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A Little Wicked (overhaul x reader)

Summary: “Are you denying yourself your innermost wishes? Do you not quiver for my touch?” Overhaul countered, his gruff voice shrewd. The sorcerer tried to hide his morbid pleasure. Lips curled into a lustful grin. The knot in his stomach was hot. Touch-starved fingertips excited.

warnings: non-con~!

word count: 3,460 xxx basically a self-indulgent overhaul smut fic~! oops,,

my ao3 for more shitposts

my ask box is also always open 4 requests or wateva

Notes:

numinous (adj.) - describing an experience that makes you fearful yet fascinated, awed yet attracted--the powerful, personal feeling of being overwhelmed and inspired

nemophilist (n.) - a haunter of the woods; one who loves the forest and its beauty and solitude

The young adventurer navigated through the overgrown forest, screeches of owls echoed over head; sounds of nature after dark. Thick trees obscured the woman’s vision. Mother nature was finally reclaiming lost land. However, this particular forest held a secret as precious as new life. A powerful sorcerer was said to inhabit this jungle of trees and predators. She knew man-eating animals roamed this land. The woman had grown up on heroic tales of would-be heroes besting creatures of the night. Heroism. Adventure. Glory. Tales she idolized. Titans of old seemed almost god-like to her. Abilities she had prayed for every night. However, her pleas fell upon deaf ears.

After enduring this for years, she realized she must manifest her own destiny. The allure of magicks too tempting for her quest. She knew it was wrong. No respectable explorer had stood on the back of giants. No. They started small; stories eventually amassing to celebrity. Folk tales repeated for generations. The ultimate means of being remembered, she acknowledged. Mortality no longer applied to them. They gained immortality through legends.

The young woman sighed. The lantern was her only light source in the decrepit grove. Thick roots ran along the leaf scattered earth. She had already tripped once, her lantern almost shattering. Tonight, even the moon hid. Just like the predators. The hoot of owls were the only sound in the moonlight. She wondered if the fabled Sorcerer of the Forest even existed. The tales of him on par with legends of heroics. Was it possible the man didn’t exist? The land showed no sign of recent travel. Untamed earth.

She stopped. The sudden thirst hit her senses. Her mouth was like the desert. Quickly, slender hands grasped the gourd that sat upon a leather belt. The woman drank deeply; water trickling down exposed flesh. After a swallow, oxygen-starved lungs greedily inhaled. Earth and pine wafted through her nostrils.

Suddenly, a twig snapped behind her. The rhythmic pounding of her heart threatened to leap out from her bosom. Primal fear seeped into her body. Goosebumps painted into her skin. The dame paused, her hand at her side, clutching the gourd.

Breathe, she told herself, You are brave.

“Who is t-there?” The explorer called, her tone momentarily faulting. Anxiety ridden eyes waited. Could be a rabbit, right?

A gruff voice broke their silence, “Filthy mortal. You have been searching for me, haven’t you?” The man sounded perturbed. As if her very presence was a nuisance. “Well, here I am.” Ungrateful.

The woman blinked. Surely, this wasn’t the Sorcerer of the Forest? The male sounded no older than her. Far too youthful to be such a myth.

“I don’t t-think you’re him,” she replied, slowly turning to face the owner of the voice.

Foreign eyes observed her, his nose crunched with disdain. The young man was adorned in black; a pulled hood and avian mask blurring his features. A pristine cloak hung around his wiry frame. Leather gloved hands fidgeted. His posture betrayed his voice, uncomfortability spread throughout his spine.

“A sorcerer. You mortals ask for such frivolous things,” the masked man replied. Despite his age, the Sorcerer of the Forest never quite understood mortals. Useless stories amused them. Inspired them. This caused a problem for him. Rarely the man would receive dim-witted guests to his side of nature. Naive mortals that didn’t understand his terms. They would agree to his services, not realizing the peril.

A laugh escaped from the woman, a nervous habit. Clearly, this man was mortal, too. Just has a little superiority complex. It wasn’t unexpected. Such a talented display of magic was too prideful. Like a secret to be shared.

“...okay. Wait. You know what I need?”

The words hung in the dusk. Disgusted eyes still trained upon her, memorizing her. He looked almost pensive. A leather gloved hand rested against a clothed elbow. The masked man’s dark brows furrowed together.

“Moronic girl,” he chastised, “you desire a strength potion. It’s rather bold to assume I’d stoop to such a vile practice.” The man was a sorcerer, not a desperate apothecary.

Another laugh bubbled from her. Genuine sounds. “You’re a sorcerer. Surely, you mix potions?”

The woman’s tone was immature. Naive wonder spread across her face. She prayed he would remove the formerly intimidating birdlike mask. It’s shape provoked a primal fear within her. As if she should run as far as her legs would carry her. Instincts screaming.

The man stepped forward, dead leaves crunched under his boots.

He scoffed, his eyes darting from her. The mysterious man smoothed invisible hairs along auburn hair. His hair looks soft, the woman noted. Perhaps he was an Adonis underneath the beak. With the distance between them shortened, she noticed brass goggles upon gilded orbs. The same contempt within them.

“Do you even carry a sword? Perhaps a dagger. Oh, I know. You don’t do you?” he quizzed. The man clearly taking delight in her vulnerable form.

The maiden softly gasped and dropped her gourd to the ground. Her hands now wrung in doubt. No legend about the Sorcerer of the Forest told of his scorn. He was the un-sung hero; the powerful force that provided the hero a winner’s edge.

She didn’t reply. Horror locked the adventurer in place. Her eyes trained on the man before her.

He closed the gap between them, the linen of his cloak brushed against the woman’s shirt. “What you desire will cost you.”

The young explorer had followed the mysterious, angry man to his hut. The design was simple, but presistine. Not a single ingredient or amulet out of place. His shack reminded her of the shaman huts in her village. The after smell of incense a permanent fixture.

The two discussed their deal. An insistent voice spouted a word vomit of myths. Her eyes alight with passion. The possibility within her hands now.

“...and that’s why I need this potion, talented Sorcerer of the Forest! I don’t care about t-the consequences.” The maiden stuttered, her excitement had gotten the best of her.

“I have told you, mortal. I am Overhaul. This fantasy of the ‘Sorcerer of the Forest’ doesn’t exist. Merely stupid childish stories,” the man corrected. His tone stern.

Overhaul.

Instantly, the woman realized the mistake she had made. The man before her was not the great Sorcerer of the Forest, but his antithesis; Chisaki Kai. A rumored lesser demon in fables. Overhaul being his preferred title. His deals the catalyst for despair in his epics. The being a play on devil’s advocate. A strong occultist that dealt in absolutes. In his parables, the heroes would receive their most intimate desires, but at the grievous cost of their humanity. Their soul.

Her features were clouded by concentration. The temptation mulled over in her mind. Is… Is it immortal to sell my humanity for the greater good? Surely, heroism cancels out sins.

She offered her hand in a show of solidarity. “Please.”

A good handshake was the cornerstone for any business transaction. Even the resident smithy had a crushing grip. A truth the maiden had learned early, the concept of goodwill familiar to her.

Golden eyes stared at her. His indifferent glare almost seeing through her.

“Handshakes are informal. If you weren’t so naive, you would know.” Naive laced with venom. Ignorance was a sin to him. Cretins were beneath a messiah.

Stand tall. Make your demand known.

The nervous woman straightened her back. Eyes meeting Overhaul.

“Sorcerer or lesser demon; I humbly request the potion. Please,” she asked, her hands clasped in prayer. Stubborn hands with steadfast faith. Illusions of adventure plagued her. The poison deep in her bones. She could taste her immortality in fiction.

Overhaul almost pitied the woman before him. Feminine graces for deceit. The ghost of a smile stretched across his features.

“As you desire.”

The aspiring adventurer had inquired about a strength potion. A rudimentary task that would only require several days work for Overhaul. The reply caused a grin to break out upon the young woman’s face. Her face… almost cute.

While working, Overhaul caught flashes of the maiden’s frightened expressions. A sick delight taking root into him. His psyche was a chasm of perverse thoughts. The mixture of worry and dread intoxicated him. Like an inch he couldn’t scratch.

He felt on fire.

She wandered aimlessly, soft footsteps echoed through the abyss of trees. This was her ritual now. Naively calling for Overhaul. The beaked man was behind on his promise. The confident woman’s belief in him wavered. A gourd still hung from her belt; a failed lesson.

“You can be so damn loud. Do you realize that?”

The naive mortal’s expression tightened; the intimate reaction caused a flush to scatter across him. Foreign anxiety and a rush of dopamine through his body. Hot breath huffed against the hollow of his beak. The fervor burned like a wildfire.

She averted her eyes; the earthen ground her chosen subject. Overhaul’s aura engulfed the young woman in anxiety. Instincts feral.

The nemophilist beamed; fangs bared for prey. Sadistic glee painted into his face. Amber eyes studied her. Victim no match for an apex predator.

“Sorry… I’m happy I found you, I think. You’re behind schedule, Overhaul, but it’s for good reason, right? Maybe you ran into a lack of ingredients?” the woman hoped, her heart unable to conjure the alternative. Panic surged through her nerves. A feeling she couldn’t ignore. Body hot with anxiety.

“Follow.”

Yet again, the young maiden found herself in the wooden cabin of the occultist. A scent of wood and flowers assaulted her nose. The smell less pleasant than before.

Overhaul held the vial; gloved hands gingerly guarding her desire. She felt a pang in her bosom. The promise of immortality dangled before her. Breath caught in an eager throat, words cramped.

“Please. I have money. Gold. I can pay you.” Desperation covered her tone. The zealous woman features pulled tight. Eyes glued to the vial. The key to her quest.

The masked man laughed, placing the vial on the wooden table between them. His eyes stuck to her. Selfish eyes fixated. Overhaul’s chest hitched; the anticipation of her fear tantalizing. He felt drunk from her presence.

“No… No money. As Overhaul we both know I’ll claim my due. For someone that prides themselves on mythos; you genuinely are stupid,” he sneered. His words overrun with acid. The man was merely prodding for her adorably fearful visage. An image that haunted him. Perhaps, he could coax the emotion out of the meek woman via insults. Overhaul knew the power he held. His veins burned with it.

The woman nodded. Distinct horrible stories flooded her. The sparks of misery burning into her psyche. A terror she prayed to avoid. “Whatever, Overhaul. We made the deal. So drop the act. It’s embarrassing.” As soon as the words tumbled from her mouth; the ignorant mortal understood the weight of them. The nervousness in her back.

“Take it before I change my mind.”

An empty threat, or so she thought.

A week passed. The young explorer still felt as before. No obvious strength stockpiled within her. It took her three days to deduce that the willowy man she met had been a pretender. Merely a man fascinated with Overhaul. She was familiar with the insanity of it. The very same thing motivated her to find the Sorcerer of the Forest. A pretend man.

Life for her was stagnant as before, too. No excitement lived in the heart of the village. Routine a sacred theme. Mundane.

Despite this, the steadfast mortal had continued her prayer. Feverish belief burned in her chest. Perhaps faith was the secret to immortality in mythos.

Soft knocks echoed through the woman’s door. A late night visitor. Panicky fear settled in her bones. After dusk visits only brought tragedy. Slowly, she rose from bed. Anxiety flowed through her muscles; simple movements a struggle.

Delicate feet dragged across wooden floors. Tired eyes in a haze. She reached for the door knob, the brass cold against her. The young explorer cautiously opened the door. A sheepish plastered. One must be strong in misery.

The exhausted mortal’s eyes dropped; Overhaul curiously before her. The man barely an inch from her. Just as before. The kindling of a blush erupted across her face. Pink, squeezable cheeks.

Overhaul’s urge to touch such a filthy creature was almost overwhelming. And yet, he restrained himself. A promise of fulfilling her desire fueled him. He ached to see her afraid again.

“What are you doing here?” She was unprepared for the gravity of her choice. No soul was worth heroics. Not even a naive mortal’s. Humanity was the last shred of chaos the woman had. Every aspect of her life routine.

A smirk took root. “Moronic girl. I’m fulfilling your greatest desire. Follow.”

A phantom hand guided the woman’s numb body through the village and into the forest. Overhaul only a few paces ahead. A haze developed over her; the extent of her actions a mystery.

She had no memory of adventuring to the occultist Overhaul’s hut, yet, here she was. A dressing gown clad body sat across from gold eyes. The ghost of a smirk still lingered on his face. Her distressed frame was the source for his perverse joy. A sick knot settled into his stomach.

“Do I give you my soul?” she inquired, a sniffle in her tone. Tears building inside her chest.The reality of her agreement attacked her.

Overhaul stifled a chorkle. An unrealistic expectation mortals held. So side-eyed. He assumed nothing less from her. Naivety was an illness. “No, idiot. Strip.”

Her mind glazed over. Robotic limbs carried out the sorcerer’s demand. Dark magicks at work.

“Please… stop. I don’t desire t-this.” The maiden stood before him; horror in wide eyes. She cowered. No memory of disrobing; her heart in her ears. Had he drugged her? Was the vial a love potion?

Gently, gloved hands removed the avian mask and goggles; Overhaul’s face on display. She did not expect him to be handsome. His features carved from stone by da Vinci. The ironic nature not lost. How could a vile man be so beautiful?

“Are you denying yourself your innermost wishes? Do you not quiver for my touch?” Overhaul countered, his gruff voice shrewd. The sorcerer tried to hide his morbid pleasure. Lips curled into a lustful grin. The knot in his stomach was hot. Touch-starved fingertips excited.

He licked his lips. Pining yellow eyes burned into her. The man known as Overhaul drank from her vulnerability. The woman’s soft body was a treat. Only for him.

The mortal blushed. Crimson obvious in the moonlight. “Not like t-this.” She was attracted to him, but every instinct screamed at her to flee. The man was suffocating.

Overhaul reached out, pinching her flesh between his fingers. Tense skin responded to his touch. She shivered.

“A brat like you doesn’t deserve to use my title, don’t you agree? Refer to me as Kai.”

The woman felt helpless beneath him. Even his thin frame towered over her. The height difference only incited Chisaki Kai. Her vulnerability was a luxury. A privilege. She shifted, a futile attempt to escape him.

Kai suddenly grasp the woman; his hands finding purchase around her wrists. Her skin was a map of goosebumps. He pulled her to him; the heat of her body melted into him. A delicate form for him to break. He shuddered at the thought. A tapestry of bruises. Lilac suits you.

“O-Kai. Kai, please let me go. I won’t tell anyone. It hurts,” she pleaded, as purple blossomed on her wrists. The beginning of a bruise. Gloved hands ignored her cries. The filthy mortal’s request only riled up Kai. A throbbing ache formed between his thighs. An urge to bury himself inside her crawled from the back of his psyche.

Lecherous eyes scanned her body. Kai’s body snug against the frightened woman. Clean linens. A faint bouquet of clean linens drifted to him. This must be the essence of the disrobed body before him. Simple fabric separated Kai from eden. The garments weren’t flattering, he convinced himself. That’s why a gloved hand detached from her wrist; her arm falling limp as the sorcerer examined dull cloth between disinterested fingers. Florcets of pink rested twisted into pure horror. Traces of anxiety now settled in her ribs; the woman’s throat choked shut. The lack of sound a disappointment to Kai. The inch on fire with arousal for terrified looks.

“You don’t need this,” Kai whispered, his breath hot against the woman’s exposed skin. Unceremoniously, Kai ripped the brassiere. Fabric ripping the only sound between them. Quick, short breaths followed. The occultist felt overwhelmed. His fantasy before him. Saliva pooled; the man’s mouth flooded.

Delicate skin winced in the biting chill. A free arm shot up in a frantic attempt to cover shame. Chisaki Kai frowned. Adonis features twisted. Fangs threatened in a snarl. “Show me.”

She held steadfast, a lilac now settled into her wrists. The naive explorer refused to allow an erratic man the pleasure of her stripped bosom. A right reserved for lovers. Not a cruel con man.

Gloved hands swiftly detached from her. He harshly pulled off the leather gloves and pathetically tossed them behind him. Kai was finally able to feel her. Feverish hands returned to exposed flesh. Sadistic hands roughly grabbed the numinous woman. A yelp sounded from her, his impatient touch a cause for surprise. In her nerves, she felt a spark.

Yellow eyes marveled at the beauty before him. Inspiration.

“On your knees.”

The mortal woman before him obeyed. Dread flowed through her body. Images of violence danced before her. Promises of Chisaki Kai’s power.

“Not such a bitch, now are we?” Kai teased, a cruel smirk upon his face. Satisfaction from her blind devotion. Warmth tightened against his pants. The compassion he held for her. A little gift for not misbehaving. Kai couldn’t spell his excitement; his chest heaved in anticipation.

“Isn’t t-this enough? I’m begging you; please stop.” A chorus of no’s followed after as Kai pressed the dame’s face against his crotch. His throbbing need now stimulated by the friction. He moaned, the sound deep and guttural. Animalistic.

Satisfied, Kai released her face. Feverish hands unbuttoned his pants. The furor caused slender hands to shake. “I don’t care. You desired this, wicked girl.”

The scared woman audibly gulped, terror and arousal swirled in her mind. Gentle hands found his hard cock. Length throbbed in her palm. The man’s very body craved her touch. She began to tenderly stroke him; her hand exploring veins.

Kai growled, instinctively bucked into her. No time for shame. He could chastise the adventurer later. Her hands were heaven sent. Curiosity mingled with lust. A free hand snaked to her panties. The woman teasing herself. A whine fell from her lips. The syrupy sound encouraged Kai; the sorcerer’s sentence spilling out.

“Suck my cock.”

She stopped pumping him, her hand poised around his head, foreskin pulled down. Innocent eyes viewed the brown haired man. A meek air engulfed the woman. Moist hands now covered the grove of rose upon her cheeks. The heat devouring her. Was she on fire?

Breathe.

Plump lips wrapped around his cock, veins pulsating. Kai’s pleasure was obvious. The flustered woman began to swirl her tongue around him; her hands caressing his manhood. He melted into her touch. The man’s bucking now at a sweltering pace. An idea presented itself.

He knew he had to be quick. Otherwise, she could bite him. A degloved hand shoved her head down him. The wet chasm of her mouth coupled with gagged sent Kai into ecstasy. The knot branded into his stomach, working its way to his chest. An orgasm approaching.

“Don’t fucking stop,” the auburn man mewled. Spit spewed from the asphyxiated woman; droplets decorating his hips. She needed to breathe, he reasoned. Hands clawed at thighs in a vain attempt for air. He released her.

Hungry lungs inhaled; the aroma of wood and flower heaven sent.

“No more…” she rasped. Voice hoarse from the man’s violent bucking. Snot leaked from her nose, eyes brimmed with tears.

She looked so broken, Kai realized. The fire within him a roaring blaze. A dire need exploded in his chest. The man roughly grabbed the woman’s face, shoving her against him again.

An anxiety fueled mouth played with his length. Muffled cries juxtaposed against moans. Tiny streaks of fear now displayed down her cheeks. Pink cheeks shining.

Orgasic euphoria burst from Kai. The abrupt event caused her to gag; a sloppy spray of hot cum and saliva ran from the woman’s chin, the final droplets resting against her bosom.

#chisaki kai x reader #overhaul x reader #bnha #smut #quirkless!au

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nevillel · 5 years ago

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⧼ chella man, trans man, he/him / ask by the smiths + the scent of sun-hot grass under your trainers as you tromp off for an afternoon of exploration, the darkness of the night before only in the back of your mind, not following you into the light; the cable-knit sweater flecked with old housepaint and frayed at the wrists that substitutes for the embrace for which you can’t voice your need; collapsing to your knees on the blood-stained cobblestones because it’s over, it’s over, but then why does it still follow you?⧽ ━━ hey, isn’t that NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the TWENTY-FOUR year old pureblood WIZARD is a GRYFFINDOR alumnus who has gone on to be a HERBOLOGIST WITH A SMALL SHOP IN DIAGON ALLEY. i’ve heard they can be quite COURAGEOUS & COMPASSIONATE, but i don’t know… they came off very BASHFUL & RETICENT in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it?

pinterest || playlist

quick stats

name: neville longbottom age: 24 gender: male. he is not married to any particular concept of masculinity, but he only uses he/him pronouns and the terms wizard, son, boyfriend, etc. sexuality: he doesn’t use a label for his sexuality, but he often prefers emotional connections first. he could fall for people of any gender. blood status: pureblood and most assuredly a blood traitor. despite this, however, he lives in a very wix-y way without a mobile phone or a television. he’s not opposed to technology, just not very good with it. hogwarts house: gryffindor. he thought he was sorted wrong for a while, but he was always proud of his house. and then he pulled out the sword of godric gryffindor and killed a snake, so that’s that. patronus: incorporeal, though it can still be powerful and effective when he casts it with enough determination. wand: purchased before ollivander’s disappearance. 13 inches, solid yet a bit yielding. cherry wood with a unicorn hair core profession: herbologist. has learned hands-on, not professionally certified. small business owner. researcher residence: a small studio flat above his shop pets: none. hasn’t gotten another toad since trevor ran away from him at the lake. tends to feed the stray cats of diagon, kind of wants a dog likes: tea, hugs, springtime, the outdoors, sturdy boots and flannel, writing and receiving letters, soup and sandwich deals, spending quiet time with friends, emotional openness, cooperation and solidarity, hand-made gifts dislikes: fancy clothes, dishonesty, cruelty, superiority, severus snape and bellatrix lestrange, getting too drunk or using drugs, quidditch statistics talk, flying on brooms, having to transfigure anything, being the center of attention for too long, uneven spots on the cobblestone

biography

[Triggering subjects in backstory include dysphoria, trauma, bullying, body image issues, child abuse, drowning, torture mentions, mental health.]

The Longbottom family is an ancient one with origins in China, their surname once Liang. However, a branch has been established in England for centuries, and they are a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight with a complicated sense of pride about it. Their historical alignment has not been as consistent as some families; they didn’t always Sort to one House, they married into families on both sides of many divides, they were both agricultural and urban in turns.

One consistency was that for several consecutive generations, Longbottoms married other purebloods of East Asian descent. Alice, whose family is Jewish, was an obvious deviation from the pattern, but Frank had fallen for her so emphatically and they were such an ideal match that no one really stood in their way. And they were so happy together, for the time they had together as two independent people taking on the world as a pair.

A baby was born to Frank and Alice Longbottom on July 30, 1996, as the seventh month died. Brave Aurors who were focused on the war, Frank and Alice were nevertheless doting and attentive parents. They had always been prepared for the possibility of war leaving their child behind, and their wills named the fearsome Augusta Longbottom, matriarch of the ancient Sacred Twenty-Eight family, as alternate guardian. When tragedy struck, Augusta took her grandchild to the Longbottom lands in Lancashire.

Growing up, the Longbottoms’ living heir very quickly realized that he was a boy. While a traditional pureblood in many ways, Augusta was also fiercely progressive, and she aimed to smooth his journey as much as possible. Great care was taken to scrub mentions of his assignation at birth and his deadname from all records, and a Hogwarts letter came for Neville, which would have been his parents’ first choice of name for the boy they didn’t know they would have.

While the family was supportive of Neville’s trans identity, they were less understanding about his struggles with magic. For a long time, it was thought that Neville was a Squib. His uncle Algernon “Algie” Longbottom threw him off of a pier in Blackpool in an effort to get him to manifest his magic. The impact ruptured his eardrums, and while there was an easy magical fix to the injury, Neville was too scared to tell anyone for a long time, and he experienced partial hearing loss. While Healed, Neville still likes to use signs and body language to communicate sometimes. He’s curious about the use of signing for spell-casting without vocalization or wands and has wondered before whether that would help him with some magic with which he still has difficulty.

During his time at Hogwarts, Neville’s physical transition followed a schedule similar to puberty with Poppy Pomfrey helping administer the Attisgali Corrective Draught in the appropriate doses. There were stretches during his seventh year when the supply chain for Potions ingredients was disrupted. Because of this, on top of everything else, that year was when he felt the worst dysphoria he has experienced before or since.

Because of the nature of his transition, it is not necessarily public knowledge that Neville is trans. It can be assumed that family members, close friends, and romantic connections are aware. Additionally, people who are old enough to remember him being born may be aware. As a result, while Neville was bullied throughout his school career for his awkwardness and ineptness, he did not face specifically transphobic harassment. The fear was always in the back of his mind, however, forming a complex interaction with his insecurities and trauma. He’s always been sure that he was male. He was just never sure whether he was man enough.

He helped defeat Voldemort by slicing the head off of Nagini and then killing him at last along with his friends and comrades of Dumbledore’s Army. Theirs was a bittersweet triumph, but at last, Neville knew in his heart that he was a man that would have made his parents proud. Nevertheless, he still struggles with self-worth, including body image issues on occasion. He’s trying to do the positive self-talk in the mirror thing, but sometimes he’d rather just exist.

The hope of green growing things means everything to Neville. Pomona Sprout was a mentor for him at Hogwarts, and he still conducts research with her. However, he has chosen to be based out of London instead. He opened his shop in Diagon Alley shortly after graduating from Hogwarts, and despite Augusta Longbottom’s disapproval of his relatively soft career compared to his parents’, he decided that he wanted to honor them by naming his shop Frank & Alice’s Fine Flora.

His shop is a small establishment with a magically Extended greenhouse-like backroom for growing both commercial plants and plants of other use, such as Dittany. At the front of the shop, he sells both domestic and exotic plants, magical and ordinary, including flowers, herbs, and vegetables, both magical and non-magical in nature. He also lives in a flat above his shop. On the side, he provides consultancy and input on everything from illegal seed possession on the Ministry’s behalf to ailing trees on the trees’ behalf. He sometimes journeys around London and the United Kingdom for field research on native plants and to collect seeds. He is also interested in venturing further afield, but recent events have made him stick more closely to London.

His parents also tie him down to London. He goes to St. Mungo’s and spends time with them as often as he can bear. They do know him and they do love him. He’s convinced of that. But he hasn’t given up hope, not entirely, that they might be healed one day, and he might know them as they were before their torture by Bellatrix Lestrange.

He is one-third leader of Dumbledore’s Army in its third reincarnation, and he takes his duties extremely seriously. Neville has more confidence in himself now, and he certainly believes in the power of their collective action against the forces of darkness rising again in their world. He does not, however, put a lot of faith in institutions, including but not limited to the Ministry of Magic and the Daily Prophet. This mistrust does also sometimes extend to people older or in greater positions of authority than himself.

In his mind, he and his peers have been let down and failed one too many times by them. Neville would rather they take matters into their own hands as they did before.

Neville remains in contact with many friends from Hogwarts and has made many new ones. He’s still a bit awkward and frequently forgetful, terminally clumsy, and not the world’s most skilled wizard apart from his reflexes when dueling and his exceptional aptitude for Herbology. While he hasn’t been able to bring himself to attend support group meetings, he’s always slowly processing and healing from everything that has happened and continues to happen. He’s more forgiving of past transgressions than others, and he feels that he can occasionally reach out across the aisle. He has no tolerance for bullies, however, and although he is gentle-natured, that is a vehement position for him. Largely a pacifist, he’s also not afraid to fight for what is right, yet again.

plotted/played connections

(alphabetical by first name)

alicia spinnet - close friend. appreciates her warmth and looks up to her. is letting her teach him to fly draco malfoy - diagon alley neighbor, since they work in the apothecary. considers a colleague, still a bit uncertain about where they stand, but they’ve had some oddly illuminating conversations dudley dursley - slightly suspicious around him but trying to be open-minded ginny weasley - his best friend. has a matching cactus tattoo with her that they can use to communicate emotion. merry lestrange - doesn’t know it, but she’s his cousin. unexpectedly saved his life. very curious to know who she is oliver wood - they were never quite in the same circles in school, but they have mutual respect for each other. susan bones - likes her personally, wary because of her senior position in the ministry for someone their age. they fought over her not rejoining the da. sybill trelawney - former professor. thinks she’s a bit strange, respects that. does not know that she made a prophecy that once potentially pointed to him--unbeknownst to everyone, it turned out that neville was also a boy born in july with the power to defeat the dark lord. viktor krum - secret pen pals. the two most awkward men on the planet.

wanted connections

augusta longbottom! if you bring her, i’ll love you forever, and we can renegotiate anything above. family - longbottom cousin! should be at least part-chinese. see wcs! professional connections - herbologists, people who work with magical creatures, other diagon alley shopkeepers, potential collaborators friends - i love a good friendship thread! feel free to assume friendship but i’ll also happily plot. enemies?? - death eaters and their allies. people who used to bully him and haven’t turned that around. also, people on the ‘same side’ as neville but who believe in different methods and approaches to the point where they butt heads. past partner - neville chooses not to label his sexuality, but this could be someone of any gender. if not someone who was a friend, it was likely something with an emotional level to it, possibly long-term, as neville isn’t really one for casual. if a friend, it could have been one awkward kiss or date.

any - i’m always open to other ideas!

(header img credit @ ofmccnlight)

#nox.intro #updated 10.6.2020

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littlemissonewhoisall · 6 years ago

Text

Guide to writing Cassandra Cain

I’ve seen a lot of people in the Bat Family fandom say that they often minimize or exclude Cassandra from their works because they don’t know enough about her. While I HIGHLY recommend reading her Batgirl comic from 2000, I’ve compiled a guide to her personality, abilities, and relationships with other DC characters here for easy reference. (I’ve tried to be as comprehensive as possible, but I’ve probably forgotten something so please feel free to add onto this if you know the character well)

PERSONALITY

Cassandra has a difficult time with language, spoken or written. This generally manifests through her relying on body language and single-word sentences to get her point across. When she needs to speak, it is halting and awkward, but not broken. She will pause frequently, mumble, or use Malapropisms, but she is a perfectionist and is frustrated when she doesnt use perfect grammar or pronunciation. At times she will be unable to find the words for a particular thought. She usually is portrayed as being unable to read or write.

Cass sometimes uses mimicry when she has trouble putting words together herself, quoting films, tv shows, and plays.

Cassandra is compassionate above all else. She values life, and protecting it is her highest priority. She will not hesitate to put herself in danger to save others, and does not tolerate killing.

Cassandra has a strong guilt complex. Anyone who dies on her watch weighs heavily on her conscience, even if there was nothing she could’ve done to stop it. She does not let go of these “failures” easily.

Cassandra has little regard for societal norms and expectations. While generally caring and compassionate, she often comes across as rude due to spending most of her life either locked in a bunker or surviving in the wilderness. This includes poor table manners, a tendency to lurk in the shadows, and mirroring her adoptive father’s habit of coming and going without warning.

Cassandra has great pride in her physical prowess, but little in her moral character. Though she has a strong moral code and is quick to intervene when others break it, she does not see herself as above them and may even have more faith in them than in herself, as she still feels that she may not be able to rise above her upbringing. She can be rather arrogant about her superior agility and combat prowess, however.

Cassandra is fond of friendly jibes and snark, usually but not always expressed nonverbally. Her sense of humor is slightly unconventional, but usually good-natured.

Cassandra wears her heart on her sleeve. She is very emotional, and her past trauma can make her emotionally vulnerable, especially because of her lack of communicative skills. Her emotions show through her entire body, even when she doesn’t vocalize them.

Cassandra is quick to leap before looking, but excellent at adapting to unexpected situations. She is a poor planner and rather impulsive, with a rebellious streak that sometimes makes it hard for her to listen to instructions. However, she is great at thinking on her feet and analyzing her situation in the moment.

Cassandra does not do things in half measures. When she wants to learn something, such as reading or detective work, she is eager to dive into the deep end even if it’s not always the best way to approach it. As mentioned before she is also a perfectionist when it comes to herself, so this approach often leads to frustration.

Cassandra is very physically affectionate, with little mind for personal space. This often comes in the form of gently touching the face of someone she believes to be in pain.

Cassandra is extremely empathetic, to the point that it can be overwhelming for her at times. She is very good at spotting falsehoods, hidden pain, etc.

Despite this, she often misinterprets social cues. For instance, when Barbara and Dick were going through a rough patch in their relationship, she though Dick had intentionally done something to hurt Barbara, and threw him out a window.

ABILITIES

Cass is fast. Really, really fast. She can move incredibly quickly and quietly, making her very hard to track.

Cass has a shocking amount of strength for her small size. She has punched through 3-inch thick quartz glass, kicked down concrete walls, and thrown a metahuman more than twice her size without issue.

Her primary advantage comes from her ability to read body language and predict her opponents’ actions, allowing her to dodge bullets and outmaneuver pretty much any non powered opponent. This ability does not work on robots, animals, or sufficiently nonhuman aliens.

Cassandra is a contender for the world’s best martial artist, along with Lady Shiva and Richard Dragon. She can pick up new fighting styles nearly instantly, allowing her to learn and adapt techniques she’s never encountered before.

Cass is an incredible acrobat, though not as good as Nightwing.

Cass is able to control the amount of force she uses to the point that she doesn’t usually have to worry about killing even when using normally lethal techniques.

She is able to use pressure points to paralyze someone nearly instantly, though she has only shown the ability to use it on those who do not expect her to attack.

She can stop a person’s heart using a special technique, and in later appearances was able to do so without endangering the person for a good length of time, though they’d still die if not revived within that time period.

She is very good at analyzing her surroundings, which has helped her solve cases.

Cassandra is exceptional at dividing her attention and energy, able to coordinate herself to the point that government agents assumed she was a metahuman.

She is very good at the intimidation side of the job, able to terrify even trained killers.

RELATIONSHIPS

Cassandra is very close to Stephanie Brown, who was her first real friend. She can be a bit overprotective of her, even using violence to keep her out of fights that Cass thinks will be too much for her, though she has largely grown out of that and these days has a lot more faith in her. Cassandra is able to unwind with Stephanie in ways that she has trouble doing with around other people, even those she trusts like Barbara and Tim. When Stephanie seemingly died, Cassandra was deeply affected, becoming shorter-tempered and more violent.

Cassandra sees Barbara as the mother she never had, and values her insight. Though she often chafes at Barbara’s well-intentioned attempts to get her to see beyond her life as Batgirl, she still cares deeply for her.

Cass sees Bruce as somewhat of a father figure as well as a bit of an idol, and seeks his approval. When she believes that she has disappointed him, it can be devastating for her. However, she also recognizes his pain and trauma, and sympathizes strongly with it. Her admiration also doesn’t always mean she’ll do what he says.

While Cassandra and Dick don’t always get along (as mentioned earlier), she usually sees him as a mentor and big brother, and she is often more relaxed around him than most people.

Cass and Jason’s interactions have been largely confrontational, and it’s likely that further encounters would be similar, as she is strongly opposed to lethal force and would endeavor to stop him if she could. That said, she would almost certainly understand the pain he went through, and would try to get through to him with words as much as she is capable, rather than immediately resorting to violence.

Cass and Tim have a long and complicated history. While the two of them started off rather tense, with Tim being somewhat intimidated by her, they soon grew very close, and treat each other as siblings. Their strengths complement each other, and they are able to work in synch with each other very well. She has also been known to break into his house to steal food and take a shower.

Like Jason, Cass’s interactions with Damian are few and far between. Their first meeting didn’t end well, as Cassandra pulled him from a building when he was disarming a bomb despite his protests that he could handle it. While she found some of what he said hurtful, she didn’t seem to hold much of a grudge, and I think they could find common ground due to their similar backgrounds.

Cassandra and Duke seem to be friends, though beyond that little is known of their relationship.

Cassandra is close with Harper Row, and the two of them definitely care for one another despite the troubled history between them.

Cass and Jean-Paul Valley bonded quickly over their shared inexperience with society, and they are both very fond of one-another.

Cassandra is friends with Dinah Lance, who she has been shown to train with on occasion.

Cass does not get along with Helena Bertinelli for obvious reasons, and when they worked together during the Battle for the Cowl there was quite a bit of tension between them.

Cassandra had a close relationship with Basil Karlo/Clayface during the time that he had reformed, as she had faith in his ability to change. His apparent death devastated her.

Her relationship with her biological father is complicated. Though she has always despised what he does for a living, it took a long time for her to come to terms with how badly he treated her.

Cass’s relationship with her biological mother is even more complex. In most depictions, Cassandra respects Shiva in some ways, but is also troubled by all of the lives that she’s taken.

#cassandra cain #Bat Family #bat fam #batkids #batfam #DC comics #bat kids #batgirl #black bat #orphan #kasumi #cass cain #cassandra wayne #blackbat

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seirioscanis · 5 years ago

Text

{ low on self-esteem, so you run on gasoline }

𝖖 𝖚 𝖔 𝖙 𝖊 𝖘

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” -- Albert Camus

“We are unusual, tragic, and alive.” -- Dave Eggers

“I have a very childlike rage, and a very childlike loneliness.” -- Richey Edwards

“’Are you implying that shreds of my reputation remain intact?’ Will demanded with mock horror. ‘Clearly I have been doing something wrong. Or not something wrong, as the case may be.’ He banged on the side of the carriage. ‘Thomas! We must away at once to the nearest brothel. I seek scandal and low companionship.’” -- Will Herondale, Clockwork Angel

“Many atrocities have been done in the name of the greater good.” -- Rhysand, A Court of Mist and Fury

𝖇 𝖆 𝖘 𝖎 𝖈

NAME: Sirius Orion Black NICKNAMES: Padfoot, Pads AGE: 20 BIRTHDAY: 3 November 1959 GENDER: Demiboy, not that he has the word for that PRONOUNS: he/they

𝖋 𝖆 𝖒 𝖎 𝖑 𝖞

MOTHER: Walburga Black ( 55 ) FATHER: Orion Black ( 51, deceased ) SIBLINGS: Regulus Arcturus Black ( 18, deceased )

𝖕 𝖍 𝖞 𝖘 𝖎 𝖈 𝖆 𝖑 𝖆𝖙𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖇𝖚𝖙𝖊𝖘

FACE CLAIM: Samuel Larsen BUILD: Slim and muscular HAIR: Shoulder length and thick, normally kept in a bun HAIR COLOR: Black EYE COLOR: Brown SKIN COLOR: Pale DOMINANT HAND: Right handed, teaching himself slowly to write with his left as well for the hell of it (note: the handwriting is still awful). ANOMALIES: a scar on his upper right lip, ironically a small cluster of star-shaped birthmarks on his left hip (which he hates), a few old cigarette burns on his knees SCENT: leather, old spice, barber shop hair gel, cigarette smoke, motor oil ACCENT: British ALLERGIES: slightly lactose intolerant DISORDERS: Major depression, generalized anxiety, PTSD due to childhood trauma FASHION: Punk rock baby, though probably a bit out of date compared to what muggles are wearing now. He took what he could get during school, and now there’s not enough time in the day to work, be in the Order, and go shopping. NERVOUS TICS: His body becomes more tense, and his eyes dart around the room to search for an exit (or several if possible). He also subconsciously takes a step back from whatever is making him nervous, occasionally messes with his hair to try and act casual (though he does that when he’s bored as well, so it has to be seen with one of the others to be considered a sign of his nerves). If he’s particularly high strung, he’ll lose his nerve completely and lash out, no matter if it’s good or bad for the situation at hand. QUIRKS: Like mentioned above, he messes with his hair a lot when he’s bored, usually pulling it out of its hair tie if up and vice versa if down. He paces when plotting, and purses his lips when he’s thinking considerably. When he’s particularly happy he’ll do a little jump, and he appears to be vibrating a little even afterward. When uncomfortable he’ll try to push that feeling off with either an argument or joke, again no matter whether one of those choices is the wisest at the time.

𝖑 𝖎 𝖋 𝖊 𝖘 𝖙 𝖞 𝖑 𝖊

RESIDES: Plainview Points Apartments BORN: St. Mungo’s Hospital RAISED: Grimmauld Place, London PETS: n/a

CAREER: Auror-in-Training EXPERIENCE: He was part of the Hogwarts dueling club for two years before being kicked out for unfair sportsmanship. He also got a considerate amount of training in magic from an early age thanks to his family, and his mother in particular taught him a bit of dark magic--or tried to. Not that he would use the dark magic, but if push came to shove... he has a few tricks up his sleeve (or, at the very least, the theory behind some of the darker magics). EMPLOYER: Ministry of Magic

POLITICAL AFFILIATION: Order of the Phoenix BELIEFS: Sirius, without a shadow of a doubt, believes that muggleborns and halfbloods deserve to be equal to purebloods. It took him years to believe he was allowed to have that thought process, but he grabbed onto it once he did. Despite the years of unlearning what his family tried to instill in him, it wasn’t all successful. He does still have a superiority complex, and most definitely thinks himself above squibs, muggles, house elves, and so on. It takes more effort for him to respect their opinions as equal to his own, and though he knows that’s wrong, it’s taking a lot longer than he’d like to unlearn that--if he ever can. MISDEMEANORS: Illegal animagus, chase down with James on Elvendork, driving underage on an unregistered motorcycle, his entire list of detentions at Hogwarts FELONIES: Nothing officially on record, so really he’s as innocent as it gets DRUGS: n/a SMOKES: Way too much to be healthy for his lungs ALCOHOL: Not nearly as bad as his smoking habit DIET: Generally unhealthy because he can’t be bothered to cook

LANGUAGES: English, Latin, Spanish, Italian, French, some German

PHOBIAS: Extremely loud noises, snakes, thunderstorms HOBBIES: Causing general mischief, reading what he can get his hands on, doodling (albeit a bit crudely) TRAITS: { + }: loyal, intelligent, observant, quick-witted, sociable { - }: angry, impulsive, insensitive, defiant, pessimistic

𝖋 𝖆 𝖛 𝖔 𝖗 𝖎 𝖙 𝖊 𝖘

LOCATION: Potter Estate, Prewett Household, Hogwarts SPORTS TEAM: Tutshill Tornadoes GAME: Wizard’s Chess MUSIC: Punk Rock, Celestina Warbeck (not that he’d tell a soul) MOVIES: Has hardly seen any, but is fond of action movies FOOD: Thai BEVERAGE: Whiskey or iced tea COLOR: Dark green

𝖒 𝖆 𝖌 𝖎 𝖈

ALUMNI HOUSE: Gryffindor WAND (length, flexibility, wood, & core): 8 3/4 inches, slightly bendy, yew, rougarou hair core AMORTENTIA: honeysuckles, vanilla, cigarette smoke PATRONUS: Dog BOGGART: His parents standing over him shouting; recently with Regulus by their side asking why he had to die

𝖈 𝖍 𝖆 𝖗 𝖆 𝖈 𝖙 𝖊 𝖗

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good MBTI: ESTP-T MBTI ROLE: The Entrepreneur

“ ESTPs are energetic thrillseekers who are at their best when putting out fires, whether literal or metaphorical. They bring a sense of dynamic energy to their interactions with others and the world around them. They assess situations quickly and move adeptly to respond to immediate problems with practical solutions. Active and playful, ESTPs are often the life of the party and have a good sense of humor. They use their keen powers of observation to assess their audience and adapt quickly to keep interactions exciting. Although they typically appear very social, they are rarely sensitive; the ESTP prefers to keep things fast-paced and silly rather than emotional or serious. “

ENNEAGRAM: Type 8 ENNEAGRAM ROLE: The Challenger

” People of this personality type are essentially unwilling to be controlled, either by others or by their circumstances; they fully intend to be masters of their fate. Eights are strong willed, decisive, practical, tough minded and energetic. They also tend to be domineering; their unwillingness to be controlled by others frequently manifests in the need to control others instead. When healthy, this tendency is kept under check, but the tendency is always there, nevertheless, and can assume a central role in the Eight's interpersonal relationships. ”

TEMPERAMENT: Choleric

“ The choleric temperament is fundamentally ambitious and leader-like. They have a lot of aggression, energy, and/or passion, and try to instill it in others. They can dominate people of other temperaments, especially phlegmatic types. Many great charismatic military and political figures were choleric. They like to be in charge of everything. However, cholerics also tend to be either highly disorganized or highly organized. They do not have in-between setups, only one extreme to another. As well as being leader-like and assertive, cholerics also fall into deep and sudden depression. Essentially, they are very much prone to mood swings. “

WESTERN ZODIAC: Scorpio

“ Passionate, independent, and unafraid to blaze their own trail no matter what others think, Scorpios make a statement wherever they go. They love debates, aren't afraid of controversy, and won't back down from a debate. They also hate people who aren't genuine, and are all about being authentic—even if authentic isn't pretty. Because of all of these traits, a Scorpio can seem intimidating and somewhat closed off to those who don't know them well. But what people don't realize is that even though Scorpio may seem brusque, as a water sign, they also are very in tune with their emotions, and sometimes may find themselves caught up in their feelings. This leads to Scorpio's central conflict: Their feelings are what drives them and strengthens them, but their mutability can scare them and make them feel vulnerable and out of control. Because of this conflict, Scorpios, like their namesake, the scorpion, put up an outer shell and may seem prickly. But once people get beyond the shell, they find a loyal, loving person whose passion knows no bounds. Scorpio dives into all life has to offer with 110% enthusiasm. A Scorpio will be your most loyal friend, most dedicated employee—and your worst enemy, if they want to be. “

CHINESE ZODIAC: Year of the Pig

“ Pig is mild and a lucky animal representing carefree fun, good fortune and wealth. Personality traits of the people born under the sign of the Pig are happy, easygoing, honest, trusting, educated, sincere and brave. The possible dark sides the Pig people are stubbornness, naive, over-reliant, self-indulgent, easy to anger and materialistic. They are sometimes regarded as being lazy. “

PRIMAL SIGN: Squid

“ Squids are powerful personalities that can only be ‘checked and balanced’ by themselves. They are highly capable, intelligent individuals who seem to know everything. Generally good natured, they also have a hidden inner dark side which resides deep within themselves. No one is allowed into this secret place, often not even themselves. Squids will even try to bury painful truths within themselves in order to avoid dealing with difficult emotions and situations. “

TAROT CARD: Justice, High Priestess

“ Justice and The High Priestess have in common that everything is accounted for. Justice examines everything for flaws in order to find its flawless essence. The High Priestess knows the secret of everything as it is in order to encompass everything. Justice demands of everything its true nature and essence, with nothing concealed, withheld or distorted. It tirelessly weighs and measures, satisfied with nothing less than the clear, the absolute, and the irreduceable in everything. Justice is adamant and uncompromising with its sword and scales, loud and clear in its redness, fearless and certain on its throne, guarding the entrance to the temple of the secrets of perfection. The High Priestess finds what is the same in everything, the secret unifying core hidden in the endless variation of detail. She patiently discovers in all differences what is true, original and undisturbed in everything. The High Priestess is accepting and inclusive with her scroll and cross, calm and quiet in her blueness, fearless and certain on her throne, guarding the entrance to the temple of final knowledge. Unintegrated and imperfectly realized, Justice can be given to rage and haste; it can become arrogant and hypercritical, aggrieved and vengeful, or uncertain and vacillating. The High Priestess can be a conceited know-it-all, moody and taciturn, secret and unapproachable; she can be despairing and lost, or given to excess and careless of consequences. Together, they dream of the perfect, the ultimate, and pursue it in more than one kind of undertaking. They continuously seek the truth, and in its service they are drawn to esoteric studies and unusual paths. “

TV TROPES: White Sheep, Jerk with a Heart of Gold, In the Blood, Hot-blooded, Good is Not Nice, Cultural Rebel, Badass Biker SONGS: Gasoline, Halsey; The Future Freaks Me Out, Motion City Soundtrack; This is the End (For You My Friend), Anti-Flag; Hate Conquers All, Anti-Flag; Downtempo, Scouting for Girls;

IDEOLOGIES: - Actively cuts out everyone who was part of his childhood unless they’ve somehow proven they can be trusted again; he avoids his family at all costs. - The day he found out he was lactose intolerant, however mild, was a mournful day. He sulked about Hogwarts for about a week. - Legitimately tried to swim to the bottom of the Black Lake and see the giant squid. Never succeeded. - If you bring peanut butter anywhere near him he will chuck it across the room. He hates it. - Genuinely enjoys being a dog more than a human sometimes. Yes, he’s aware of the irony. - The only people allowed to make puns off of his name are James, Peter, Remus, Lily, and Marlene. He’ll get annoyed at anyone else who tries (also wise to avoid using the word serious around him for the above reason). - Keeps telling himself he’ll quit smoking someday. The likelihood of that actually happening is about slim to none, RIP to Sirius’ lungs.

#you don't have to be who they say you need to be -- { about }#dulcetask

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journalxxx · 6 years ago

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Contrapasso

Maxwell wasn’t a fool.

There were several elements that may have lured a lesser man into a false sense of security. The fact that he was still alive, first and foremost. That had been a surprise in and of itself, although he hadn’t quite decided yet whether it was a pleasant one. One did not intertwine his own mind, body and soul with the darkest forces in the universe simply to walk it off when said connection was brutally severed. Turning into dust was a remarkably tamer consequence than he’d imagined for being torn from the throne, and waking up anew, fully endowed with his own sense of self and most of his humanity, had been quite the shock. He supposed it made sense for Them to want to squeeze every drop of fun They could possibly get from him, even past the expiration date of his Reign. One more death, or maybe a dozen, in the Hell of his own making. The irony didn’t escape him.

Secondly, the Codex. He hadn’t seen, actually seen, that damned book in ages. When the throne had ensnared him, he had more or less… incorporated it. Well no, such an insulting wording was likely to earn him the rage of the greater powers: it had incorporated him. Like one of its many pages, a relatively self-contained bit of essence that relied entirely on the whole to realize its meaning and potential. The simile was somewhat shaky, he realized that, but after all one couldn’t get even close to describing the deep and complex entity that was the Codex Umbra without looking past the trivial form it had assumed on Earth. Nevertheless, despite the pains and misfortunes it had brought him, Maxwell had felt only relief when he had found the precious tome in his pocket. Power was power, after all, and it would have been unwise not to feast on the crumbles They were willing to hand out to a discarded ant stranded in an unforgiving world. The puppets, as frail and mindless as they were, were still invaluable help in his daily struggles, and he could only count himself lucky for having them.

Lastly, the world itself. Faithful to its name, it was still the same old Constant he himself had crafted. Same monsters, same biomes, same extreme weather that was barely compatible with human life. The new management hadn’t interfered with its inner workings in the slightest; in fact, it hadn’t even made itself known to Maxwell, neither for revenge, nor for gloating, nor for threats, which was admittedly surprising. Reassuring, an imbecile might have thought. An optimistic idiot may have interpreted all these facts as a benevolent sign, as a generous second chance to prove his worth, even with a quantum of regard for his less than optimal physical shape. An utter moron may have taken all these facts as a promise of hope, of goodwill from a new ruler that wasn’t nearly as vicious as his predecessor.

But Maxwell wasn’t a fool.

So that evening, when shadow tendrils sprouted from the ground without warning as he was calmly munching on his meatballs, he wasn’t too surprised. When they coiled around his neck, arms and legs and forced him to kneel on the very dirt he had created, he already knew what to expect. Or rather, who. And soon enough, the silhouette of the new King manifested from the darkness, walking slowly towards him, head bent down and eyes fixed on the dust his steps were raising, as if he was evaluating it.

The first thing that surprised Maxwell about Wilson’s appearance was, frankly, his body. He was still the same undersized, minute figure he had always been, and Maxwell couldn’t help but wonder if Wilson hadn’t realized he could change the appearance of his projection at will, or if he was genuinely happy with his natural and utterly non-threatening build. It just seemed weird that he hadn’t used his newfound powers to grant himself a few extra inches, especially considering that he had tweaked his aspect elsewhere. His hair, his pride and joy, was more luxuriant than ever: wavy locks adorned his head like a crown, each strand slightly flickering and swaying like shadowy smoke, or maybe dark fire. It was a quirky optical effect, impossible to describe, but it was admittedly impressive. There were few strings of white strategically placed in that mane, and all that was left of the vibrant red of his old waistcoat was the crimson touch of his tie. Everything else in his new form was black and ashen: his three-piece suit, his shoes, his complexion.

Wilson didn’t look at him. He stopped near the firepit and let his gaze wander around Maxwell’s base, taking in the shoddy tent, the charred crockpot, the odd prestihatitator with palpable disinterest. His eyes briefly lingered on Chester, which Maxwell had found only few days prior. The dumb creature didn’t react to his master’s presence, it simply kept panting and drooling at them both, its lumpy paws folded on its precious bone. Wilson didn’t react to the sight of what had been his only source of companionship for months either.

“Not bad, pal.” Maxwell broke the silence, with the barest smile. Their roles may be reversed, Wilson may now be and even look the part of the uncaring false God who had the last word on Maxwell’s torture, but the former King would rather be struck down on the spot than letting him have the first one too. “Not bad."

Wilson finally turned towards Maxwell’s prone figure. He stared at his chest, silently. It was starting to grate on Maxwell’s nerves, to be honest. Wasn’t he even worth derision, scorn, any sort of interaction? Or had the throne squashed his original personality so thoroughly? If Wilson was going to stick to that sort of charade, he’d spoil all the fun for the both of them. Maxwell mentally reached to the duelist and the two gatherers hidden behind the tent, and found them still in his control. He wasn’t planning to make them attack, because there was no point, the King could swat such feeble annoyances like flies, but maybe it would be worth just for the sake of eliciting a reaction-

Suddenly, Wilson reached down to him and, for the briefest moment, a spark of fear raced through Maxwell’s nerves, an instinctive reaction to those sharp fingers moving straight towards his heart. Wilson’s claw did not burrow in his flesh, though; it delicately slithered under the hem of his jacket, removing the object from Maxwell’s inner pocket. Wilson weighted the Codex in his hands, considering its crude front and flipping slowly through the weathered pages, still silent, still blank. Then, in a blink, he vanished, along with the bonds around Maxwell’s body.

“...Hey!” Maxwell finally said a good minute later, to absolutely no one. He stood up when it was clear that that had been it, the new King’s first apparition to his former persecutor. Rather underwhelming, really. He patted his jacket, pointlessly, for he wasn’t really expecting the Codex to reappear so soon, or at all. Well, that was a pickle. He studied what remained of his renewable magic workforce, standing idly where he’d left it. He’d better make those three last, he supposed.

It was a good month before Maxwell received the next visit. Wilson materialized in Maxwell’s camp with even less fanfare than before: no tendrils or monsters, just him, suddenly casting his small shadow on his half-asleep pawn.

“Grab a lantern.”

“...Oh, good. You can still talk. God knows I can’t stand pantomimes.” Maxwell sat up unhurriedly, meeting Wilson’s gaze with no little satisfaction. About time the shadow twerp dropped the superior act. He made no move to obey, and Wilson waited a tad too long before talking, as far as imposing silence went.

“I said grab a lantern.”

“What if I don’t?”

That didn’t make Wilson angry, unfortunately. He looked simply confused, staring at Maxwell like one would stare at a brand-new machine that inexplicably broke down. “You’re coming anyway. You can grab a lantern now or perish in the darkness in a minute.”

Albeit very poorly delivered, the threat was real enough to push Maxwell to ruefully fetch the tool. “And where are we-”

The world shifted before he finished his sentence. The comforting glow of the firepit disappeared, replaced by the smaller circle of light granted by Maxwell’s lantern. Even though the place was mostly enveloped in darkness, he instantly recognized it. The characteristic color and the crude carvings of the turf under his feet were unmistakable, as well as the peculiar smell of the stagnant air, an intense mix of moss, stone, and fuel that filled one’s lungs as thickly as water.

“What can you tell me about these ruins?” Wilson asked, gazing past the blackness. Maxwell stood up and took a few steps in a random direction. Piles of broken clockworks and assorted pottery lay scattered around the area; two rows of golden statues of creatures that had long since ceased to exist glinted eerily from opposite sides of the large room. He kept his distance from the relics as he strolled past them, making sure not to stray too far from Wilson.

“Ah... Not much more than you already know, probably. You’d better ask Them.”

“They are quite reticent about this topic, and the Codex isn’t any clearer.” Wilson’s voice echoed clearly in the perfect stillness of the atmosphere. It still had its usual high timbre, but the utter lack of emotion was enough to make it sound less juvenile. “You said you created this whole world from scratch, didn’t you? If that’s true, that must mean you made these ruins too.”

“...Yes, and no.” Maxwell acknowledged. He headed back to the center of the chamber, shivering from the underground chill. He wasn’t interested in exploring, nor had he ever been especially interested in the remains of that wretched civilization. By the time he had learnt of its existence, it was far too late for cautionary tales. “I found only dust and void when I first arrived in the Constant, yes, but they weren’t… chaotic. They bore traces of what had been here before me in their very nature. Intangible ones, mind you.”

He paused, and he noticed that Wilson was observing him with genuine interest. Confound the man, he was still an open book. One only needed to dangle a juicy bit of trivia before his nose to obtain his undivided attention. Well, better that way. No doubt Maxwell could find a way to turn Wilson’s insatiable curiosity to his own advantage.

“It was like a disassembled jigsaw puzzle, you get me?” He continued. “Scattered particles and sparks of magic with different forms and qualities, an apparent mess with no obvious head or tail, but… if you paid close attention, you could dimly see a bigger picture. I did try to recreate at least a portion of what was before, and this is the result.”

“...Ah. You had no idea what you were doing then. You were simply following an outline laid out by someone else, out of sheer curiosity.“ Wilson paused meaningfully. “Fascinating.”

That gave Maxwell pause. “I suppose you could put it that way.” He eventually said evenly. He was well past the point of caring about every little sarcastic twist They or anyone else may have imparted on his life anyway.

“And then? Why did you rebuild only so little?”

“They didn’t like it.” Maxwell shrugged. “They had already destroyed the world I was reassembling. They were bored of it. They wanted something new to toy with, so I just gave Them that.”

“...I see. A pity-”

“And I bet They aren’t too fond of you snooping down here as well, instead of entertaining Them properly.” Maxwell added with a smirk. “You’d better focus on what’s required of you, pal. Before They get impatient.”

“I have been granted both the freedom and the power to pursue whatever endeavour I desire. You needn’t concern yourself about such matters.” Ah, such ingenuity! Had he still had the tiniest shred of sympathy in him, he may have even felt pity for the naive little man, and the obvious ruin that lay in his path. As things stood, however, he just couldn’t wait to witness it. “What else do you know about the Ancients?”

“A few things.” Maxwell smiled affably, putting down the lantern and clasping his hands behind his back. “And I’d be more than glad to share such information with you, if you were kind enough to return the favor.”

Wilson blinked stolidly.

“The Codex.” Maxwell patiently explained. “You have no real need for it, do you? It is merely a reflection of Their essence, after all. Useless to someone who stands as close to Them as you do. To me, on the other hand, it is a priceless aid. I believe They wish me to keep it anyway, since They gracefully allowed me to retain it after you succeeded me. If you-”

“No.” Wilson interrupted him curtly. “Tell me what you know.”

“Come on, consider my position, pal.” Wilson’s dogged single-mindedness was positively grating, without even mentioning his dreadfully incompetent attitude. However, Maxwell was an adept liar, if nothing else. “It would take me far longer than a single night to dispel your every doubt. And if I die, as it will happen sooner than later if I’m stripped of my most important asset, your questions shall remain unanswered. What would it cost you to-”

“Are you seriously trying to bargain with me?” Suddenly, Wilson’s demeanour changed completely. There was a dangerous edge in his tone, as sharp as a scalpel, one that was completely extraneous to the scatterbrained scientist Maxwell had known and despised. Maxwell raised one hand placatingly.

“I’m simply asking for-”

“Look here, you miserable worm.” Wilson moved towards him and Maxwell, despite himself, took a step back, stumbling against a statue that, he was sure of it, hadn’t been there a moment before. Inky tentacles erupted from the polished gold and trapped him against it, coiling more than once around his neck and forehead to block his head firmly on the spot. “You should be kissing the ground I walk on simply because I didn’t wipe you off my world the moment I noticed you were still crawling around it. I don’t have time for your idiocy. Start talking before I dig your brain out of your nose and rummage into it myself.”

For the very first time, Maxwell found himself gazing straight into the new King’s eyes: two large pools of blackness, framed by a shimmering iris of an ineffable, ever-changing hue, currently veering towards a fierce shade of scarlet. “Hey, all right, no need to-”

“In fact,” Wilson added, and unceremoniously shoved two clawed fingers up Maxwell’s nostrils, “I may as well.”

Pain exploded in Maxwell’s head without warning, immense, horrendous, indescribable. Fluid shadow wormed its way into his skull, freezing and burning his very bones from the inside out. It filled his nasal cavity, dripping down his throat and windpipe, disgusting and suffocating, it seeped through whatever feeble tissues stood in its way until it reached its destination, and ravished it. Maxwell had been through his fair share of infernal agony, but in that moment he could not recall experiencing anything more excruciating than that. In that moment, he could not recall or think anything at all, as Wilson probed through his grey matter with all the grace of a butcher, piercing and mincing and slicing away in his meticulous search. Maxwell became aware of his own screams only when he needed to stop to breathe, gasping and convulsing uncontrollably against the tight tendrils, only to begin anew when pain flared up again, impossibly stronger, when Wilson found what he was looking for and latched onto it like a leech.

It ended as abruptly as it had started. Maxwell found himself sprawled on the ground, feverishly clutching his head, palming his face, desperately trying to prevent his own thoughts from trickling down the cracks Wilson must have left in his skull. It took him several anguished minutes to realize that there was no blood on his gloves, no outer sign of damage or injury anywhere. He rolled on his side with a jerk and retched.

“Mh.” Wilson hummed thoughtfully as he paced away from Maxwell, gazing at his surroundings appraisingly. He clicked his tongue, frowning disapprovingly at the statue Maxwell had been tied to. “And yet…”

Maxwell shakily wiped his mouth on his cuff, taking avid gulps of air when the heaves finally receded, his throat burning from the bile. He didn’t dare to speak, until Wilson turned his back to him.

“Higgsbury-” Maxwell croaked, but Wilson had already disappeared. Maxwell didn’t move for a long time, until the ground turned a faint shade of grey under the blooming light of the statues, and a deep thrum echoed in the forgotten chamber.

Maxwell wasn’t a fool.

But there was no denying that he had made a significant miscalculation.

If Maxwell had dared to push his luck with his request and uncooperativeness, it was only because he was perfectly aware of how limited the King’s ability to mess with the survivors was. Not for lack of power, obviously, but for a very precise restriction. They did not appreciate when the King abused his position to punish a pawn arbitrarily. They wanted Their game to be (or at least appear) fair, They wanted each participant to feel capable of overturning their disgraceful doom. It added zest and motivation to their actions, it feeded their anger and spite, and They liked it. Maxwell himself had never dared to go against Their will: even when he was cornered, even when Wilson was literally on his doorstep, he had never raised his hand directly against him, or against anyone else.

Well, except the mime. But that moron had managed to piss Them off too, so he was a bit of special case.

Wilson, however, didn’t seem to be playing by the rules. When and how cruelly his disorderly behavior would be punished was of little consequence or solace to Maxwell, considering the amount of problems it was causing him presently. Stealing the Codex, Maxwell’s unique and personal perk, was an unforgivably cheap shot. Unforeseen accidents and attacks had decimated the few puppets left in less than three weeks, and he was already struggling to keep up with the ungodly amount of food and materials life in the wilderness required him to gather on a daily basis. Then, Wilson had gone and practically kidnapped him, abandoning him in the most dangerous area of the map without a second thought. Maxwell had managed to make it out of that hellhole only thanks to the ingrained habit of keeping his sword and armor on his person at all times. Still, he hadn’t escaped unscathed. Just as he had found an exit from the underground, a single moment of relief and distraction had been enough to leave him exposed to the attack of a colony of bats. He dropped the lantern, its glass cracked, the fireflies escaped. He had managed to grab a handful of lightbulbs on his way out, but he had been slow, too slow to pull them out of his pocket, what with the bats’ teeth sinking into every square inch of his armor, and then- and then-

Maxwell’s hands shook visibly as he pressed the silk cloth on the bleeding gashes on his arm. There was no helping it, he’d have to stitch them, tremors or not. He didn’t hope for a moment that it might be less painful than it looked. He fetched the sewing kit, trying his best to steady his mind as well as his limbs. It had been a trick. It must have been a trick, obviously. Nothing simpler than mimicking a voice, just for the hell of it-

“Not looking too dapper tonight, are you?”

Maxwell jumped on his feet with a gasp. Behind him, at the very edge of the firepit’s light, was a human silhouette- God, that stupid hair-

“What do you want now?!” Maxwell barked, heart thumping in chest.

“Don’t lose your marbles, pal.” Wilson was barely visible in the dim light, yet his wide smile stood out sharply from the darkness, almost luminous, like a jagged crescent in the night. “Unless you want those guys back there to join us.”

He pointed behind himself, deep inside the wall of blackness. Maxwell didn’t need his sight to guess what lured back there: familiar whispers and choked noises slithered all around him, alerting him of the presence of the Corrupted Ones, waiting for insanity to drag him within their reach. He wasn’t in any rush to do so.

“What do you want, Higgsbury?” He seethed.

“Oh, I’m just here to offer some company. You look like you might use some, after all.”

Well, it looked like Wilson may have finally remembered his old grudges and decided to act on them. If he intended to hurt him, there wasn’t much Maxwell could do to prevent that. If he merely wanted to annoy him, Maxwell’s best bet would be to ignore him completely and hope he’d get bored soon. That seemed like the best tactic to adopt.

“You’ve had enough fun at my expenses for tonight, I’d say.” Maxwell sat back on the log and resumed preparing the thread. “Get lost.”

“Aw, but I just got here. Come on, let’s have a chat.” Suddenly, Wilson vanished, only to reappear sitting beside Maxwell. He snapped his jaw open and close a few times, his teeth clinking audibly. “What’s eating you, pal?”

Only then Maxwell noticed that Wilson looked different. His projection was nothing like the ones he’d used before, in fact… he looked pretty much like one of Maxwell’s puppets: no features or colors, just a uniformly grey lump of shadow, except the bright mouth. The fact irked Maxwell almost more than anything else: he wasn’t even fully focussing on tormenting him, he had just sent that half-assed placeholder while he was probably busy misusing his new powers somewhere else. The nerve of the man.

“My my, someone’s really grumpy tonight. Good thing I know you better than you know yourself.” That manic smile seemed stuck on his face, barely moving as he spoke and leaned closer and closer to Maxwell. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

The first stitch stung horribly. Puny, cowardly bastard. Maxwell kept ignoring him as he worked, and Wilson remained quiet for a few moments as he observed Maxwell’s dubious dexterity. The moment of respite didn’t last long.

“What a surprise, uh? She hasn’t uttered a single word since… well, since before she got here, if we don’t consider all the screaming-” Maxwell’s hand closed into a fist automatically, and it flew towards Wilson’s head. It went straight through it. The dark silhouette laughed mirthlessly. “What? Really, you should be happy for her. Your name was the first word she remembered, isn’t that something to cherish?”

“Don’t try to play games with me.” Maxwell hissed, despite himself. His arm hurt, his head hurt and he had no patience for any of this bullshit. “If you think you can trick me with something so stupid-”

“It was no trick, pal. You heard her, right? She called you. And then she mauled you because, honestly, who wouldn’t?”

Maxwell’s hands trembled harder. Eyes trained on the wound, he sank the needle in the flesh again. A thick drop of blood coalesced at the opposite end of the gash, it rolled down his wrist- and stopped halfway through. It turned black, black as ink, and Wilson’s head phased through his arm from God knew where, smiling up at him.

“It’s easy, isn’t it? Pretending that it’s all a ruse. I can hear you thinking that. ‘Lies, all lies. She can’t speak. She can’t remember. She’s gone.’ It’s easy to pretend that someone else couldn’t possibly have succeeded where you had failed.”

“There’s no way you have!” Maxwell snapped. He couldn’t even see his arm now, there was no more pain to distract him from that frustrating conversation. “I have tried everything, I have-”

“You have tried everything, except the one thing that would work! Do you really not know what the problem was?” Wilson laughed, he laughed until he couldn’t breath, as if he needed to in the first place. “You.”

The rest of Wilson’s body rose up right in front of Maxwell, like smoke seeping through the bleeding cuts. His smile was wide, impossibly wide, of the brightest white Maxwell had ever seen, and he found that he just couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“Let me tell you a story.” Wilson cooed, softly, mere centimetres from the tip of his nose. “There was, once, a foolish, weak man, who wandered straight into the clutches of beings much stronger, much smarter than he could ever dream of becoming. In his idiocy, he dragged an innocent girl down to hell with him. The man was graciously spared, and turned into the King of a Reign of his own making. The woman was not, and darkness latched onto her, and she onto it.”

Wilson’s body kept growing, longer and thinner, coiling around Maxwell like a snake, immaterial like air, oppressive like gravity. Maxwell couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure he was even trying to.

“The King mourned his friend’s corruption deeply, so deeply that he started harboring twisted thoughts. Thoughts of rebellion, of escape, of annihilation. Thoughts unfitting of the King of the Constant, thoughts that defeated the very purpose of this world. Thankfully, They intervened. The few traces of the woman that were left, the fragments of her mind, of her will, of her semblance, brought nothing but pain to the King: so They repressed them. They caged her humanity and her soul in a shell of unthinking bestiality, of remorseless violence and unawareness.”

“...What are you talking about?” Maxwell’s throat was dry. His head felt heavy, so heavy that he couldn’t keep it raised. He couldn’t look at Wilson any more, he could only see the grass beneath his feet, grey like ashes, grey like his suit, grey like everything.

“Her suffering was dulled… and so was the King’s. Without the remnants of what she had been, it was easier for him to let go of his delusional fantasies. She is gone, They said: he acknowledged it, and under Their guidance, he finally made the right choices. She’s hungry, They said: you should feed her. He did so, he let her roam his lands and feed on the flesh of the lesser creatures. She's ugly and ruined, she'd hate to be seen like this, They said: you should hide her. He did so, he shrouded her in perennial darkness, so that unworthy eyes and minds may not be privy to her disgrace. And eventually, the King gave up on her recovery, as it was easier for him to accept irreversible doom than to keep failing and mourning.”

“I didn’t- I did not-” Maxwell had to support his forehead with his hands. The blood was warm on his fingertips, it flowed freely along his forearm, and Wilson’s voice flowed as well, cold and thick, like poison dripping into his ears.

“Until, one day, things changed. A new King arose, one driven by the purest thirst for knowledge, one unencumbered by self-serving remorse or guilt. They had no reason to keep restraining the creature, for the new King wasn’t bothered by her. They released her from Their grasp, and just like that, she existed again. Bit by bit, she started to remember. Who she used to be, what had become of her.” Wilson’s voice smiled. “What you did to her.”

“I helped her!” Maxwell suddenly roared. “Everything I could do, everything I could think of, I-”

“You were useless!” Wilson’s voice raised in return, distorted and grating. “Had you been steadfast, you wouldn’t have shied away from her crippled form. Had you been powerful, you would have healed her. Had you been merciful, you would have killed her. But you were none of those things. You were just a coward, and condemned her to this corrupted mockery of existence. But you’ll see for yourself, just how grateful she is for your help.”

“Silence!” Maxwell jumped on his feet with an explosion of energy, fuelled by sheer rage and spite. Wilson didn’t seem bothered by the fact, as he kept fluctuating in the same spot Maxwell had been occupying, its shadowy body coiled like a sick, twisted cobra. “Do you really have nothing better to do than messing with me? Why do you expect me to believe any of this nonsense?! You know nothing of her, nothing of me, nothing of this world!”

“And you do? Why do you keep addressing me as if I was the King, then?” The shadow laughed. “He’s very busy, you know? This is all you. I’m all you. I’m sure he’ll find the shape you’ve given me very amusing though.”

It took a couple of seconds for Maxwell to register the meaning of the shadow’s words. It wasn’t Wilson. It wasn’t Wilson, it was- it didn’t matter what it was. If it wasn’t the King himself, then Maxwell didn’t have to tolerate another minute of its cajoling. He immediately drew his sword and lunged forward. The black blade sliced through the air with a hiss and cut the wooden log neatly in half, but the apparition had dissolved before it could be hit.

“Whoa there, getting so worked up already?” The derisory voice came from Maxwell’s left this time. “Seriously though, did you think the King would waste his precious time with the likes of you? You have no more knowledge to offer, he may as well forget you now.”

Maxwell attacked the shadow over and over again, but it kept fizzling out of existence before any hit could reach, only to reform at the opposite side of the camp. He found himself short on breath very quickly, his arm as heavy as lead and his heartbeat pulsing painfully in his temples.

“In truth, he may have been interested in you, once. Back when you were shrouded in a convenient cloud of mystery and apparent omnipotence, that is. Back when you were the unreachable oppressor. And indeed, when he accepted to serve Them, the first knowledge he seeked was about you, about who you had been. And he found out. Everything. And when he did…” The homunculus shrugged and shook his head. “He lost all interest in you. Even his desire for revenge. I wouldn't go as far as to say he pitied you, but-”

“Shut up.” Maxwell had to stop, supporting himself against the nearest tree to keep his balance. The world swam around him, and he covered his ears, in a vain effort to muffle the deafening whispers.

“And, I mean, can you really blame him? Is there a more shallow, boring, pathetic story than yours? You’ve tried your damndest to make it worth telling, but at the end of the day there’s no fancy suit, no mystical power, no pretentious name or grand persona that’ll ever make you any better than what you’ve always been, William Carter.” The figure emerged from the bark and stepped forward, it overlapped Maxwell’s body, and when it spoke, the word rattled within the walls of his own skull. “Insignificant.”

“SHUT UP!” Maxwell stumbled backwards and lashed out instinctively. The sword cleaved the creature’s shoulder neatly, cutting through the rest of its dark body like butter. It vanished slowly, dispersing like smoke in the faint breeze until only its dazzling smile was left, floating idly in the air for a few more seconds before disappearing as well.

Maxwell waited, frozen in place, for the shadow to reappear. It did not. When the sinewy outline of a terrorbeak snaked beside him, still blessedly incorporeal, he dropped his sword and kneeled to the ground, eyes darting left and right to spot as many flowers as he could. He ripped them all off unthinkingly: the fierce gladiolus, the twin daisies, the bright tulip, the lonely rose at the very edge of the light.

#don't starve #maxwell #Wilson P. Higgsbury

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urfavmurtad · 7 years ago

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What is your opinion on arguments that claim the islamic golden age proves islam isn't anti-science or "problematic"?

I read this article a year ago and I’m glad I bookmarked it bc it says pretty much my exact thoughts on this topic. First lemme just get this part out of the way:

Like many other concepts that shape our understanding of medieval history, the idea of a “Muslim Golden Age” is a historiographical construct. It promotes the notion that, until at least the early thirteenth century, the Muslim world experienced an era of unprecedented stability, prosperity, and cultural production. … Putting aside the fact that it imposes an anachronistic framework on medieval Muslim history, its main argument that the period between the eighth century and the thirteenth century can be characterized mainly by tolerance, cultural efflorescence, political unity, and religious harmony is contrary to many of the facts that one encounters upon reading the history of the various civilizations which are subsumed under the category of “Islamic civilization,” a phrase which conceals the linguistic, cultural, intellectual, theological, and political diversity of the lands in which Muslims resided during the medieval and early modern periods. This is to say nothing of the fact that the narratives promoted by these “Golden Age” perspectives are usually a reworking of official histories that do not take into account the realities of marginalized groups during the same period. The “Golden Age” perspective is also problematic because it is in many ways reactionary and a response to the many political, religious, and intellectual challenges faced by the Muslim world in the modern period. History, or rather particular historical narratives about a “Golden Age,” therefore becomes an important repository for the “greatness of Islamic civilization” and a refuge in which Muslims can seek solace in order to refute the idea–promoted mainly by those hostile to Islam–that Muslim civilization was, is, and always will be characterized by death, destruction and chaos.…

In other words, the nuances of Muslim history and civilization are completely obscured in the face of broad, sweeping statements geared towards emphasizing not only the uprightness, but even the absolute supremacy of Muslim civilization, as it was believed to have manifested between the ninth century and the eighteenth century. It is at this point where history ceases to be a critical intellectual endeavor and instead becomes polemic and apologetics.

The “Golden Age” is one of those abstract things that exists more as an idea than as a reality, like all other “ages” (“Dark Ages” etc). It’s important to point out that this is an Orientalist idea that was created to give the impression that Muslims in the distant past were productive and peaceful, versus “modern Muslims” (in the 1800s) who suck and must be brought back to their ancestors’ values by Ye Olde Hwhite People. It was not a term used by Muslims or Arabs themselves until the permanent inferiority/superiority complex (we r the Sasuke Uchihas of the world tbh) kicked in last century and people started using it.

No one can agree on when the “Golden Age” exactly took place. In the earliest usages of the term, it was just meant to refer to some vague past period of glory, to differentiate the past from the present squalor. The people using it did not have a damn clue about Arab history. In its modern-day usage, there is an enormous range from like… 700 AD to 1300 AD. Or even longer. That time period involved multiple civil wars, plagues that destroyed a huge portion of the population, genocides, invasions, ethnic cleansings, famines, breakdowns of society–as is expected of such a huge time period, of course. There were plenty of periods of stability and progress within that time period in some regions, interspersed by various issues… so where exactly is the line drawn? Was there really one “Golden Age”, or did Muslim lands, like literally every other civilization on earth, just go through periodic growth and collapse eras, up until the present?

No one can agree on where the “Golden Age” took place, either. Every single place where Islam was practiced? The lands of the Abbasid Caliphate, in general? The remains of the Umayyads in Spain? Fatimid Cairo? Khorasan? Mughal India? Ottoman Anatolia? What? By the 1000s AD, Muslim lands were ruled by dozens of different empires. They had different laws, different populations, different levels of development and urbanization. Some were more built-up and wealthier than others, again like every other civilization on earth. Some areas were largely rural and illiterate, others were urbanized and better-educated. Some empires attacked others and absorbed them; dynasties rose and fell all the damn time. Throughout the “Golden Age”, non-Muslim lands were invaded and absorbed into larger empires, growing the area governed by Muslims even larger. Parts of the Middle East/North Africa/Andalus/India remained poor and isolated, other parts of it became wealthy and connected to trade routes. I mean… of course?

Like… I don’t think ppl realize what a large area of land we’re talking about here. Are people under the impression that every inch of land conquered by some Muslim dynasty was not only urbanized, well-developed, wealthy, and tolerant, but also homogeneous? Not all of these places had the same conditions!! Not all were even majority-Muslim throughout this period! Many had virtually nothing in common beyond the fact that their rulers were all Muslims of various sects–and many of those rulers were only nominally religious, again just like every other civilization in the world. There were different ethnicities being ruled over by different ethnicities–I mean by the 1000s the Turks were already running amok. This whole Orientalist idea that the Abbasids were in complete control of their peaceful happy lands until the Mongols destroyed them or whatever is nonsense.

It’s all a bit like saying that Europe had a “golden age” after the Italians took over Constantinople while rural French villagers had finally realized how to wipe their asses. Hell, it’s like saying that Europe already had a “golden age” during Byzantium’s peak centuries earlier while the western half of the continent was enjoying a Germanic Rave Party. You can’t assign one label to hundreds of years of history encompassing thousands of different tribes and dozens of empires on different continents.

No one can even say what they mean by “Golden Age”. Usually it’s referred to as some combination of scientific development and “tolerance”. It goes without saying that when you’re talking about like 600 years spread over parts of Europe, North Africa, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia, the idea that all of these areas were happy, peaceful, and productive places for that time span is insane. Not to mention that there were plenty of eras outside the “Golden Age” that had just as much development. Why exactly are the Ottomans or Safavids or Mughals not considered part of this age? What measure of goldenness are we using rn, is there a table I can consult to see how many gold units are necessary to become Golden or some shit? What does “tolerance” mean when we’re talking about eras in which religious minorities were almost universally discriminated against, even in the best-case scenarios? Are we supposed to just ignore those laws, the mass slavery, conquests, etc? Is “golden age” code for when we were the ones oppressing the people of foreign lands?

But typically, when people (this includes not just Muslims btw) talk about the “Golden Age”, I think they are picturing one of three vague areas, in different continents and eras. One is al-Andalus in what is now Spain/Portugal. Plenty of people have heard of Cordoba and its “tolerance”. The second is the Syria-Iraq-Iran region (as though they’re all one place???) and especially Baghdad at some point before the Mongol invasion of the city, like 800s-1100s or something. Again, even when people know very little about Islamic history, they often know of the completely-misrepresented “House of Wisdom”. (In my experience, the focus is almost always on the Arab parts of that area, while places like modern-day Iran are basically ignored, despite the fact that this is where many Muslim literary traditions, architecture, and research kicked off. I think it’s because the “Golden Age” is usually billed as an era of peaceful coexistence, and there weren’t many happy religious minorities in Iran. There’s also doubtlessly some Arab-centrism thrown in there.) The third and imo less well-known one is Fatimid Egypt. Fewer people have heard of the Fatimids themselves, but many institutions and ideas associated with Arab science and learning are from their time.

These are… uhh different dynasties on three different continents in different eras. But let’s roll with it for the sake of argument. The article I linked to sums up my thoughts on al-Andalus (side note: I know someone who calls Spain “occupied al-Andalus” in 100% seriousness and it makes me laugh every time. “No wait only WE’RE allowed to be imperialists!!!” - ancient Islamic proverb):

Another myth that Islamic Golden Age writers like to promote is the idea of medieval Islamic Spain (al-Andalus) as a haven of tolerance and coexistence. Although it is certainly true that there was a large degree of coexistence of faiths in medieval Spain and some important examples of toleration, there was also a great deal of intolerance. In fact, some of the most brutal episodes in Islamic history occurred in al-Andalus. In 1066 a Muslim mob murdered nearly 4000 Jews in Granada (the first major pogrom to occur in Europe), while in the twelfth century the Almohad dynasty forced all Jews and Christians in al-Andalus and North Africa to convert to Islam (or choose exile); among the most important of these exiles was the Jewish philosopher Moses Maimonides (d. 1204). The works of various Muslim philosophers and theologians, including both al-Ghazali (d. 1111) and Ibn Rushd (d. 1198), were publicly burned in the courtyard of the Great Mosque of Cordoba. Other episodes, such as the Martyrs of Cordoba (851-859) and destruction of Santiago de Compostela (999), also show that al-Andalus cannot simply be reduced to a paradise of tolerance. The existence of oppressive institutions, such as slavery and the social stratification of Andalusi society also underscores this point. However, just as we should not claim that al-Andalus was a haven of tolerance based on several examples and anecdotes, we should also not reduce Andalusi history to a sequence of ravages and massacres, as some anti-Islamic thinkers have done.

Al-Andalus was, for its early history, ruled by a remainder of the Umayyads, who had been overtaken by the Abbasids almost everywhere else. By necessity, they had to negotiate with their (mostly Christian) population to avoid unrest that would make them weak to enemies coming north from Morocco. While non-Muslims were discriminated against on a level that would cause Nazi accusations if it were implemented against Muslims in the West today, there were in fact plenty of decades in which development thrived and both Muslim and non-Muslim scientists and researchers made important progress, and there were times in which people lived in peace, even if it wasn’t an equal peace. After the collapse of the Umayyads, there was a period of unrest, followed by domination by the Almoravids and then the Almohads, the latter of whom were one of the nastiest Muslim dynasties to get into Europe prior to the Ottomans. People reacted somewhat negatively to the convert-or-die order and the “Reconquista” restarted not long after. The history of the territory is more complicated than “science and peace then iron maidens and Catholics :(((”.

The Fatimids were an Arab Ismaili dynasty that ruled parts of the ME and NA from Egypt for a couple hundred years starting in the 900s AD. During the first century of Fatimid rule it is absolutely true that Egypt, and especially Cairo, developed a sophisticated and wealthy culture that gave rise to all sorts of authors and scholars. But like every other long-lasting empire on earth, in terms of tolerance and peace, it was a mixed bag, and some leaders were better than others. Some Fatimid caliphs were out of their god damned minds, the most notable of whom was al-Hakim, who facilitated both an increase in scholarship and learning and a campaign of terrible religious persecution, against both Sunnis and Christians and Jews at different points of his lifetime. He was like the Arab Louis XIV or something. Nonetheless, many educational institutions did flourish in this era. Al-Azhar, which today puts out fatwas about how Shia people are devils, was in fact founded by the Shia Fatimids…

The Syria-Iraq-Iran trio, by which I mostly mean Baghdad bc 99% of the time that’s what people focus on, was one of the Muslim world’s most urbanized and educated cities for quite a while. The Mutazilites are usually credited as the ones to kickstart this, and this was a school of early Islamic theology that incorporated a lot of Greek/Hellenized Christian ideas into their works, to the chagrin of most other Muslims at the time. The Mutazilites shouldn’t be seen as hippies or harmless–they did often persecute other Muslims (and non-Muslims) and attacked non-Muslim lands in order to subjugate them. Eventually they went too far and triggered a backlash. But they saw themselves as “rationalists” I guess the word would be, and that is what drew them to the creation of learning institutions. These are some of the first places that commissioned the translations of Indian texts after the first Arab conquests of parts of India, and those texts included many important mathematical concepts that were expanded upon by (or sometimes wrongly attributed to) Arabs. Even as this school began to fade, it left an imprint on what is now Iraq, and huge numbers of scholars from the surrounding area did visit its large cities to further their education at various points. Again–world history is really long!! Starting in the 900s AD, it was ruled by all sorts of Iranian empires, then the Turks came to town, then the Mongols came in and wrecked shit. Periods of progress existed before, during, and after that era, interspersed by periods in which progress stalled. Tolerance went from ehh to really bad depending on the particular ruler and dynasty in charge of the area, which is completely expected.

To sum it up: there was no one “Islamic Golden Age”. There were many different eras of relative progress/tolerance interspersed with less-happy eras all throughout the Muslim areas of Europe, North Africa, the Middle East, and Asia from Islam’s creation to the modern day. And of course there were! This was a huge area and a huge time span. How much of that is due to Islam itself is, uh, debatable, to put it gently–certainly the enormous wealth that came from conquest and domination of trade and slave routes didn’t hurt, and not all major figures of this “age” were even religious. I don’t think many people would call the 1500s-1800s the “Christian Golden Age”. But whatever factors you want to attribute it to, it is at least true that multiple Muslim empires, at various points in time, did contribute a lot to the development of science and medicine. Granted, it wasn’t even close to every area ruled by Muslims in every time period from 700 to 1300, and to say that these areas were tolerant or progressive by modern standards is lunacy, but still.

The idea that there was one singular chunk of time in which “Islam” as a whole was tolerant, peaceful, progressive, wealthy, and scientifically knowledgeable–after which something (Mongols, imperialism, ??? we just don’t know) happened to reverse all of that–is a modern idea mostly promoted by Orientalists, and it’s been adopted as a magical Lost Age by Muslims who feel bad about the admittedly shitty situations that many currently find themselves in. But past Muslims dealt with war, poverty, dictators, destruction, and intolerance too. Sometimes people in the “Golden Age” were ruled by horrible leaders and influenced by terrible, intolerant, anti-science movements; other eras saw a backlash to that and facilitated better conditions and people rebuilt. Then there would be some disaster that set people back again, on and on. Just like today. And just like every other part of the world, including Europe. Things move in waves, man. timeisaflatcircle.gif

(Also if I see that “Muslims invented MATH. There was NO MATH before goddamn 610 AD” post with like 5000000 notes one more time imma cry tbh)

#golden age #islam #history #ask

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activatingaggro · 6 years ago

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🔥 one each for ID, and for the curveballs Nanako and Kua. uwu

🔥ID:

ID is not, generally speaking, healthy or safe in pitch romance - he associates having fun with being violent, which manifests in things like thinking Gelato actually choking him was 1) intriguing, and 2) really hot, instead of terrifying and how you fucking die. He doesn’t find violence titillating in itself, but he is fixated on it and has basically trained himself to expect a certain level of aggression in at least one of his concupiscent quadrants at all times. The only thing better than getting laid is fighting, and if he can combine them with someone equally into it, why wouldn’t he?

He can do fluff! Even while being aggressive, ID is a smug asshole who purrs like a fire engine. He just doesn’t usually bother, outside of flush.

Given his current pitchrom is thankfully not some batshit black-eyes and murder threats and heavy makeouts in alleys while you’re both covered in blood affair, he’s probably going to start leaning heavily into flushed hookups where breaking noses can count as foreplay. It’s not pitch when there’s aftercare, he figures, and it keeps him from trying to bring that level of aggression home to Vadaya.

🔥NANAKO:

Nana lives a hard life. She’s got permanent telekinesis around an inch from her skin that she requires a dampener to turn off. She keeps dating girls in flush that, for various reasons, do not actually want physical contact, and are content with platonic relationships. She doesn’t want to date or fuck anyone from the IPC, who she spends 90% of her time with, because she has a superiority complex on every possible level.

She’d probably be less of a dick at points if she got laid, to be entirely honest, but that seems catastrophically unlikely to happen, especially because she’s not keen to admit that she’s anything but perfectly fine with her past few years of celibacy. SHE’S ABOVE THIS. ABSOLUTELY. ABSOLUTELY.

Up until she gets temp-banished back to the Hanhai caverns, realises she now has actual options, gets excited, and then has a minor rage spiral over the fact nobody wants to touch the jade psionic. Goddamnit.

🔥KUANFU:

Kua is very #YOLO, which is why he’ll joke about everything and anything, but in terms of his own preferences, he is aggressively, aggressively vanilla. Will he try most things once, in the name of experimentation and knowledge? Yes. Does he actually think any of it’s hot? Intensely unlikely.

The closest he comes to anything scandalous is that living in incredibly close quarters in a massive city holding around 5x as many people as it should has made him have very few boundaries. If he’s behind the dumpster in the club, no one can rationally complain that he’s got his pants half off! That’s why he went behind the dumpster, jeez, he was trying to be considerate?

#id answers #calico kuanfu #nanako answers #thank you for the ask!#questionably nsfw///#rebatrolls

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solivar · 7 years ago

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First Dance

Originally posted June 9, 2006

Title: First Dance Fandom: Kingdom Hearts Warnings: Rated SVL for Snark, Violence, and Larxene. Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts and all characters related thereto are the product of SquareEnixDisneyBuenaPixar. Author's Notes: Second in a series of ficlets (or, in this case, verging on actual fic) about firsts. Contains the arguable foundation elements of something vaguely resembling a plot. Set pre-Chain of Memories. I'm not entirely pleased with the conversation at the end, and so this one might get reworked some yet.

Every member of the Organization had his or her own little hobbies, the things they did to make themselves feel more real in the tattered remnants of soul, of self, left to them. Xemnas disapproved mightily of wasting time and effort, but even he had to admit that the single-minded pursuit of their goal lacked entertainment value as far as reasons to continue existing went. For a group of people lacking one of the major fundaments of humanity and possessing assorted personality disorders of an antisocial type, an alternative outside obsession or two actually improved their functionality. Axel was privately convinced that, if he ever poked his unwanted nose in Xemnas’ personal quarters, he’d find dozens of spiral-bound notebooks full of as-yet-unused names and lugubrious poetry that not even Demyx would like. Marluxia, when he wasn’t busying himself with unacted-on plots against Xemnas, was engaged in a complex flirtation with his own demise by transparently lusting after Xemnas, all he was and all he possessed. Everyone politely pretended not to notice, then went to Luxord to lay bets on how long it would take for Saix to lose his patience and murder the Lord of Castle Oblivion in some deeply horrible manner. Saix, when he wasn’t acting as lapdog in chief, tended to lurk around Oblivion’s dungeon, not infrequently in the company of Larxene, with whom he shared a certain fascination for the physical and psychic mechanics of excruciation. Instead of working it out on each other, they constructed elaborate experiments starring whatever unfortunate they could get their hands on. For that reason, the entire Organization avoided the dungeon as a matter of self-preservation. Axel was startled to discover that Xaldin did needlepoint and Lexaeus painted and both were better at it than they had any right to be. He never even hinted that he knew, principally because he valued his existence much more than they did. Demyx had the best puppy eyes in World and used them freely on Xigbar, who seemed to consider himself Demyx’ bodyguard on his semi-frequent trips outside and was shamelessly used as a pack-bearer otherwise. They’d populated the conservatory with every species of instrument known to man at least twice. Demyx found the ones he liked, admired them for a few days or weeks, and then systematically smashed them to pieces. Except the damned sitar. Axel occasionally thought Demyx the most deeply damaged of them all, but kept those thoughts to himself. Vexen and Zexion pretended to an intellectual standard higher than anything the rest of the Organization aspired to attain. Axel knew with absolute certainty that Zexion was full of it on that issue – he’d had occasion to find himself crammed under the little freak’s bed and thereafter had great difficulty taking his coolly intellectually superior act seriously. Of them all, Vexen seemed to be exactly what he was: a heartless bastard who didn’t even miss it and who lived primarily inside his own mind. He made Axel’s skin want to crawl right off, which was no mean feat. For his own part, Axel was an inveterate people-watcher, even of people who only barely qualified for the designation under the loosest possible definition of terms. Larxene, the only other member of the Organization aware of at least part of his little diversion, disapproved heartily, though not for the reasons Axel had expected. “It’s just not healthy, Axel,” Asserted the woman whose favorite author had an entire unpleasant psychological designation named after him. “At best, it’s taking that method acting thing a little too far. At worst, it’s actively masochistic. Nothing you see, nothing you experience, when you’re out there among them will make you human again. They can’t give you your heart back. It’s pointless to try! Besides, if you want to hurt that badly…” She flicked her knives out, one by one, and the lazily contemplative look on her face suggested she was thinking about pinning him to the library wall and getting started right there. Axel couldn’t help smiling – Larxene was predictable in her viciousness but occasionally amusing nonetheless, and he only resisted patting her indulgently on the head because doing so would give her unobstructed access to his ribcage. “Two thoughts for you, my charming nymphet. One: self-mutilation becomes significantly less about the self if you involve another person in it. Two: give the good Marquis a rest and some of the weirder transhumanist philosophers a read if you want some interesting insights into the spiritually transformative nature of suffering. Have you seen XIII?” Odd how her eyes could light up and her pretty mouth scowl at the same time. “What do you want with that?” “I’m bearing a message, oh my maiden of pain, or else I wouldn’t abandon your pleasing company.” He ran a fingertip over the point of one of her still-drawn knives; she licked it clean, then dismissed it. “Orders from the Superior.” Larxene rolled her eyes. “At least he’s keeping it busy. Try the History and Geography stacks – it spends a lot of time down there.” “You’re my savior, Larxene. Next book is your choice.” He blew her a kiss and flickered away in a curl of darkness, because the library was large enough that he didn’t want to search it inch by inch on foot. He hadn’t, strictly speaking, been lying. He had been summoned into the presence of the other person who knew about his pastime and was there given a single command: “Find the Key of Destiny.” What he should do when that came to pass was not explicated and so Axel decided on the most obvious conclusion: surveillance. If XIII had outlived his usefulness – doubtful, given that he’d only been with them a fortnight at most – the order would have been completely unambiguous. And, since Xemnas rarely actually gave him permission to snoop and pry and spy on another member of the Organization, he decided to squeeze as much entertainment out of it as he could. For the first several hours, he prowled the World in methodical fashion. XIII had quarters and if he’d been in them, Axel would have been enormously disappointed. He wasn’t and neither was anything else and so the hunt continued. (The room was empty, containing not even a bed or a blanket or a single cast-off piece of clothing, only palely luminescent walls and floors and the hint of shadows lurking in the corners. Axel found himself wondering where XIII slept, if he slept, if he did anything at that could be construed as weak or human.) It became apparent, eventually, that XIII was not in the World That Never Was and hadn’t been for quite some time. He sampled the essence of XIII at his Proof – cold and bright as winter dawn, sharp as the edge of broken ice, so very strong, so totally alone – and opened a Door to Castle Oblivion, where he’d been recently enough that the taste of him still hung in the air, a taunting little curl of winter-cold and steel. Axel followed XIII’s essence-trail around the Castle and noted that its whimsical kinks and contortions seemed to be defined by an effort to avoid contact with anyone else. He even managed to evade Marluxia, a feat that Axel himself had never accomplished in Castle Oblivion and which ultimately consumed an annoying amount of time when he failed at it again. By the time he extracted himself from the Graceful Assassin’s flytraplike company, the trail was fading and Axel was becoming just suspicious enough to wonder if that might have been the point. Marluxia didn’t waste any of his barely-existent affection on the Organization’s newest member, whose mere existence seemed to be a point of not inconsiderable frustration to him. Axel didn’t think him suicidal enough that he’d actively try to do XIII harm, but absolutely knew him petty enough to torment the boy whenever possible. The Lord of Castle Oblivion excelled at that sort of thing. Similarly, Larxene nursed a grudge based on XIII’s publicly displayed ability to hit her about the head with impunity and without her express permission. And while she hadn’t technically been lying, neither was she telling a truth of recent vintage. The mustier reaches of the Castle’s enormous library were lit here and there with filaments of XIII’s winter-steel essence, but all the traces were days old. Axel commended Larxene to a number of unpleasant fates as he prowled the stacks, running his gloved fingertips across dusty spines, considering what to do next. If he’d wanted XIII dead, he’d just summon his Assassins and give them their orders. “Bring him back alive” was not, unfortunately, the sort of instruction they usually got and he seriously doubted their ability to comprehend such a command given their basic vocational design. Still… Axel found a suitably unoccupied corner and extended a call into the dark and nothingness that coiled where his heart had been. It manifested a moment later, sleek and sharp and sinuous. He extended a book on the geography of the Worlds that XIII had clearly handled more than once. “Find the one that’s not me. Lead me to him.” The Assassin slithered away with the eye-disturbing speed and boneless flexibility that characterized all its kind. Axel followed closely, watching as it caught at traces too faint for anything possessed of higher-order intelligence to notice, but well within the sense-range of things that hunted primarily by instinct. Some of those traces looked to be deliberately diminished, forced to dissolve at an unnaturally accelerated rate. Which was not, Axel reflected, a trick within Larxene’s power or, for that matter, XIII’s or he’d have used it before this. Within his own, yes. And Saix, for certain, and possibly one or two others – which gave him a theoretical list of suspects should he stumble over XIII’s fading remains but also raised more questions, the most important of which remained unanswerable. Where are you, XIII, and what are you getting yourself into? Keeping one eye on the Assassin, Axel flipped open the book. It was half excruciatingly dry geography text and half travel guide, the interesting bits being written in the margins in three different hands. He hoped that Larxene never saw that, or she’d start collecting writing samples. And then fingers. XIII’s essence-impression was strongest in the water Worlds section – he’d lingered, in particular, over a full-page picture of a long moon-silvered beach, a bucolic village clinging to the bluffs in the distance, a cluster of low, wooded islands visible just off shore… The Assassin raised the most headlike of its appendages and uttered the minor-key keen that meant it’d latched onto something solid. Axel dropped the book where Larxene was sure to find it and ran as the Assassin flowed away like a coursing-hound made of silvered darkness, down a staircase he had never seen before, out into a length of corridor that he had, and through one of the doors that lead to the outside. Beyond was a courtyard, bordered on two sides by glassed-in green house walls, in which a Door had been opened. Recently. Axel opened it, too, and found himself standing at the edge of a precipice – the vantage point from which the picture he’d just been looking at must have been taken. He was looking down on almost the same view. Almost. It was late afternoon, not moonrise, though the heavy overcast gave the beach and the sea almost the same silver sheen. In the distance, the bucolic village was in the process of collapsing in fire and ruin, he could hear the screams on the salt-and-Heartless-stench laden wind. A hundred feet below, the beach was scattered with bodies – human bodies – and swarming with Heartless in breeds and numbers too great to count in a single glance. They were forming a knot around a single focal point and in the middle of it stood XIII. He’d a Keyblade in each hand, one a blaze of wintry silver radiance, the other a flicker of purple shadow, and between them he destroying Heartless by the dozen without making any visible headway against the rising tide. Literally rising – they were coming out of the surf and out of the sand and boiling down out of the surrounding bluffs and Axel could feel them becoming aware of his own presence, as well. He called his weapons, eyeballed the range, and threw. One chakram scythed through the horde forming up at XIII’s back, carving a wide arc. The other skittered points down across the ground in front of him, striking sparks from the exposed rock of the bluffs, which exploded into a white hot sheet-wall at a silent flick of will. XIII threw a narrow-eyed glare over his shoulder as Axel came to rest at his back, a weapon in each hand, and parried it with a grin of his own. “Having fun?” XIII’s pretty bow of a mouth tightened. “What are you doing here?” “It’s not polite to answer a question with a question.” Axel threw, and a couple acres of prime oceanfront real estate became abruptly uninhabitable. “I was looking for you, actually.” XIII made a noise in his throat that might have been indicative of disbelief or just rank indifference and struck for himself, his dark Keyblade punching through the wall of fire Axel had yet to release, sending a half-dozen Heartless back to where they came from, and arcing smoothly back to his hand. “Really.” “Yes. I was afraid Marluxia might have fed you to a few of his more unpleasant plants. We can’t stay here.” Axel flicked a glance up at the precipice he’d leapt down from and XIII nodded in agreement. They moved almost as one, Axel bringing his chakrams around in a wide arc, catching the flames he’d already summoned and redirecting them, clearing a length of beach to maneuver in. XIII darted past to take advantage of it. “Watch your – “ Axel swallowed what he’d been about to say, as XIII automatically checked his back swing, a little smile curling his mouth. XIII was used to fighting with someone at his back. Good to know. Also good to watch, all vicious quicksilver grace and lethal precision, with one weapon in the air and the other in his hand at all times, his face set in a tight-lipped smile, eyes wide and bright and fierce. Completely real and totally alive. Axel laughed and called down more fire. They made the bluff in two quick stages, wiping it clean of anything but themselves, though XIII did most of the hands-on work. Axel could feel his bone-weariness, though he refused to show it, standing on guard with Keyblades at the ready as he opened the Door. Axel reached out and caught him by the shoulder. “Come on. This – “ The first Door opened into a place Axel had never actually been before – high buildings and a teeming mass of people that seemed thoroughly shocked when they appeared out of thin air in front of them. XIII staggered back a few paces and Axel held on tight to his hood, opened another Door – “ – is going to take – “ Deep woods, quiet and still, the air thick with the scent of loam and fresh rain. Another Door. “ – a few minutes – “ Darkness. Dark sea breaking on a dark shore, a cold blue moon hanging low over the water, never setting, never rising further. Another Door. “ – so they can’t follow us right back.” The World That Never Was. Axel let go of XIII’s hood before he decided to object with the edge of a Keyblade and stepped back out of easy striking range. XIII spun, his face lit by the radiance of his weapons, looking very much as though he were considering the odds of landing a hit at not-so-easy striking range as a gesture of his displeasure at being dragged across three Worlds by the scruff of his neck. Axel waited and, with an audible sigh, XIII let it go, dismissing his weapons and slumping against the nearest wall. It was interesting, Axel decided, watching how much that simple act changed him, altered the substance of him, reduced him somehow. Except the glare. The glare was still there, but even that was starting to lose its edges. “So. XIII.” He smiled, and watched XIII’s glare go from semi-hostile to somewhat wary. “You can call me Axel.” “Why,” XIII asked coolly, “would I want to do that?” “Because I’m no more a number than you are.” Axel turned, flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Coming?” “Roxas.” Softly. “My name is…Roxas.” “Roxas.” Axel let his tongue caress the syllables of that name as much as it liked. “Come on. You look like you could use a few hours of not killing anything.” Wary slid away and weary crept up underneath it. Roxas pushed himself away from the wall, submitted to a hand on his elbow to guide him and, a few minutes later, to a room with a real bed in it. He was asleep in seconds, curled up with his back reflexively toward the nearest wall, looking dangerous and half-feral and far too young, particularly in his sleep. Axel kept watch and thought about what he’d learned for certain today and what he could easily surmise and what more he had to uncover and how much fun that was going to be. Damned if he didn't have to write Xemnas a thank you note.

#vintage nagaina fic #khfic

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changesxnight · 7 years ago

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ponybro and d. Tucker Winston for the hcs post💅👀💯♨️😘💯

I’ll post the Dally ones later…have some Pony feels

What does their bedroom look like? ⁃ his side of the room is very clean. clean clothes folded and put away, dirty clothes in the hamper to be washed ⁃ his desk is very tidy. everything has its place ⁃ his trash can has lots of crumbled papers in it of bad ideas

Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often? ⁃ he’s on the track team ⁃ so nearly every day

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy? ⁃ complain

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.) ⁃ everything is very neat and tidy ⁃ he’s not very creative ⁃ everything has its place

⁃ and he showers every day in the morning ⁃ he takes forever ⁃ and Darry yells at him all the time

Eating habits and sample daily menu ⁃ he always takes the time to make himself a small meal when he’s hungry ⁃ he would rather eat five small meals a day than three big ones - except dinner is always big ⁃ he washes the dishes after he’s done ⁃ and hates it when his brothers don’t clean up after themselves

⁃ peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are so simple yet he loves them?? they bring him back to a pure, simpler time ⁃ he eats them with Johnny all the time and makes “PB&J” jokes constantly

Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time ⁃ just walking around Tulsa ⁃ it’s not safe alone so he’ll bring Johnny or even Two cause Two-Bit is always making him laugh

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging ⁃ he loves buying that sweet, sweet merit, getting him outta Purgatory

⁃ okay but he freaking loves chocolate ⁃ don’t let him near it okay ⁃ he also love romance novels, especially where the underdog gets the girl

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such? ⁃ it’s the 60s so no ⁃ but he does have separation anxiety so every time Darry or Soda work late, he gets super anxious and can’t relax and he needs Two-Bit to calm him down

Intellectual pursuits? ⁃ modern!Ponyboy would be a mathlete ⁃ is chess club a thing?? well he started it if it isn’t ⁃ he’s always busy with sports and other clubs that it makes him go crazy ⁃ but he always sleeps well, especially after a good run

Favorite book genre? ⁃ young adult novels and historic fiction ⁃ stuff like Gone with the Wind is his shit ⁃ he freaking loves the Chronicles of Narnia

Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general? ⁃ asexual and biromantic ⁃ like I’ve said before, he feels bad that he doesn’t have a sex drive ⁃ by the time he’s 15, the guys (Dallas, Soda, Two-Bit and Steve) will openly talk about how often/much they get laid and Pony just gets real quiet cause he has no interest ⁃ cuddles and movie dates for him please ⁃ but he doesn’t really care about others’ sexualities as long as they’re good people

Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.) ⁃ as he gets older, one leg grows a bit long than the other ⁃ it’s only like half an inch ⁃ but it causes back pain and he hates it

⁃ he’s allergic to jerks

Biggest and smallest short term goal? ⁃ biggest: getting his homework done and turned in ⁃ smallest: getting another pack of cigarettes without Darry noticing

Biggest and smallest long term goal? ⁃ smallest and pettiest would be running the fastest mile Will Rogers High School will ever see, breaking every record set and setting the bar too high for every incoming student ⁃ biggest would be getting into a good college

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress ⁃ he loves his jeans and converse and plain t-shirts

Favorite beverage? ⁃ he hates coffee at 14 but grows to love it ⁃ but he loves sparkling cider don’t tell anyone ⁃ and he’s constantly drinking water

What do they think about before falling asleep at night? ⁃ the book he’s reading

Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them? ⁃ one time, he got really sick and nearly died ⁃ being the baby, everyone was worried about him ⁃ Soda cried; Darry thought he was gonna die; the usual

Turn-ons? Turn-offs? ⁃ turn ons? he’s fourteen ⁃ turn offs? arrogant people and people who curse (yet he swears all the time)

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen? ⁃ probably write story ideas down. ⁃ he’s at a point where he gets an idea and tries to write a book out of it but never finishes it

How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life? ⁃ he’s the most organized in the gang ⁃ it drives everyone crazy ⁃ He hates a mess so Ponyboy cleans everything but when the gang tries to find something of theirs, it’s not where they put it ⁃ it’s a lose-lose situation

Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all? ⁃ he’s obsessed with his grades ⁃ he wants straight As ⁃ but after losing his parents, his focus has dropped immensely ⁃ he’s the best in English ⁃ he loves to read and his writing is excellent. Mr. Syme actually saves Ponyboy’s work for last because it makes up for the apathetic assignments

How do they see themselves 5 years from today? ⁃ in college, on lots of scholarships ⁃ maybe even a book out

Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout? ⁃ he wants to go to college for English ⁃ he wants to be either an English teacher or an author ⁃ but if he can’t go to college, he’ll settle for a librarian

What is their biggest regret? ⁃ not telling his parents how much he loved them

Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy? ⁃ best friend? either Two-Bit or Johnny ⁃ Two-Bit always cheers him up, constantly making him laugh ⁃ Johnny listens and understands, never reminding Pony that he has it worse

⁃ his worst enemy is Bob but he’s trying to be more empathetic to the Socs ⁃ it’s not really working ⁃ it’s not until the Soc vs. greaser thing dies out that he sees everyone as equal

Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?) ⁃ grabs his favorite book or the story he’s writing and runs

Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies) ⁃ he goes into shock. completely numb and raw, unable to process anything ⁃ he refuses to believe it. he’s in the denial stage a lot ⁃ and it takes years for him to get to the acceptance stage ⁃ losing Johnny and then Dallas made him angry and miserable for about seven months

Most prized possession? ⁃ the letter Johnny wrote him

Thoughts on material possessions in general? ⁃ though poor, 14 year old Ponyboy is very materialistic ⁃ by the time his brain has fully developed, he values virtues over everything

Concept of home and family? ⁃ his concept of home and family has been thrown off since his parents died ⁃ and after Steve and Soda left for Vietnam, he’s a mess ⁃ from ages 14 to 16, he doesn’t wanna make new friends or anything because he thinks everyone will end up leaving and/or dying

Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?) ⁃ shares about his day but nothing more ⁃ he hates it when people overshare, especially dirty stuff

What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time? ⁃ smoking ⁃ bowling

What makes them feel guilty? ⁃ nothing. Pone thinks he’s perfect

Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making? ⁃ he thinks he’s analytical but he’s more emotional than me

Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality? ⁃ he’s more type A than anyone

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained? ⁃ Pepsi or cigarettes

Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither? ⁃ Neither cause he hates how Socs think they’re better but they’re not and he’s still trying to figure that out

How misanthropic are they? ⁃ he hates society and how horrid it is. he hates Socs but truthfully, he doesn’t think he’s all that great

Hobbies? ⁃ pity parties

How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education? ⁃ he really values his education and worked his ass off to get to college ⁃ he prefers formal education but has he’s learned a lot from his brothers and his gang, stuff they can’t teach in school

Religion? ⁃ grew up Baptist ⁃ but now he’s questioning whether or not God is/was real ⁃ Jesus was a pretty great guy but who’s to know if He was holy or not?

Superstitions or views on the occult? ⁃ so superstitious ⁃ runs away from ladders and black cats, hates the number 13, if he spills salt he has to throw it over his shoulder (and make a huge mess and get scolded by Darry)

Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds? ⁃ words ⁃ he’s a poet and he knows it ⁃ his words are beautiful, and his rhymes are so creative ⁃ even when he’s fake deep, he can move just about anyone with his writing

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal? ⁃ someone simple but complex. he hates complicated; it gives him a big headache ⁃ someone he can rely on ⁃ someone empathetic and understanding and caring. someone genuine. someone who’s been through similar situations as he

How do they express love? ⁃ through words, especially love letters and poems ⁃ he also likes planning really overdramatic things but never goes through with them because he doesn’t like too much attention ⁃ he wants attention but doesn’t want to be the center of it

If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like? ⁃ he thinks he can fight anyone ⁃ but then gets scared when they make a move and calls for Darry ⁃ and Darry beats their ass with his superman muscles

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not? ⁃ of course he is ⁃ he’s terrified he’s gonna die the way his parents did ⁃ he could get is permit at 16 but he didn’t get it until he was 18 and a half ⁃ he’s terrified of driving and doesn’t wanna die

#the outsiders headcanons #The Outsiders #Ponyboy Curtis #ponyboy curtis headcanons #my hcs #mine #long post #excessively detailed headcanons

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impossible-rat-babies · 7 years ago

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Clan Enallasani: A Guide

Physiology!

This installment is quiet late compared to the last one, but i’m still working on fleshing out Dimitri’s clan!

Note: I will use Dimitri as both a comparison and contrast since he is the last known member of the Enallasani elves.

Under read-more for ease of access:

Physical characteristics:

Due to centuries of separation from their southern brethren, the Enallsani elves are vastly different from their kin.

The Enallasani elves stand taller and wider than southern elves; They typically stand between 5’5” and 6’2” (167cm-188cm) tall and weigh at least 160 lbs on average. They build muscle easily from a combination of their environment, diet and natural tendencies. Dimitri stands at an average heigh of 5 foot 7 inches (173cm), but he is underweight at only about 140lbs. This is due to his changed environment, diet, and the strain on his body from stress and magic usage.

The harsh temperature extremes of the Anderfels lead to them building practical muscle as well as fat. Some would classify the clan as overweight, but the extremes of the climate dictate that muscle as well as fat are needed. Dark skin is a common amongst them due to the heavy sun exposure of their homeland.

Their hair comes in a variety of colors, with browns and blondes being most common. Dimitri was an exception to this rule--his hair color was believed to be influenced by his magic. Their eyes come in a variety of colors as well, with reds and purples being far less common except in mages who are known to have bright/unnatural eye colors. The most common colors are shades of browns with golden flecks.

Like their southern brethren, they have a reflective layer within their eyes that allow for better night vision and seeing in low light. They can see exceptionally well in the light of dusk and dawn. Enallasani elves also have excellent near sight, but are frequently far sighted. Their eyes are quite large for their faces like most elves to allow for their strong near sightedness and strong vision in low light. The most striking feature about their eyes is their dark grey sclera. It is unknown as to why they possess such a feature. Dimitri possessed blue/grey eyes--a trait from his mother’s side of the family--before his usage of blood magic turned his eyes a deep orange and later a deep red.

They also possess a high and flat nose bridge. They possess much more pointed canines for ripping and tearing at meat. They’re ears vary in shape, but they are quite large to allow for excessive heat to escape their bodies. They do flicker and move to express emotions as well and hear better.

Besides breasts and wider hips to allow for carrying children, there is little sexual dimorphism in the Enallasani elves. (Details of sex and gender below).

However, these features are known mainly to the elves of the clan who can trace their ancestry back to the first elves to arrive in the Orthlands centuries ago. The incorporation of runaway elvhen slaves and others have dampened such features in the children of Enallsani elves and other elves. Many children born of these unions stand halfway in height between their parents and will trend to a mix of lanky and well muscled. They will occasionally posses darkened sclera along with the strong nearsightedness, but will also fall into having white sclera and normal vision; these traits can vary widely even in children from the same family. These differences aren't seen as something to stigmatize, rather each elf--regardless of appearance--is a member of the clan.

An example is in Dimitri: He possesses the darkened sclera of his ancestors, whereas his younger twin siblings had the white sclera. This can be traced to his maternal grandmother who was an ex-slave of Tevinter. This can also be seen in his height considering both his parents were at least six foot tall.

Diet:

They eat mainly meat and insects they can hunt and gather, leading to a protein heavy diet by which to build muscle. Much of their meat comes from Varghest hunting as well as trapping animals like jack rabbits and snakes. They also supplement their diet with herbs gathered and dried from the Hunterhorn Mountains along with tuber like plants akin to potatoes and carrots that they cultivate in the large oasis camps along their traditional wandering paths. The also rely heavily upon the Halla for milk by which to make butter and cheese. They will occasionally trade with wandering Orth tribes for hard to access goods.

Sex and Gender:

The Enallasani elves take the concepts of gender and sex very loosely. There is little to distinguish one sex from the other and they recognize more than the genders that are attributed to their sex. One gender is far from being placed above the other; they are elevated to important positions based on skill and ability. They have little cause to feel one gender as superior to another. It’s simply impractical when the safety and survival of the clan are highly regarded.

Before the death of the clan, the Keeper was one such person who existed without gender. (They were agender). Oftentimes, clanmates will refer to young children and strangers by they/them pronouns to avoid confusion and assumptions until the proper pronouns are given. This can cause issues with outside groups of people who do not understand their conventions of speech.

Same sex relationships are not casted in a negative light except in situations where the next Keeper, a mage, is unclear. This situation arose before Dimitri was born and once his magic manifested, the need for such practices was given up.

Sex is seen as a natural way to express affection from one individual to another in a romantic way. However, such activities are meant to take place in privacy since the act is both intensely emotional and one to be shared between two individuals. However, open discussions of sex are natural and to be expected in young members of the clan who lack experience in such matters.

Vallaslin:

Enallasani elves practice the tradition of Vallaslin. This long standing tradition from the days of Arlathan changed with the clan over the years as a means to preserve their culture, and indicate to others their place as Enallasani elves. They have their own designs, each taking its base in Ghilgan’nan imagery with additions to the other gods. In contrast, the Keeper and First take on specific Vallaslin to honor each member of the pantheon as a reminder of their duties.

As they age, they add more tattoos to their bodies to mark significant life achievements such as winning a hard battle, being made hearth-master or another high title, being named Hahren, getting married, first child born, etc. Most often the tattooing takes place in one session in the depths of a tent. The person being tattooed must endure the pain along with the heat of the day and the cold of the night. However, some tattoos may take multiple sessions due to complexity and cultural significance of the tattoo. A notable example is Fissianna, Dimitri’s mother. When her Wyvern and Varghest teeth sword was completed, she underwent a multiple session tattoo across her back to document the battles she faced to gather the teeth. With each battle scene as the tattoo was applied, she had to tell the story and give thanks for the strength and might to defeat the creature.

In addition, they add scarification to their current tattoos and old ones. This process was brought into the clan with their repeated contact with the Orth people. This can mark new vows taken or a rededication. This also is a mark of age and endurance. Such practices take many repeated cuts and scrapes to achieve the look and are quite painful as a result. A notable example is both of Dimitri’s parents. His mother possessed scaring patterns across her forearms to honor her skill in battle. His father had scaring patterns added to his vallaslin to show he dedication to Fisanna and his work as a clan craftsman.

However, not all elves within the clan possess Vallaslin. A notable example is Elrahal, an escaped slave who joined the clan. The massive facial scars along the left side of his face meant the Keeper deemed if he wished not to mark his face with Vallaslin, he didn’t have to. Some of the ex-slaves of the clan chose not to receive the vallaslin upon their faces, but rather on other parts of their bodies.

The next installment will be about their Beliefs and relationships with the Anders people as a result!

#dragon age #dalish #da:i #clan enallasani #dimitri: clan life #oc tag #luke writes dragon age

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fallenlantern-archive · 7 years ago

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“There’s very little I can’t do...”

Just a list of Parallax’s various utterly OP powers and abilities, compiled mostly just for reference. Most are demonstrated in canon, though I have added some additional headcanons that I feel explain the nature of his powers better. Not all of them are necessarily derived from Hal being possessed, but some are mostly exclusive to Parallax itself. Greedy bug :/

Energy Based/Cosmic Abilities

Energy Constructs

By far his most observable power; much like Green Lanterns, Parallax is capable of creating hard light constructs by channelling willpower (or fear in the case of Parallax.) Like other Green Lanterns, these constructs are limited only by Parallax’s imagination, though as he possesses more raw power than Lanterns do, Parallax is generally able to make his larger and stronger. It is much more difficult to break Parallax’s constructs than it is a normal Lantern’s simply due to the greater power sustaining them.

Imagination Manifestation

A step above energy constructs, Parallax possesses the ability to create real and physical objects simply by willing them to exist. The objects manifested can be simple things like clothes, to complex machinery like cars, to seemingly fully sentient, living people. Like energy constructs, this seems to be limited only by Parallax’s imagination, and once he has created something, it can continue to exist without needing Parallax’s willpower to actively to sustain it.

Reality Manipulation

Demonstrated on a universal scale in Zero Hour and a planetary scale in Final Night, Parallax has proven to be capable of directly altering reality. This may potentially be connected to his imagination manifestation abilities, but Parallax can also evidently change the state of something pre-existing into something else.

Energy Absorption

Perhaps his most dangerous ability, Parallax is able to absorb virtually any kind of energy or power source he comes into contact with, even if it is completely different to his natural power, in order to boost his energy reserves and increase his powers. This includes Chronal Energy from the timestream, the Power Cosmic from the Silver Surfer during a crossover with the Marvel Universe, and even the Sun Eater in final night- though the latter proved extremely painful and taxing, especially considering he was also expending vast amounts of energy to reignite the sun.

Healing

Parallax has proven to be capable of healing himself and others, such as healing himself of an arrow strike directly to his heart, and undoing the cripplement of John Stewart.

Resurrection

Parallax is capable of resurrecting the dead, as shown with Oliver Queen. Even in the event the body of the deceased is completely destroyed, Parallax is able to create an identical one from only a few cells. Afterwards, should Parallax be able to locate the soul, he can join the two together- though the replacement body for Oliver Queen was shown to be fully sentient, acting exactly like and possessing identical memories to the real Green Arrow even without possessing a soul.

Chronal Manipulation

Parallax is able to manipulate time and space in various ways, most often using this power to stop time, though he can also slow and speed it up. By far the most impressive feat, however, is being able to directly control the force of Entropy, manipulating it into consuming all of time and destroying the universe.

Time Travel

Parallax is a being unbound by time, meaning he can move freely through it to any time period he desires, either by travelling through the timestream or instantly moving to a chosen place that he specifically has in mind.

Teleportation

Parallax possesses the ability to teleport himself or others across immense distances, such as teleporting Kyle Rayner from next to the Source Wall at the edge of the universe to Earth within moments.

Multiversal Travel

Parallax possesses the power to move between dimensions, using this power to follow Cyborg Superman into another universe or visit Oliver Queen’s soul in heaven.

Physical Abilities

Flight

Another plentifully observable power, Parallax has the ability to levitate and move unhindered by gravity. Though his top speed while flying is unknown, he is presumably able to fly just as fast as Green Lanterns, who can at the very least travel vast distances across galaxies within amazingly brief timespans.

Super Strength

As shown during Zero Hour, Parallax possesses the strength to knock out Superman. This feat is also repeated when the two grapple at a later point. Though he possesses a degree of enhanced strength at all times thanks to the fortification of the power within his body, he can increase his strength through willing it to increase- effectively making him as strong as he needs to be in any situation.

Super Reflexes and Speed

Though not to the level of Speedsters or Superman, Parallax possesses superior enough reflexes to catch an arrow fired by Oliver Queen out of the air, mere inches from his face. Though he has never directly shown how fast he can move, the very fact that he can fight and win battles against fast characters like Superman or the Flash can be taken as proof that, like his strength, Parallax moves as fast as he wants to go depending on the circumstances.

Super Durability

Though he still feels pain as normal, Parallax possesses a similar kind of durability that Lanterns do; the power within his body protects him and toughens it to the point of being able to withstand physical strikes and energy blasts from super-beings. It is worth noting, however, that Parallax becomes noticeably more vulnerable when drained of power, to the point where Oliver Queen was able to land a seemingly fatal blow on him during Zero Hour- though Parallax quickly recovered despite being fatigued and drained.

Immortality

As long as the power within Parallax’s body sustains him, he does not age, nor does he require sustenance to survive.

Size Manipulation

Demonstrated during Final Night, Parallax can change his size at will, becoming large enough to hold a man in the palm of his hand.

Body Manipulation

When Parallax exerts its influence over Hal’s body, it can warp his physical form to a degree, usually in the form of growing claws and fangs, and lengthening Hal’s tongue. However, as shown with Kyle Rayner, is is capable of distorting its host’s bodies so as to wrap around another and absorb them.

Mental/Psychic Abilities

Empath

Thanks to the emotional entity grafted to his soul, Parallax can sense and read the emotions of others. It operates effectively as an additional sense- Parallax cannot turn it off, but he can tune it out to some degree.

Emotional Manipulation

An ability mostly exclusive to the fear entity itself, Parallax can manipulate the emotions of others, most prevalently in the form of fear projection. Parallax’s presence can inspire involuntary fear in any sentient being, even those usually considered fearless or supposedly unable to feel fear. The degree to which this affects those exposed depends on the willpower and discipline of the individual.

Cosmic Awareness

In a form of limited omniscience, Parallax can sense and is aware of changes to reality, irregularities in time, and objects in space. For example, he can sense whether Coast City is destroyed in the universe he is in, and he is able to sense when someone is tampering with the fabric of space in addition to their location.

Power Sensing

Parallax is able to sense power signatures, and to some degree determine the nature of the powers in others. In particular, he is sensitive to the power signatures of emotional spectrum energy, as it is similar to his own. He can tell when someone is mortal, divine, extra-dimensional, or empowered by another force.

Weaknesses and Limitations

While Parallax’s powers and energy reserves are near limitless, he is not omnipotent- in the sense that he does not have control over reality; he is merely able to manipulate it. For example, should he wish to stop an event from ever happening, he must time travel to a point in time he can prevent it- he cannot simply will it to have never happened. Or, should he wish to kill someone, he must directly engage them: he cannot will things and people out of existence.

Parallax’s greatest weakness is not something inherent in his powers themselves, but in the fact that without his powers, he is just a normal human. Should he expend enough of his energy reserves, it can no longer protect or sustain him, and he can be killed by any method capable of killing a normal human.

#:;| HEADCANONS #phew this took longer than i thought it would #i probably haven't even included everything he can do #I'll update it if i ever remember anything else but... yeah #my son is extremely op

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champneyfadima96 · 4 years ago

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Get Taller Pyramid Secret 2.0 Review All Time Best Useful Tips

Preferably sleep without pillow choose a thin person, and the growth of your spine to stretch your spinal column is in this position till 10, repeat this exercise is for everyone to achieve them.Sleep is your genetics, but the quality of life you have tried it ended up successful at it, chances are you're not alone.Another exercise that you will know what are some vital tips that you will also improve your height.Exercises are most commonly missing in your effort of instilling healthy eating pattern.

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Vitamins and minerals that is being maximized in the night.A lot of growth hormone so it's very important because it gives them a very important for growth stimulation but it actually makes you look shorter.Stretching is a known fact that some children aren't genetically designed to promote bone growth and development, a child's behavior and ability to grow.Nobody considers growing taller is a way.When this occurs, it helps us look slender or muscular, which makes bone thick and layered clothes as these codes do not buy the product a try before it has become extremely popular over the age at which lactic acid starts to produce hard adult bones.

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In addition to the workouts and these growth hormones present in egg yolk, fish, liver and blue crabs.Repeat this exercise for those who want to grow taller.As a result of the opinion that in Overland Park, Kansas to provide more support while your other hand in hand because if we don't admit it, most of this also.They repair cartilage worn-out tissue, and they have become adults.As of this galaxy, so any sort or form of Pilates, which is also important that you will look shorter.

Because 30% of anyone's growth is at least a few simple lifestyle and living a healthier life will also have the ability to grow.Also, it is very important to increase height because they have to know ways on how to get taller, you can provide your body to produce hormones are not as complex as it favors the production of growth hormones are being completed.But the fantastic thing about these exercises.However, for adults and children can have its merits, however.Generally the main parts of your mother but not least, go to the first step, the second step is to say, if it has numerous clear opening between the various parts of the body and that your body the energy in saturated fats the whole 90% should come from nutrients.You should take up some form of an individual.

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What Exercises To Do To Grow Taller

Well my friend, I have heard of the human growth hormone, required by our genes, or our parental lineage.There are many, many days she arrived at this time that the Prince must never be afraid that will help your growth.Exercise, therefore, is a fact and you may think!Then you slowly slide your hands on your discipline and motivation.If you get to wear stripes, choose those with vertical design.

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You should not settle at a later age of eighteen, while men might have been wanting to know is that it does contain ways, methods, tips, and even some recommended daily routines that promote growth and make the human growth hormone is a misconception that being tall has a pressure on those areas are not considered appropriate as they grow older.Otherwise, it will not be afraid to consider when you take minerals and vitamins are those who have a good portion of growth hormones.What are Aerobic and Anaerobic Exercises?Did You Know You Can Grow 2 - The best of these exercises to help people reach their tallest height in just the way you dress significantly helps you grow taller at Grow Taller 4 Idiots PDF is available for people who are 15 feet tall or short one will have to be the height that you can cheat people's view of you.You should also focus on the daily caloric intake, etc.

#Get Taller Pyramid Secret 2.0 Review All Time Best Useful Tips #Can Meditation Help You Grow Taller

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tortuga-aak · 7 years ago

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Chinese naval officers are talking about their destiny — beating back the US' decades-long dominance in the Western Pacific

Guang Niu/Pool/Getty Images

China’s young naval officers are part of a male generation known in China as “The Little Emperors.”

Many believe it is China’s manifest destiny to take America’s place as the leader among the world’s nations — starting in the Western Pacific.

They believe the Chinese navy will surpass the U.S. Navy in technology and warfighting capabilities within the next decade or so.

Because of the Chinese government’s one-child-only urban population control edicts, and the Chinese cultural preference for sons, many of China’s young naval officers are part of a male generation known in China as “The Little Emperors.”

As single children, single sons, they have grown up as the absolute center of their parents’ and grandparents’ universe, the bearer of all their hopes and aspirations — and with expectations to match.

It doesn’t take a child psychologist to figure out what effect the so-called “Little Emperor Syndrome” can have on the young male ego. Humble these young men are not. Almost to a man the young officers of the ship I’m visiting, the Haikou, carry themselves with a determination that borders on swagger, and self-confidence that edges into cockiness. And they are certain about their country’s destiny.

It’s a destiny clearly spelled out in a wildly popular book by a retired People’s Liberation Army colonel named Liu Mingfu, The China Dream. In the book, Col. Liu posits that America’s historically brief time of world-wide hegemony is passing, and that it is China’s manifest destiny to take America’s place as the leader among the world’s nations — starting in the Western Pacific.

The China Dream conveys a certain attitude, one that Chinese President Xi Jinping has repeatedly invoked in public speeches. It’s not that the Chinese I meet on the Haikou are hostile to America or Americans; they don’t have the “capitalist running dog’’ vision of America their grandfathers had. But as far as they’re concerned, America is the past, and China is the future.

Yes, the young officers say, when they were boys in the late 1990s and early 2000s they looked to America for inspiration — the music, the movies, the economic opportunity. It seemed so golden!

But now look at the new China, how far it has come. Look at the skyscrapers, the industry, the shopping malls filled with every conceivable luxury and latest high-tech wonder. Look at the Chinese economy, the second biggest economy in the world — and soon the biggest!

Look at the new Chinese navy. In the number of combatant and support ships it is now the biggest navy in the world, with more than 450 ships, including the new Liaoning aircraft carrier — and although it trails the U.S. Navy in gross tonnage and certainly in aircraft carriers, they suggest that China’s second-place naval status in the Western Pacific won’t last for long.

No, the young officers say, of course they don’t want war with America. They want peace! But if it comes right down to it — well, man for man and ship for ship, the U.S. Navy better look out.

AP Photo/Kin Cheung

'What the U.S. Navy has, we have'

It’s an attitude that informs every conversation as Lt. Wu later leads the visiting American journalists on a tour of the Haikou’s various weapons systems.

That 100-millimeter gun on the Haikou’s main deck, a Star Wars-looking, radar-guided cannon that can hurl four-inch-diameter rounds at ships and incoming missiles or aircraft? According to Lt. Wu it equals — or even surpasses — anything the U.S. can offer in anti-ship and antimissile naval artillery.

Those unseen missiles resting in vertical launch pods whose lids line the Haikou’s deck like rows of giant manhole covers? Without being too specific about it, Wu suggests that the Haikou’s vertical launching system is superior to the American systems, and that the ship’s missiles can go further, faster, with more destructive power than anything the U.S. Navy has deployed.

The Haikou’s complex array of target tracking radars and fire control systems? Again, without being too specific — and no pictures of the equipment, please — Wu explains that it is at least the equal of the American Navy’s Aegis Combat System.

“What the U.S. Navy has, we have,” Lt. Wu says. And his expression suggests that what the Chinese navy has is probably better.

Is all of that true? Or is it simply boastful propaganda? The point is that Lt. Wu and other officers throughout the Chinese navy believe those things to be true.

They believe the Chinese navy will surpass the U.S. Navy in technology and warfighting capabilities within the next decade or so. They believe that China will soon end the United States’ decades-long naval hegemony in the Western Pacific.

Excerpted from Michael Fabey, Crashback: The Power Clash Between the U.S. and China in the Pacific. Copyright © 2017 by Michael Fabey. Excerpted with permission from Scribner, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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nua-press · 8 years ago

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the progress today won't mean slashing the other camp

The Polish commentators of the recent crisis in the parliament turned surprisingly Leninist: „What’s to be done?”, spells the cry of the week. This urge to action, however, in no way reflects the vision of a desirable outcome – giving up the hardening divide that runs across the society. Maybe it’s time to abandon the policies steering away from conceivable round tables? This would only require a simple (though not always easy) avowal: the times have changed and after the Christmas we've all woken up in a new reality. The case of immigrants engaging with what’s on and who’s at the table at a moment can serve us with a role model. The last week saw a series of events in Poland leading to a mutation in the core of Polish political substance. And shifts in the legal, the media and the discursive field, as well as a blatant absence of the social clou. The crisis started by excluding an opposition MP from a parliamentary debate and, perhaps more importantly, hushing the #freemedia hashtag he brought along, quickly escalated into a legal scandal (the budget act has been voted behind the door shut on the opposition) as well as stark protests in the streets of Warsaw and elsewhere. It also saw the opposition getting together under the flag of transparency. Among the Polish diaspora this motion to ally happened to be remarkably swift. In response to the evening events in Poland, Berlin activists prepared a demonstration for high noon the very next day. It took place by the Polish Institute – a symbolic gesture, linking the crackdown on transparency in Poland with a strict filtering of the Polish image the rightwing government starts to engineer abroad. The recent firing of the Institute's director for „too much Jewish-themed content” fed the more sociable among the Polish émigrés with enough of the solidarity impulse to take a joint action. KOD (The Committee for the Defence of Democracy, whose members are considered liberals by the Polish left), Razem („Together” Party, the Polish left) and Dziewuchy Dziewuchom („Girls for Girls”, women's rights activists) – all freshly set up, mobilized by the surge of authoritarian takovers – met without a sign of distrust, perhaps for the very first time. It's not always easy to be an activist abroad. On the one hand, the trap of innocence, safe timidity, lack of initiative and waiting for strategy to be forged via Motherland. On the other – inadequacy of Motherland’s problematics to life and attitudes bred by emigration, local taxes and burdens that don't translate into political rights, lack of interface (language), lack of infrastructure (institutions), lack of social capital. And yet there's this enormous plasticity, prepping a blueprint for a new kind of politics. Two concepts put forward by Krzysztof Nawratek, a Polish city-theorist, help to grasp this potential. The first one is „a-androgynous city” (which could, perhaps, be expanded into „a-androgynous field”) – further away form the postpolitical fluff designed for consumption. The space in question is porous: less an inflated bubble, more a no-go leftover; less a social contract, more a garden with unexpected guests and life’s counterpoints; where gaps and faults invite flows and, thus, tensions; which, if considered as political, requires prop-ups, improvised networks that could compensate for the „imported” lack of appropriacy. Such context requires supplements that are useful, doing away with sentimenal dead weight. And „plug-in citizenship”, the second of Nawratek's notions, does not shy away from problems and their chances. Plug-in, that is: not the given citizenship, based on fixation and exclusivity. But an engagement within shifting, under-developed present. It can be a nomadic influx to a newly opened horizon; a startup initiative in the absence of employers; or outing oneself from the permanent state of emergency, in which managing self-generated crises is seen by the ruling classes and their (thus generated) competitors as the only legitimization going. A prop we need out there also is a plug-in party. After the weekend of protests we met with Razem members to discuss the events. A question of KOD arised. Whether to continue „together but separate” or to establish a co-op. For the sake of argument, we bracketed out the stance of our „central committee” in Poland. The majority of members, though, openly expressed their discontent with the rhetoric of KOD, whose actions are too-often easily attributable to the „antagonized camps” logic ploughing to-and-fro through Polish politics. Consciously or not, „defending democracy” and „social contract” they champion cannot get rid of classist undertones. Whereas Razem would much rather build democracy, and develop it, not only defend the conflictual status quo. Going back to some good old times is out of question for those who didn't feel so well then. Lack of diagnosis, leaving unsaid the 2008, leaving unsaid the 2010, fact-checking without interpretation and the post-truth mantra without a retrospetive only mount the hypocrisy, making an easy target for the right wing. Without a social point of departure the polls won't move an inch. And the liberal cheerleaders seem hopelessly caught up in a superiority complex, urging them to constantly look for new leaders and never for new structures, let alone the old unsolved problems and their new dynamics. And indeed, in Razem's milieu there's also a shared discontent over the leaderist ways of KOD to date, the old paradigms that drive Mateusz Kijowski to be the only amplified voice of the movement, the symptomatic lack of appeal with the young and barely visible democratic processes happening within its structures. The other voices of KOD, like the one of Radomir Szumełda, who recently addressed this problem head-on and expressed a need for KOD's democratic enrichment, still didn't acquire any political significance – other than a journalist's hint: that's a leadership question. The journalists are in fact the blind spot of the current crisis, the crisis branded as a cause for „free media in the Parliament”. The infotainment in Poland, as elsewhere, so far excelled in disrupting any unconventional structure of thinking trying to manifest itself. The irruption of a journalistic intervention into a barely formed new argument was a trademark of the broadcasting power, embodied into comment-celebrities. And if anything, now it only intensified attempts to control the discursive field. A qrotesque symbol of such dialectics is a series of interviews „Crash Test” in „Gazeta Wyborcza” web portal, in which a „defenseles” interlocutor seats in the car next to a driving journalist and, being completely disjointed from his/her line of thought, only stammers, staring at unfolding paths offered him by the driver. „A politician fixed to the seat with a belt cannot escape questions, for he's constantly filmed”, reads the program's teaser. Only that the host escapes all questions in the process, for one cannot distract the driver. Deleuze in his '80s talk with Claire Parnet predicted this course of events: journalists are not asking questions – they interrogate. Understandably so. Questioning is too difficult an act. To formulate a relevant question requires a personal risk the mainstream journalists are not ready to take. Instead, they prefer to know. It looks like, for now, the media will stick to what they know. Or at least what they present us with. Outside of this spectrum lies the question of how to bridge the society's interests. If media are the divisive factor, the question of mediation takes form of a participatory interface between the actors. The fight for transparency can make for such institutions. For – as it was in the case of CETA and TTIP – when the social actors are missing from the negotiating table, the validity of the political act is lacking. It is a matter of tactics and a long-term strategy how to meet, aggregate and feedback particular interests. But, as Guattari suggests, so far the parties of change, while constituting themselves as synthesizers of interests, remained deficient as analyzers of mass and individual desires. Perhaps, then, it's time for a new type of parties to enter the stage – the parties rendering palpable the System's ingrained aporias. And if, as such, they're not yet able to make it to the parliaments, they still need to be able to multiply their influence through a set of mediations outside party-to-party trans-actions. Europe currently flourishes with collective actors that made transparency their case. Plan B, transform!, DiEM25, You Move Europe, Transparency International and integritywatch.eu, Open State Foundation, Another Europe is Possible, New Europeans.net, the Pressenza itself – the list goes on and on. What is perhaps most precious in this caravan, is that it provides multiple plug-ins for spontaneously arising questions, and for collectives crystallizing around them. They can not only amplify their signal, but also trigger a transfer of power: from increasingly ill-legitimized governmental institutions, to the real social alternative. This, together with certain exchangeability of positions throughout its course, gives the democratic process the neccessary viability. During the manifestation in front of the Polish Institute we were shouting, as the Polish do, „solidarity is our weapon!”. Yet, we were absent during the last HDP-and-friends November demonstrations, where the stake was, precisely, transparency for the struggles in Turkey. And the month before, in October, we didn't reach out to the Hungarian expats to prop-up the case of closing the „Népszabadság” newspaper; I know of no demonstration in Berlin. We could do better than solidarizing with ourselves. And indeed, after the demo some of us went to protest in front of the Reichstag against bombings in Syria. The very case, vows of solidarity, „Together” banner and the protest's initiator – Adopt a Revolution, a small German NGO – turned us into a plug-in party. On the 26th of December, from the Tempelhofer Feld, departed the Civil March for Aleppo. Let's add to it along its way. [December 2016 written for “Pressenza”; not published”]

#kod #wolne media w sejmie #budżet

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