#the shadow is long and prosaic

[othernaut]

Character Creation Challenge 2025, Day 2: Burning Wheel

The first thing she did after getting out was to name herself. Then her wolf. Then the trees, stones, and individual birds and beasts. Drunk on names, she named the arrows as she let them fly, the loudest crackles of her meager campfire. None of the old rules mattered anymore. No one could tell her what to do. If that night was the only night she lived, it was worth it.

But that wasn't the only night; there were others, and the giddiness of freedom only lasted so long. Hunger was an ever-present motivator, shelter and warmth. Her past, like an unwanted embrace, came at her in the day when she tried to sleep. Little Brother felt hunger more keenly than her, fumed with the solitude that she embraced. She could never travel far enough, it seemed, to leave the black mountain's shadow. And the fear - she found so many new things to fear. The green leaves and wild, soft things that were always intimated at being forbidden - not for someone like her. The sounds of unfamiliar speech over a wooded hill. The little signs of other people, dropped horseshoes and picked-through bushes - would they hate her?

Everyone hated her. The whole of the mountain seethed with hate, it underlined all she had learned. Some days she near choked with it, feverish, sick with hate. She hated the situation she had been forced to endure, hated the fact that her daughters were still back home - that she still thought of that pit of pointless misery as "home". The resentment in turning over a stone in search of insects and finding a dropped brass button, that others should have such fine things while all her life was rotten work and pain.

But more and more, day by day, there was a novel sensation - a quietude, a stillness in her emotion that hadn't been there previously. She felt it when she slept against Little Brother's warm, rough hide, when he kicked and whined in his sleep. When she washed herself in clean water, drank the river as it passed - she felt it then. Not the numbness of a new injury before it had learned to sting, not the confident reel of drunkenness. Something new. Had any orc felt this any time before?

No words for it in her sole, vile tongue. No use for it among the orcs and goblins. But it was peace she was feeling, subtle as starlight, and she craved it like an addict.

All from the thought: What if I just left? And years of preparation, but still. What if I just left? Death and consumption a sure thing under the leaves, according to her masters. Death and consumption a sure thing under the mountain.

No going back. Never again.

*****

Name: Hunched and Horned Under the Great Green Moon Concept: Burnt-out orc hunter looking for a way out of the bleak life Lifepaths: 5 (wanna roll the die of fate) Age: 28

Will: B3; Perception B3; Power B4, Forte B4, Agility B5, Speed B5 Health: B4; Mortal Wound: B10; Reflexes: B5; Steel: B5; Hatred: B4 Superficial: 3, Light: 5, Midi: 7, Severe: 8, Traumatic: 9, Mortal: 10 Skills: Foraging B2, Bow B4, Mounted Combat, Riding B2, Armor, Spear B2, Intimidation B2, Black Bile Poison, Scavenging B1, Hunting B3, Field Dressing B1, Stealthy B3, Tracking B2, Vile Poisoner B2 Traits: Cannibal, Cold Black Blood, Breeder, Fanged and Clawed, Loathsome and Twisted, Lynx-Eyed Like Burning Coals, Vile Language, Tasting the Lash, Brash, Cry of Doom, Scavenger

Gear: Run of the mill bow, Great Wolf mount (Last Little Brother), Traveling gear, Rags Circles: B0, Resources: B0 Relationships: She Who Froths the Blood to Boiling, Chain-Forger Made and Remade, twin daughters, still back in it, both named and strong. No idea what they might think of their wayward mother, what they might be doing. A contentious thing, even when Moon was in the mountains. Beliefs: I refuse to accept misery if there is no point to it. The wild and untravelled places hold the only joy some of us will ever know. I want to believe that my people aren't past saving. Instincts: If not intimately familiar with an area, I stalk through it slowly and stealthily. I ensure my weapons are always poisoned. I ensure my wolf is well-fed and happy, even before myself.

Lifepaths: Born Chattel, 10 yrs; Scavenger, 3 yrs; Nightseeker, 4+1 yrs; Black Hunter, 5 yrs; DIE OF FATE! Rolled a 6, I'm fine; Astride the Beast, 5 yrs.

*****

When I first bought Burning Wheel, $9.99 Canadian for two books at the used bookstore, I bounced off of it halfway through the main rolling mechanics. Later on, displeased at the waste, I tried to roll a character and bounced, again, off the simultaneous profundity and restrictiveness of the lifepaths. I didn't like it. I couldn't tell you why, but the dislike was deeper than these wordless things tend to be - an instinctual flinching back, an "ugh" murmured softly to myself whenever someone praised it.

I have those words now. It has been analyzed, experienced. Burning Wheel is, fundamentally, up its own ass.

Burning Wheel is a system could be defined less as a "game" and more as a "difficult-to-play art project made through the mechanism of game design" - but hey, I like Noumenon, and that is the definition of difficult-to-play art project made through the mechanism of game design. This flinching, then, comes because I detect a mote of the less-than-genuine. The system reads less as an attempt to express than an attempt to impress.

Role-playing games are complex endeavors, even at the most one-page, storygame simplistic. There's always going to be something you get wrong, a mechanic you just forget to use, a story beat that slipped under the waves. But I try to imagine playing this thing - not even session zero, just, like, session two. The game after the training wheels come off, after you've made your characters, rolled some dice to test out how it feels. The part where you're supposed to remember everything. The part where you're supposed to know not only how to distribute metacurrency for yourself, but the triggers to distribute it to other players. The part where you have to engage with the advancement mechanics and realize you have so much bookkeeping to do - so much professed freedom, but so little control.

And I imagine going back to D&D. It's complex, too, but Christ, compare the base-level rolling mechanics. Roll a d20, apply positive or negative modifiers, there you go. And there are no absolute forbiddances or mandatories hidden, like, halfway through an otherwise unrelated paragraph. And no one calls you an idiot if you don't like it.

If you have a good DM, and you have a group of enthusiastic players, and you have a solid story you want to tell - yes, of course, you can play a good game of Burning Wheel. But it is fundamentally not my jam, and at the last, I'm grateful now to know why.

Next up: Further media disappointments told through the medium of dice.

[mariocki]

Shadows of Fear: Did You Lock Up? (1.1, Thames, 1970)

"And they didn't make much mess?"

"No, not really. They forced that door. Smashed the cabinet, slashed a sofa. And kicked a hole in the bedroom door."

"Ah. Big mistake."

"What is?"

"Never lock inside doors. Anything you can to keep them out - but when they're in, let 'em get on with it."

"I'll remember."

[yolli-es]

you should do jinx giving reader a tattoo of her name 🙏

That's much better, isn't it?

Tags: possessive, jealousy, manipulation.

You are so active omg, is it because of season 2? I also have to say that this is quite proprietary and reminds me of a Yandere!Jinx.

This is starting to get annoying. Everything was going so well, and now?

Usually, you were always closely connected to each other, not just emotionally. It was so long and constant that it became an unspoken rule of Zaun. You've done many things, from having dinner together to revolution.

But now you've suddenly started going out "on business" too often. How could Jinx not worry?

Jinx followed yours next time. It's only for your safety, of course. A couple of hours, and she saw the root of the problem—the weird girl you were discussing with. A small, about 20 years old. It was annoying that she caught your attention like that. Weird, painful, and absolutely unbearable. It took all of Jinx's strength to contain herself. These meetings continued, and, in fact, there was nothing too close about them. On the contrary, you kept your distance and spoke absolutely calmly. Which could not be said about this girl. She was strangely leaning towards you, constantly fixing her hair and trying to touch you all the time. Jinx was really nervous, waiting for the right moment to ruin everything.

The moment when you give in to her.

This did not happen, and the truth came to light.

Luckily, it was much more prosaic. You were sneaking off to meet a jeweler for a cute hair clip. It was a gift for Jinx for your third anniversary. With all the running around, she forgot about it. How awkward...

"So... this is for me, huh? It's very beautiful," her fingers slid over the chilling metal of the small pin. The shape of the curved cross suited her. She didn't know what kind of metal it was, but it shimmered blue and pink in the light, remaining chillingly black in the shadows. Beautiful.

"Cool, huh? I had to work hard to get this, but... whatever. It was worth it." You seemed happier than Jinx herself, leaning over in front of her as you picked up her right braid and wondered where to put it, "It might not be very practical, but I'm sure it's really cute. Don't worry if it gets lost, okay?"

You finally looked at your girlfriend and understood her mood. She shrank, looking tensely at the floor and picking at her pants with her nails. Stuck in her dark thoughts right now. However, having anticipated your next move, Jinx spoke up: "I have a gift for you too." It suddenly dawned on her; her eyes lit up, and her back straightened. Jinx was ready to flare up with impatience. "M.. yeah? I'm so glad it is. I like it already, trust me," you giggled, sitting down next to Jinx as she grabbed your hands in anticipation. The hairpin would wait on the table for now. "Oh, something unusual," Jinx sat you down with your back to her, stood up, and rushed over to a huge box of art supplies.

You sat quietly, expecting something like a painting or a painted gun. The same one you got last time. Two is better than one!

Jinx will always be unpredictable.

When the noise became more than an explanation, you finally turned around. There was a small table behind you with colorful bottles on it and... a tattoo machine? This can't be.

"Ta-dam!" Jinx sat down on a chair on one side of the table, gesturing for you to sit opposite. "What? Wait, wait, you want to give me a tattoo?" Your voice wavered. You loved Jinx and trusted her in many ways, but let her give you a tattoo? "Oh, come on!" Jinx rolled her eyes, slamming her head down on the table, "You think I can't do it? Don't tell me you didn't check out my tattoos. I got them myself, you know!"

This didn't give you any confidence.

"No, you know... I just don't know what kind of tattoo I want," you turned away, shrugging awkwardly. Jinx chuckled, propping her head up in her hands and licking her lips. "I already decided, toots. What could be cooler than your girlfriend's name, hm?", Her voice sounded confident. So you didn't take it as a joke. However, Jinx didn't let you answer, grabbing your hands and not very carefully sitting you down opposite. "You know, I saw you with that girl... I was worried," she started slowly and from a distance. "You did nothing wrong, and I didn't doubt you. And yet, people are very tricky," she paused, gently taking your hand and looking into your eyes, "So I would like you to have a small tattoo; how about you? I promise it will look stylish." That stumped you for a minute. Yes, you wanted your tattoo, and yes, you love Jinx. But getting one for that reason? "Please," Jinx looked at you with her doe eyes, and that huskiness in her voice was driving you crazy. "Oh, maybe just one, huh? A small one," you chuckled. 

Of course, Jinx was manipulating you for what she wanted. In the most childish and stupid way, you just couldn't help but sneer. Was it a double game, and Jinx knew about your understanding from the start? It doesn't matter; She has already started working.

Pink is the most beautiful color, isn't it?

Despite her obviously selfish desire and rather daring start, Jinx did everything carefully. After all, it was your first time doing it, and she couldn't make you feel anything other than excitement and admiration. She was spinning around you, unable to sit still, turning on music, telling all sorts of nonsense, and taking breaks to relax. She just didn't want to make things worse than she probably already did.

It all ended quickly.

"That's much better, isn't it?", Jinx couldn't help but smile as she looked at the fresh tattoo on your skin. "You look your best, as always, toots." You liked it no less; it actually looked sweet. And very possessive. You liked this display of her love; this affection gave you a strange strength.

You smiled as you took her hand and said with a deliberately innocent look, "Okay, now it's your turn."

The problem is that you love her no less.

Still, there is not a word about yandere in the request, so she's just super jealous and possessive. I hope that the person who asked was thinking about something like this 🙌🏻

[tomlinfonda]

Inside me there are two wolves.

One who thinks that the writers are either stupid or cruel, and that the finale was so incomprehensibly bad that I shouldn't try to make sense of it. And that I should move on.

The other one is a subtext-and-metaphor-hungry beast that is manically obsessed with finding a reason, at least subtextually, for the incomprehensible mess they made out of these characters, especially Ted, in the finale.

Everyone is so right to point out that Ted in previous episodes would not have acted like this. I think the reason for the sudden regression in his character is Dottie.

That morning, full of smiles, in a good mood, Ted starts his walk to work.

He cheerfully strolls through the streets, saying hello to his neighbors, making chit-chat with them. He is (as Trent said it in 1x03) out there in the community. He is, more importantly, part of a community. Until suddenly-

"Mom?"

Dottie's arrival changes everything. Ted gets worse and worse throughout the episode. In the hotel room in Manchester, the football anthem "Blue Moon", with the haunting lyric "You saw me standing alone" plays over Ted's lonesome figure, in the shadows, depressed.

Juxtapose that with his first scene: the lively neighborhood and daylight.

At the end of the episode, his conversation with his (manipulative) mom hits him deep. He feels immense guilt over not being there for Henry. And he's been torn over this for the entire season.

His mom, and the way she acts, and the way she manipulates him, push him in the wrong direction: Kansas.

I think Ted has disassociated for most of the finale. But I also think that he is intentionally pushing people away. Maybe he thinks that this will make it easier for him to leave, maybe he thinks that this will make it easier for them to let him go. Maybe he just hates himself so much that he cannot accept their help. Maybe he feels guilty that they're showing him so much love, when he knows he will abandon them.

Either way, he quits. Something that he would not have done, even in season 1. So his regression goes farther than the first episode, deeper into his past. He goes from:

to having doubts on the plane about leaving without winning the whole fucking thing

but leaving anyway.

And this is one of the most curious things to me. Rebecca offers to bring Henry to him in England by helping relocate Michelle:

And yet, he refuses. So, sure, this is about being there for his son. But given the choice between his son with his beloved community, and his son without his beloved community, he chooses the latter.

I've heard the argument that we don't know for sure that Ted doesn't have a support system in Kansas. But from a narrative perspective, it's important that we haven't been shown that hypothetical support system at all. And given that he actually returns to Kansas without the one person who we know supported him before coming to England, it comes across as a terribly isolating situation.

So why would Ted choose to part from his found family, even though bringing his son into that family would be an option? My theory is that he just really fucking hates himself. I think he wants to punish himself, maybe for being away from Henry for so long, maybe for something else. I don't think he believes that he deserves love or even credit for how he helped the club.

I mean, Rebecca and Trent offer him exactly that this episode: credit for what the did for the club.

And he rejects them both, choosing instead to remove himself from their lives, to erase himself from the narrative.

I think he's lower mentally than we've seen him for a while.

I think he's in his dark forest.

So the plane departs and then lands. And Ted is back in Kansas, driven through the prosaic, picket-fenced, isolating, depressing American suburbs to the house where Henry and the ex-wife who doesn't love him are waiting for him.

And the light might be golden, and he might be reunited with his son. But as we close in on the last shot of the show, you can see his smile try to fight the sadness in his eyes and you know.

He's not happy.

[balioc]

Holiday Engineering: Lamptide

OK, let's put my money where my mouth is.

Lamptide is the invented-from-scratch holiday that I actually celebrate. It has its roots in a roleplaying game that I ran some years ago with @cloakofshadow and @mirror-lock, but after the game finished, I decided that I wanted to import a modified version of the festival into real life.

And it's worked very well! Or so I posit. We've had well-attended Lamptide celebrations for a couple of years running, and not only do people show up and enjoy themselves, there's a distinctive holiday spirit. The weird rites and activities do in fact happen. Which is possibly just because my friends are good sports, but...I think we're reaching the point where some version of Lamptide might well take place without me pushing it along.

As a holiday-engineering project, it's a work-in-progress. I am still tinkering with the observances, and the pieces definitely aren't yet all in place. I don't personally have the expertise to create some of the holiday stuff I'd want to create. Moreover, the population that celebrates Lamptide is still very small, and in some ways homogeneous -- mostly childless urban professional-types -- so the holiday doesn't have the context that it would need to manifest in all the forms that I imagine for it.

But I'm proud of it. And, at the least, it provides an example of what it looks like for a holiday to be built from the ground up.

Vibe. This is where I started. (Both in the RPG and in real life, actually.) In the RPG, Lamptide is an intercalary day, and like many intercalary festivals it's a weird and occult time. In real life, of course, I do not control the calendar. But even so, Lamptide is meant to have that same feel, manifesting as a carnival of spooks and revelry. To some extent, it's meant to serve as a Halloween-like that works better for me than actual Halloween does.

And much like Halloween, in theory, its core rituals can be practiced in three different "modes" depending on context. For families with kids, it's a cutesy holiday of flamboyant fun. For older kids and adolescents, it's a holiday of mischief and boundary-pushing (in a way that is, I hope, less obnoxious than the adolescent version of Halloween). For independent adults, it can be contemplative and/or literary and/or Spicy and Sexy, to taste.

Theme. In a highflown theoretical sense: Lamptide is the festival of narrative conquering material reality, of ideas and illusions becoming more-real-than-real. It is the day when you leave the sunlit world behind and walk back into Plato's cave, because our art allows us to create such beautiful shadows on the walls.

(The "lamp" of Lamptide is, notionally, the lamp whose light reveals what-is-not.)

In a more-everyday sense: Lamptide is a festival of magic.

Timing. Lamptide is observed on the spring equinox. There are a few reasons for this, some of them rooted in stuff from the RPG, but the big one is that it's almost halfway around the calendar from Halloween. I really don't want to compete with Halloween, to the extent that I can avoid it; I would lose that competition very hard. And there are enough obvious points of similarity that it's a real danger.

Early spring is also a good time for holidays generally, in the contemporary US. There's relatively little going on then, and people feel kind of festive because the worst of winter is over.

Mythology. The personification of the holiday is Father Lantern, an ogre-like character who carries a lamp. In the (notional) tales, he shines his lamp on you, and in its light you see an otherworldly version of yourself -- a creature that you could be, if you left ordinary reality behind. More prosaically, if he shows up at your doorstep and you offer him candy, he will tell you stories (or gift you with media).

Father Lantern is mostly a funny and approachable figure. He is long-winded and pretentious, in love with the sound of his own voice. But there is meant to be an edge of menace to him; he is an ogre, which means that there's always the danger that he'll just eat you, especially if you're a child. (This is not a behavior-enforcement thing -- he's not Krampus, and Lamptide is not that kind of holiday. Father Lantern's whims are inscrutable.)

I haven't yet experimented with having someone play Father Lantern, in the way that people play Santa Claus, but it's an obvious possibility.

Decorations. You put lamps and lanterns everywhere. If you can keep your celebration space lit entirely by lantern-light, that is to be commended. Silhouettes and shadow-plays are very much in the holiday spirit.

Holiday attire. Masks -- masquerade-style masks, the kind that allow people to eat and talk comfortably -- are very strongly encouraged. (When I throw Lamptide parties, this is the only thing about which I actually nudge people.) In terms of creating distinctive atmosphere, this fires on all cylinders. A space full of masked people feels otherworldly and ritualized and, well, magic. And the symbolism is super on-the-nose.

Fancy and flamboyant clothes are also encouraged.

Ritual interactions. The Lamptide tradition is to greet people with curses and maledictions. This is done in the spirit of theater superstition; it is a topsy-turvy intercalary carnival, after all. "Die in a fire" is the standard form of cheery holiday well-wishing, although you're encouraged to be creative if you're so inclined.

(Does this mostly give little kids an excuse to be gleeful about saying stuff they'd normally never be allowed to say? Maybe.)

Activities. There are two big ones.

Divination. Lamptide is a time for fortune-telling. Tarot cards are my go-to, and offering Tarot readings at Lamptide parties has proven to be a big hit, but any form of divination at all -- ranging from Actual Fucking Haruspexy to "let's ask ChatGPT about our future husbands" -- is praiseworthy. When my son was less than a year old, I had him crawl around the floor and choose Symbolically Portentous Objects like he was the infant Dalai Lama or something, and it was great.

Bribery, especially candy bribery. One of the core dynamics of a Lamptide celebration is that you walk in carrying candy, or other things that you're happy to give away, and you offer your prizes to people in exchange for them doing stuff that you want them to do. For families with little kids, this is a chance for the parents to reward their children for showing off cool skills / desired behaviors in a concrete ritual framework, and for the children to get their parents to do silly stuff. For teens, it's a structure for something that's essentially Truth or Dare with more flexibility. The applications for Spicy Sexy grownup parties are left as an exercise for the reader.

(I have thoughts about expanding the candy bribery thing into a practice of Reverse Wassailing / Trick-or-Treating, essentially, where you walk around town offering strangers candy in exchange for singing with you or otherwise doing cute harmless stuff. I haven't yet worked out exactly the right feel, though. And, well, things being how they are, you need a pretty thick social skin to be willing to offer strangers candy without a widely-accepted social framework.)

Undeveloped aspects of the holiday, which I hope to flesh out in future years:

Traditional food. We don't really have anything other than candy, right now, and it's an obvious lacuna. Lamptide isn't really a sit-down-for-a-nice-dinner kind of holiday...although I guess it could be...but I suspect it would be useful to come up with some kind of Classic Lamptide Hors d'Ouevre or Classic Lamptide Crudité or something else appropriate for a party where people are milling around doing different things. (Not a dessert, I don't want to compete with the candy.) Sadly, I have no culinary genius, so I'm going to have to outsource for this one.

Music. @cloakofshadow has written some alternate lyrics for Christmas carols, but a thriving holiday should really have its own songs with their own distinctive melodies. Which means that I should probably find a competent composer to help me out.

Gifts. It would be very In-Theme for Lamptide to be the holiday when you give people the books / movies / video games / etc. that you want them to consume for your sake. I haven't yet done anything with that idea, but I am definitely considering it strongly.

[artful-aries]

Prosaic Introductions: Innocent Perspectives (Dottore x Reader)

A part two of my Prosaic Introductions drabble, this time in the point of view of the reader! It can be read as a stand alone though, but you’re missing out on some juicy context without part one. This has been highly requested for some time, so I hope everyone enjoys :3

Word Count: 1.6k

Content Warnings: none

Dottore was by far the strangest man you ever had the pleasure of meeting. His presence brought a chill to any room he stepped into, maintaining a hard distance from anyone and everyone, and he never took off that weird mask. You wondered if he wore it for some medical reason or if perhaps he was self conscious of the top half of his face. Nonetheless, you still could somehow tell whenever his eyes would bore into you with an intensity that could probably put Archons to shame.

On the outside, the Harbinger seemed entirely unapproachable, even dangerous, and yet you found yourself being drawn in by him. Perhaps you were merely a moth drawn to the flame, or more accurately, the fly caught in his web, but you found yourself always throwing caution to the wind when it came to him.

It had been a few weeks since Dottore had given you a cryptic response about making time to see you after he helped chase away a belligerent idiot, something that you found more attractive than was probably morally acceptable. You would go days at a time without seeing the man and wonder if he had gotten busy or simply grown bored of you when he would pop back into your life, like he somehow read your mind and knew you wanted to see him. Given the nature of his role as a Harbinger, part of you wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow could read your mind, but given that he still interacted with you it was reasonable to conclude that he couldn’t read your thoughts. At least, not the embarrassing ones, which in your opinion were the only ones that mattered in this case.

Now you found yourself aimlessly wandering the streets of the market you always preferred to shop at with the tall, cold man in tow. He crept like a shadow as he idly followed you, seemingly wholly content with walking by your side in complete silence.

“So…what was it that brought you to the market today? Did you need more supplies for your research?” You asked politely, taking the opportunity to cast a quick glance at the Harbinger.

The corner of his mouth tapered up ever so slightly, so subtle that you almost wondered if you imagined it as he spoke, “I was not in need of supplies today, (Y/N). I came for other reasons.”

Getting a straight answer out of Dottore was almost like pulling teeth; he seemed to relish in your confusion, a fact which would have been extremely irritating if it was anyone else, but with him it was almost like trying to solve a complicated puzzle, one that you felt like you would feel very rewarded in solving.

You positioned yourself in front of him, walking backwards so that you could continue to face him as you grinned, “What’s the reason you came today then, hm?”

The attempt at being a little flirty was brought to a swift end by your own clumsiness as your back hit a shop’s shelf, making you give a small grunt at the feeling. A piece of pottery on the top shelf rattled at the force, rolling its way to the edge before it dropped off the side, falling swiftly towards your head. You barely had time to react before Dottore swiftly moved closer to you, catching the vase with one hand as he looked at you with what you could only assume to be an amused expression.

“It’s certainly quite fascinating how you’ve managed to survive this long,” Dottore spoke with a hint of mirth in his voice as he gently put the vase back, “You seem to be insistent on getting into all kinds of trouble that requires my intervention.”

The shop keeper, having heard the commotion, stormed up to chastise you both, but upon realizing who you were with, they turned pale and immediately spun on their heels and headed in the opposite direction. Dottore smirked in a way that you were convinced was his way of saying ‘See? I told you so’.

“Well, it’s not my fault you make yourself so dependable,” You teased, but you could feel your face flushing a little bit in embarrassment at your blunder, “At any rate, you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Doesn’t a Harbinger have more pressing matters to attend to than following me around?”

“Perhaps,” He smiled, showing his sharp teeth for a moment as both of you began to aimlessly walk together once more, “But I am here despite my obligations to the Tsaritsa.”

You didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned that the Doctor seemed to be playing hooky with his duties to Snezhnaya, and it didn’t escape your notice that he continued to dance around your question.

Before you could press again, Dottore gave another cryptic answer, “You could say that I’m actively participating in collecting data for research as we speak.”

You gave him an incredulous look, not believing that he was doing anything even remotely close to research. He didn’t even have a notebook or anything, so what could he possibly be researching?

“And what is it that the Doctor is researching this time? Surely it’s something so spectacular that you don’t have to run any tests or take notes,” You replied with a small laugh, believing him to just be testing you to see how gullible you were.

“You,” Dottore said simply, not even casting a glance in your direction, as though it was the most normal response in the world.

…Huh?

You found your next words leaving your mouth before you could stop yourself, “Is that your way of asking me on a date?”

Dottore stopped in his tracks, making you nearly stumble as you stopped mid-gait as you looked at him. He stared at you intently, or at least you assumed so behind his mask. The damn thing kept you from being able to figure out what was going through his head at the moment. Was he shocked? Angry? Embarrassed? You had no clue. All you knew was that he was staring at you like his life depended on it, not moving a muscle.

“A date,” Dottore slowly repeated, more as a statement than a question.

You swallowed hard, clamming up as you worried that you somehow offended the man in front of you. Perhaps it was presumptuous to assume he was even attracted to your gender, let alone you as an individual.

“U-Um, nevermind, it was…I was just-“ You struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for what you had said that wasn’t just writing it off as a bad joke, but you were drawing a blank.

Then Dottore gave a small chuckle, his arms crossing over his chest as he replied in an amused tone, “You mean a date as in a romantic outing, do you not?”

Archons, you would give anything to die on the spot right now.

“If you’re into that,” You answered, cringing internally at your own wishy-washy response. Why did you have to dig yourself into an even deeper hole?

The silence was dreadful, and you could only stand there and shift awkwardly as Dottore stared you down through his mask. You wish he would say something, anything, if only to break the tense silence. At this point, you wouldn’t even care if he laughed at you if it meant getting past this awkward moment.

“How amusing,” The Harbinger smirked as he stepped closer to you, making you snap out of your internal lamenting of your awkwardness, “Fine then, we shall go on a date, (Y/N). I believe this could produce quite interesting results.”

You gaped at him for a moment before blinking a few times, “Y-You’re serious? You’ll take me on a date?”

You couldn’t believe you had gotten this far with a man who terrified entire nations. At one point you had convinced yourself he was entirely aromantic and asexual with how little he seemed interested in your average interpersonal relationships. Yet here he was, this stoic, indifferent man was agreeing to go on a date with you. If it were anyone else, you would have assumed they agreed as a joke, but Dottore didn’t seem like the type of man to agree to such a thing on mere humor alone.

“I believe you’ll see just how serious I am very soon,” Dottore spoke with a smug look, “Don’t tell me that you’re trying to back out now, hm? It would be a great disappointment to miss this opportunity.”

There was a certain tone in his voice that felt…slightly detached, but you couldn’t put your finger on why. Considering the man was inherently detached from those around him, you simply wrote it off as just his usual cold mannerisms seeping through.

“No, I’m definitely not backing out,” You insisted, your cheeks heating up a little as you looked at him, “So…when will you take me on a date then?”

Dottore hummed at your response, clearly entertained at your embarrassed state, “I believe I’ll leave that as a surprise. Wouldn’t want to ruin all the fun, now would we?”

Before you could protest at how ridiculous that was, Dottore already started walking off, waving to you over his shoulder as he spoke, “Until next time, (Y/N). I look forward to our date.”

“I- Wait, you can’t just- Are you even listening to me?” You called out to him, but it was clear that he had no intention of returning to the conversation as he disappeared into the crowd. If that man didn’t interest you so much, you would have cursed him out by now with how often he left you puzzled and confused at his actions, you were sure of it. With an exasperated sigh, you began walking back home, but there was a bit of a spring in your step that wasn’t there previously. Dottore was a strange man indeed, but perhaps that meant you were even stranger for seeking his affections.

[zileans-big-cl0ck]

Hii, if ya feel up to it could you write some comforting headcanons for Yasuo and Talon? They need some good hugs but honestly what league champion doesn't

(if you feel like writing for others too go for it, I like to read anything you make)

✦–Comforting them headcanons.✦ (SFW)

✦Hurt/comfort, because they also deserve a hug. A lot of hugs. Every single one of them.

✧ prompt: ✧ hurt/comfort.

✧ champions: ✧ Talon, the Blade’s Shadow; Yasuo, the Unforgiven; Cassiopeia, the Serpent’s Embrace.

✧ reader: ✧ gender neutral.

✧ author’s note: ✧ oh, dear readers and anons, you don’t even know how appreciated I feel whenever you send me some positive energy or compliments, haha! Every time it’s so adorable, I couldn’t feel any better. Thank you for everythig, especially since english is not my first language, so. I basically have no idea what I am doing. Ah, but apart of this anecdote, the reader is really into self care, but I think it shouldn’t be a problem since we are doing a comforting post.

masterlist

✦Talon, the Blade’s Shadow.

He left his blade by the door, because he would never want you to see it in the comforting space of your home, begrimed with blood and disgustingly obscure.

He has lost his prey. His target fleed - he failed; he didn’t manage to complete the only merit of his life that he truly named his own, his passion and devotion, the thing he has been created to do.

If he fails in something so elementary, a thing fankled into his soul and his whole being, an aspect pierced into his heart, then what is his worth?

You spotted his inconvenient posture imidiately, sensing an unnatural twist in his mood, so used to his everyday harshness, enriched by a little bit of sweetness towards only your person. But this time he was different - apathetic with stilted aura of dullness around. Talon let himself tiredly slide on your shared bed, ignoring you just because of the guilt that has been oppressing his heart.

And you, instead of letting him perish alone, you offered him your silent comfort - just yourself by his side. You sat there, your head on his shoulder, gentle touch of your hand on his back, maybe even the tip of your fingers making little circles, massaging.

You asked him what happened, though for the most of the following time you remain quiet, relishing the moment, only you two as the centre of the universe.

But he still felt the enveloping sensation of the failed mission, a feeling he had never experienced before; he has dishonoured his sacred mission. Should he be allowed to feel comforted after a mistake so unforgivable? If he could, he would wear the disgrace as a punishment, visible and vociferous, so everyone would see his shamefull attempts to find comfort in someone else, unworthy of it and pathetic.

Talon was always a mysterious person, but you were like a stronghold for him - it wasn’t a long time until you heard these thoughts of his vocalized out loud, honest and brutal. He murmured them into your ear, while you listened silently, cherishing this sacred moment of his true, intimate self, the person behind the blade.

His thoughts seemed like a form of self-flagellation, noxious and malign. Something pitiful that made your eyes wet, little droplets settling on your eyelashes.

You couldn’t listen to him anymore, saying those denigrating and disgusting statements about himself. All it was untrue, made from the years of abandonment and loneliness, and you were positive to cure it.

But how many times more will you hear him saying that his name doesn’t matter? That as an assasin he is not a human being - he is just a blade that cuts efficiently, deeply and terminally.

“I couldn’t wish for a better person in my life than you, love.” You beggined with you voice brittle, like you were telling him a unconfronted secret. “There is nothing that could make me feel even slightly different. I love you the same amount, as you should love yourself.”

Your words were prosaic, menial. But these were honest promises of adoring him countlessly times, endlessly and for eons, until he comprehends the feelings you wanted him to nurse not only for you, but also himself.

And at some point Talon chuckled, though it wasn’t a sign of joy - it was depressing, unnatural. He tried assuring you that it wasn’t a problem big enough to enwrap you, his beloved one, in - but you could sense his poignant sadness running through his body, just like you could feel his pulsing heart or heavy breath.

You promised him to dedicate to him all of your time, just to assure Talon in his human ability to make mistakes, even so meaningful; to help with his low esteem, even if he firmly disagreed to have anything to do with the mythical term of the mentioned ’low esteem’.

You wrapped your hands around him, tigh and lovely, planning on imprisoning him in a cage made of adoration from someone, who could gave him the comfort he deserved.

Talon left his blade by the door as a symbol of rejection - he rejected the person beyond this place, the one who covered his face with a hood, exchanging him for a more relaxed one, the one made from flesh and honest feelings, the real ones, the right ones, and the absolutely normal ones.

✦Yasuo, the Unforgiven.

As we know, Yasuo escaped Ionia after the unfortunate tragedy that led him despair.

He was lost and longing for a company, though he stated out loud that he didn’t want anyone nerby - he was still too fragile, still in shock of the brutal act he allowed himself to do, bewildered, horrified by himself.

He didn’t want to hurt another human being again. He didn’t want to accompany yet another person, only to betray them nor to give up on them. Another loose would be too painful, too demolishing.

For them, of course. He thought he could handle all of this crushing on his mind.

But Yasuo wouldn’t survive seeing his acquaintance being betrayed by him, once again.

He wasn’t eager to befriend new people here, in Bilgewater; he didn’t seek anyone particular. You found him by yourself, and soon became his only comfort in those times, only way to drift his depressing thoughts away.

And even though it was admirable, your acts of desperate tries, as he considered you as the most valued person in his life, you knew he shouldn’t be feeling so much pain. It could broke even the toughest weilder. His nailed heart pulsing right in his chest was aching and trying to free itself every time Yasuo bestowed you with his deep, sad eyes.

He suffered in silence, though he claimed that you were the only cure for this desease that was gutting his body.

You could name this curse - it was guilt in its purest form. And you were determined to free Yasuo from it.

At some point, he must have opened himself before you, render a vivisection of himself, show you his insides and the putridity that has enveloped his heart and soul. Something you should despise, scream and shout at the sight of, bewildered and cheesed.

But instead of pushing him away as he expected, almost desired, instead of feeling overwhelmed by the emotions he had dropped on your shoulders, you hugged him tightly, the words of comfort pouring from your mouth.

”That wasn’t your fault.” ”You regret this, and you are not the same person you were back then.” ”That was an accident.” ”You are always there for me - let me be here for you now.”

So he declaimed the weight of the world like a poem. About his past and his brother, who has lose to his blade in the accident. You cried with him, mixing your own tears with his own, brushing his problems and concerns off.

You couldn’t even imagine how deeply was he hurt. But humans tend to crawl for the concept of empathetic co-suffering; it makes them feel understood and is crutial when it comes to comforting, therefore it was enough for him: getting the heavy burden off his own mind, sharing it to the world, admitting that he had commited something unforgivable.

You forgave him, though he has never hurted you. But any mercy given from a human being was a relief for Yasuo.

✦Cassiopeia, the Serpent’s Embrace.

Cassiopeia didn’t need your comfort. She despised it. It made her look pathetic and weak, even if she already looked miserable as half a serpent.

But she was a proud woman, a lover of many in her halcyon days of glory. Everyone longed for her and everyone needed her like an antidote for a deadly poison. It was a desire not in a lovely, romantic way, but in a frantic, melodramatic and amusing form of begging for sparing a life.

She manipulated the whole nation of pathetic Noxians into her hands, toyed with them on one of her palms, treating those little figures like ants, just simple pawns on the board that she created from her life. She would be considered infantile if anyone knew what a little mouse wanted to adhere to her, hug her scaled waist and tell her that… she deserved love.

Of course she did! You should have seen her when she was still human, not an abomination, just a twisted figure of her past self.

”No, I am not thinking like this of myself, little mouse. Do not approach me, we can bargain from a distance-”

She would admire your confidency with honesty, if only you weren’t so… clingy. Your hugged her in a devoted way that spoke without words - that you will always follow her as her dearest worshipper, even if she turned into something more fearsome than a half-snake. Even if she turned into a sculpture, you would attend her every day.

Cassiopeia indeed had to admit to herself, in her own convoluted way of a serpent, that your confession made her feel better. Like she had one person that was truly her admirer, not just another human she led on and wrapped around her claw, ready to allure and use. And that her little mouse was kind of adorable; more like a pet, but at least a faithful one.

It was a change of perspectives for her, a phenomenon that made her smile softly, her hand slidding from the top of your head to your back, where she pushed you closer, admiring and loving.

[myemuisemo]

Moor is more in chapter VI, "Baskerville Hall" of the Letters from Watson distribution of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Although not much happens, the chapter contains a lot of characterization, for both place and people.

Place

The train whisks Watson, Mortimer, and Sir Henry Baskerville from modern London through the bucolic countryside to the romantic (in the literary sense) moor. As an American, my understanding of moors is entirely as a feature of English literature, a desolate place where characters roam in hooded cloaks, bent against the wind, on their way to terrible fates.

It turns out that moors are vibrant ecosystems in their desolate ways (wikipedia). The reason I could not go check out the local moor anywhere that I've lived in the U.S. is that... our geography doesn't create moors. We have to settle for swamps and marshes, which were among my favorite locals in Connecticut but not, alas, good for roaming in a brooding way.

All along, we've been set up for gothic literature: the prevailing atmosphere of fear, the rumor of supernatural events, and the dead hand of the past guiding the tragedies of the present. Baskerville Hall is constructed not so much of stones as of familiar tropes that readers had been oohing and aahing over since at least the "romantic" movement of the 1830s. My cinnamon roll Dr. Watson appears to buy into the mood completely.

Meanwhile, Sir Henry Baskerville is ready to line the yew alley with electric lights, which were still fairly new. If we assume he means incandescent lamps (consistent with the Swan & Edison reference), the first street lamp lit was in Newcastle in February 1879, followed by Cleveland, Ohio, later that year.

Sir Charles had previously done some redecorating, so those modern bedrooms might have had wallpaper like these 1880s remnants from Bolling & Co. This one is described as "simply defies description."

Other than observer Watson, the moor has two outsiders trying to influence events: Sir Henry Baskerville and the escaped convict Selden, which brings us to...

People

In making a list of all the people Watson is to keep an eye on -- or out for -- it occurred to me that, up this chapter, we have seen most characters from the perspective of James Mortimer, which skews perception of who is important.

Sir Henry Baskerville is perceived by Watson as a romantic hero.

There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes.

Sir Henry do" es seem pleased to arrive, and oh my, this is such a gothic description!

I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy above him.

At least the walls aren't bleeding red clay, right?

James Mortimer keeps being sold to us as entirely honest and above board, but then he comes out with the bit about Sir Charles having a "very rare" type of head, entirely different from his heir's head. Watson appears not to notice how ridiculous that sounds.

James Desmond, the default heir to Sir Henry, is confirmed by Holmes to be a harmless old man with no interest in money.

Barrymore the manservant, is perceived by Watson as "a remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished features." (We'll just have Barrymore played by Tom Hiddleston as a combination of Sir Thomas Sharpe and the Night Manager.)

Barrymore's hints about wishing to leave come across as louche, even though a butler and a cook/housekeeper using an inheritance to buy a nice inn would be entirely unexceptional.

(Is Barrymore a lost heir? Gothic lit is full of those.)

Selden, the Notting Heir murderer is largely perceived by Watson, as "this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out." Selden gives us evil encroaching on the peace of the countryside.

Perkins, the groom, perceived by Watson as "a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow," gets a name only because Mortimer addresses him by it. Based on such minimal description, he's practically a Brownie.

Then we have characters that are perceived for us, so far, only by James Mortimer. Only the two "gentlemen" are referred to by name.

Stapleton is a naturalist, and so would know a great deal about the moor.

Mr. Frankland of Lafter Hall is presumably the local MP, inheriting a tradition of being able to frank mail (send it for free, a privilege that ended in 1840) and owning land. I'll bet moderate amounts that Lafter Hall is a livelier and lighter domicile, built somewhat later than Baskerville Hall.

Of the women, we know only their roles.

Mrs. Barrymore, the cook/housekeeper, is presumed to be in accordance with her husband's statements.

Mrs. Mortimer presumably did not have both a large dowry and a love of London, given James Mortimer's choice to take a country practice.

Miss Stapleton is "a young lady of attractions," so she likely has a substantial dowry. She may also have a pleasing and lively manner.

Of non-gentleman-class men, we also know lilttle.

Moorland farmer #1 and #2 have so far existed only to testify to terrors on the moor.

"One or two other neighbors" by this point should be set dressing -- it's getting a little late for any to have motivations.

Hard-faced men with guns are hunting for Selden. While it's unlikely they have anything to do with mysterious glowing dogs on the moor, what a place to hide if one wanted to! “The farmers don’t like it”: the escape, or the presence of armed men supervising coming and goings? The south coast of Devon was known for smuggling.

So we have the cast assembled for a variety of gothic goings-ons! And with the hound, we have a Boggart: a malevolent spirit that haunts a specific family line.

And then Watson hears that most gothic sound: "It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow."

Sherlock Holmes would be looking for bird calls or gramophones, as well as interviewing Mrs. Barrymore about whether she has migraines. I'm a little disappointed that Watson doesn't pursue this strange noise. Had he read and recalled Wuthering Heights, "the rustle of ivy on the wall" would in no way have reassured him that all was well.

[stormxpadme]

Whumptober 2024 No. 7 - Unconventional Weapon

06/05/2018

“Verdammte Scheiße!”

At first, Bastian thought, that prosaic German-language exclamation was part of Katja's outburst about their find in this damn underground facility earlier, some kind of equivalent to the Hallelujah of the day, so to speak.

But then he, too, caught the sudden noise on the surface, just above their heads, where it had been so respectfully quiet in this cruel cemetery of a camp before. Bastian was almost shoved back down the stairs into the bunker along with the heavy burden of the motionless body over his shoulder when a strong gust of wind wrapped around the small, wiry body of one of his companions as she was obviously preparing for takeoff before the three of them had even finished climbing.

“Fuck, sorry, I ... We need to ...” Logan's daughter promptly already wormed past Katja before the latter could even open her mouth for a command and, with the help of her telekinesis, was in the air and out of sight in a second, leaving Katja behind with nothing but another very rude-sounding German curse on her lips.

It seemed, they no longer were alone here. Other mutants had come – and from the sound of it, they were easily keeping the X-Men on their toes.

Cautiously peering through the narrow gap between the hatch and the ground at the side of his temporary teammate, Bastian could already make out someone in the shadows of the Blackbird, who he immediately recognized from the news as a very powerful mutant. He also saw a very dazed Dr. McCoy lying near the ramp to the jet. The snow around the guy was discolored with his blood which in turn made Bastian's boil.

And Logan now was next to fight one of the Brotherhood's poster boys, already bleeding from half a dozen wounds on his upper body and legs himself which also explained why Noemi had lost her nerve. The conflict could have just begun, but the odds were against them.

“Stay where you are, Bastian."

With, naturally, much more experience on the battlefield than her young companion, Katja was fortunately not quite so quick to lose her head. At least she took the time to make sure that assisting her teammates would not come at the expense of the other job she'd been given.

Much to the relief of Bastian, whose desire to get between those front lines over there unprotected was actually rather limited. For that, it had definitely been too long since his last reluctant exercises in defending himself against such assholes.

"Lock yourself in," Katja cautioned him, feeling his apprehensiveness, "and make sure nothing happens to our catch. Under no circumstance can the Brotherhood see the guy before we've decided what to do with him.”

Bastian nodded silently; actually, he only wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible now. However, his throat was also tight with worry about Noemi and especially the woman who'd made his reluctant, unpleasant introduction in Westchester yesterday so much easier. “But you take care of yourself, too, okay?”

“We'll come get you in a minute. Promise.” Despite her obvious rush, Katja showed him a brief smile.

Bastian tried to return the gesture of which he'd almost forgotten how to perform an honest version of it, especially without the threat of violence, in the last six months, amazed at how easy that suddenly was.

The expression didn't last, once Katja followed Noemi's example at last, the hatch almost fully falling close again in a flash, sadly without the images through the viewing slit in the distance changing for the better. The clench in his guts only worsening, Bastian felt how his hands turned to fists all by themselves, the longer he witnessed the frightening events in the distance, not aimed at anyone in particular, but if this went on like this ... No matter how much he hated the thought himself and while Katja's words had been pretty unambiguous ... As far as Bastian knew, he was not under any official command in this team. The bigger the trouble his travel companions were in, the more the unexpected urge grew to return the favor with regard to all the help he'd received yesterday and today, even if doing that meant using extremely unloved means for a change.

Katja had been right earlier: The people that Bastian wanted to see behind bars in the foreseeable future for what they'd done to the residents of this camp here, were damn powerful. Though he didn't intend to forget his principles of staying out of physical confrontations as well as possible: For emergencies like this one, right here, he would still need to brush up on the training he had undergone after much persuasion in this very sanctuary from time to time, hadn't that just hit him? Why not start with it right away?

He wasn’t uncomfortable with the idea of leaving an unconscious man out of sight no matter how short, especially since there was probably a good reason, the X-Men wanted to take the guy into custody as an important informant ... But for that, they all had to make it out of here and get back home first.

Bastian took another shaky breath and carefully put his cargo down on the ground.

For a camp that had once been built as a refuge for mutants who hadn't even been able to find a home among their own kind, far too many people had lost their lives in this frozen wasteland already.

************************

Katja had no idea where these bastards had suddenly come from, but it probably answered the question, having been in the air for years, of whether the Brotherhood was still hostile towards other mutants. Just for a split second, she wondered why Logan hadn't called for her immediately; longer, it didn't take her to realize that he simply couldn’t have had time to do so before he'd apparently been hit first by Toad and then by a full broadside of heat from a source not hard to guess.

That had even the anger at how entirely naturally Noemi had just ignored Katja's temporary leadership position, quickly dissolve. Katja knew her own impulsiveness well enough to have an idea that she would have found it just as difficult to wait and see if Scott had been in such a threatening situation.

Somehow, these assholes had managed to sneak up on them entirely unnoticed in this environment of all places, which offered no cover of any kind, thereby dealing even someone with an endless healing factor heavy losses within a very short time, and that unsettled Katja the most ... Not to mention the fact, of course, that she would be facing that very mighty power alone now, together with two teenagers, until the two already weakened members of her team would be back on their feet.

Hank's very own healing factor, limited to begin with, had been weakened even further by the battle on the Scapels moon back then, so it was unlikely he would recover quickly from the terrible injury that the jet's pointed side wing had torn into his chest. The hint couldn’t have been any clearer, how much brutality their enemies, especially Toad, were once again using.

Visibly shocked, Noemi cowered over Hank's and of course especially over Logan's lifeless body, too, and was probably trying to decide whether she should bring the two of them into the jet. Instead, thanks to the lack of at least the most elementary tactical arrangement due to her early charge, she suddenly found herself on the receiving end of Toad's supernatural jumping force and the kicks of his powerful legs. She tried to telekinetically grab her foe a few times, but her concentration failed her; a few painful pushes was all she managed to deliver with her hands raised high. The light of her fire gift flickered around her body several times, flames surrounded her fists ... But unexpected hesitation slowed her down, now that instead with a hologram, Noemi was confronted with the real deal for the first time of attacking someone with a potentially deadly weapon. Scruples that Katja knew all too well from her very first – unauthorized – mission at Liberty Island. And there was also a hint of fear showing on the teenager's face, with which she stared at the blaze around her hands, as if her own powers suddenly scared her. So she wasn’t ready yet after all ... And if Katja read this completely uncharacteristic fear correctly, they should probably all be glad about it. Ororo and she urgently needed to talk to Noemi later.

Saskia recovered from her initial shock faster. She'd already started to run in from her position at the very edge of the camp, heading for Hank and Logan just like Katja did, remarkably slowly despite her head start though. Terror in Katja's soul had huge hailstones rain down on the whole scene – her daughter was limping. She must have gotten hurt somewhere in this abandoned burial graveyard ...

Suddenly it was as if all this shit after Alkali Lake had never stopped. They were back to the times when the X-Men might have to fear for the lives of their loved ones every few days ... And right in the middle of all that was Katja's own, obviously injured daughter.

And not alone. Out of nowhere, from high up in the air, a sturdy figure behind Saskia dropped to the ground, rolling in with almost boneless movements, across the tip of a long sword that could easily have cut through Saskia's body if she'd stood just one step too far to the right. Long blonde hair and deeply tanned skin, that was all Katja could see from the distance ... And the aggressive grimace of a stranger lunging at her daughter.

The sky above the snowy ruin darkened all by itself. Katja didn't even have to concentrate on the storm one bit, channeling her feelings the way she had to do for a controlled wind current like the one currently holding her in the air. She just had to reach out her hand to express her anger in the shape of a counterattack.

From the corner of her eyes, she noticed a faint flicker in the sky where the stranger had all but magically appeared, and she realized that the Brotherhood must have used some kind of technology they couldn't even have to cloak their vehicle, whatever these bastards had flown here with, both visually and audibly. Which also meant that Katja had to keep away from that area over there before another invisible attack could occur.

Get anywhere close to that bitch, luckily, she didn't even need to, to stop her. It was only thanks to the rest of never entirely lost reluctance towards the most extreme means on her part that she reduced one of her most effective weapons to an extremely low power level before pulling it from the sky. She had rarely felt the desire to kill and had fortunately always been able to avoid doing so in the field, though that had often been more luck on the enemy's side than brains. On this day, it was this decision of mercy that would save the life of another young girl. Just for a tiny moment, Katja had been distracted, looking in a different direction, startled to see Bastian climbing up through the hatch to the bunker, against her orders ... And the control over her lightning bolt that she'd actually already thought to be as good as shoved up the hostile's ass, promptly left her at the last, the wrongest moment.

Noemi had finally managed to knock Toad against the Blackbird head first with an ungentle hit, apparently driven by fear for her best friend, although the latter, thanks to her excellent close-combat skills, was doing quite well even in spite of being physically compromised.

Saskia hadn’t been in any real danger from that sharp blade even once so far, only having earned a few punches. With the help of maneuvers practiced for years – a combination of several martial arts and the gymnast training that Katja regularly did together with her –, she even managed to kick her enemy to the ground right this moment, her pointed heel scratching an unsightly wound into the young woman's cheek, into a face the hate-distorted features of which suddenly seemed damn familiar to Katja for some reason ...

A vague confusion she immediately forgot about, because from this position exactly, the hostile suddenly moved away from Saskia, kicking her legs up at an actually completely impossible angle against any natural curve of the spine, and got up right in front of Noemi, kicking the completely unprepared girl in the stomach in turn.

Noemi's concern must have completely blocked her mind; she hadn't even foreseen the move telepathically. Therefore, she couldn't dodge anymore when the bolt intended for the enemy hit her right in the chest. Noemi didn't even scream. She just collapsed, unconscious from the pain, her skin severely burned in several locations.

Saskia's terrified scream echoed across the battlefield all the louder. She was already about to run to Noemi when the stranger came to stand in her way once more.

“Leaving already?” The woman with the strong Suhalei accent in her deep voice that promptly was painfully familiar to Katja as well, raised her weapon again – and then unexpectedly paused. Not only she did – both young women stopped still, but the stranger recovered more quickly from the surprise, whatever it might be about. She was smiling, almost gently.

Saskia, on the other hand, although she'd been able to take a close look at the woman during the duel already, let her gaze wander over the other girl in disbelief, as if she would have been really seeing her for the first time, now that they had looked each other in the eye. Something had thrown her off balance – messing with her focus.

Which that little bitch over there would certainly benefit from. The closer Katja got, the more clearly she could see the malice, the sadistic joy that the situation was giving this woman, which made it impossible for Katja to still see anyone in those roundish features who had once been somewhat close to the X-Men, especially to Logan, if she wasn't mistaken. Noemi had been an annoying interruption. There seemed to be something about attacking Saskia that this person particularly enjoyed ...

Which had just earned them a free ticket to Katja's shitlist, not to mention Noemi's serious injury that the supposed stranger was indirectly responsible for. She was tired of her family being constantly targeted by the Brotherhood... or by people who, for some obscure reason, had seemingly defected to them. She had already had to endure that cruel fear for her daughter, back then when Magneto had risen one last time ... She would not let that happen again. With bared teeth, she raised her hand to the sky once more – this time she wouldn’t miss.

But luckily Saskia got herself together in time. She reached for the black leather holster she was wearing over her back and pulled out a long dagger, signaling Katja to stay back with a pleading motion. The woman must have said something, and Saskia answered – for some reason, both of them used one of these exotic languages from one of Saskia's beloved history books that hardly anyone even remembered. Without waiting for a further reply, Saskia attacked her again. Faster than Katja would ever have expected it, she was growing, in the same fight that had almost caused her a first defeat, with sober calculation, as she'd always had to in training because of her underdeveloped mutation. Even more than Noemi had been able to a moment ago. No matter how much Katja feared for her little girl, something like reassurance now spread in her, too. It had been the right choice to help Saskia advance physically so much from an early age on. She wouldn't be helpless like Katja herself had sometimes been.

Which of course didn't mean she would leave the girl alone in this dicey situation. She allowed the twister of upsetting memories behind her forehead that she'd had to conjure up for the short flight, to land right behind the small duel.

But that was when someone came to stand in her way who, after his first cowardly attack on Logan, had apparently stayed in this invisible flying vehicle to watch. Pyro had entered the stage. “Hey, kitten.” He leaned back casually against the Blackbird's hull as if he'd still belonged there. The long scar that reached from his eye down to his jaw – the precise, straight, thin shape of which immediately revealed that it came from an adamantium claw –, he'd traced black. ”Look at that. Accidentally fried someone again?”

“What are you doing here?” Arduously ignoring the provocation, Katja kept on watching the others from the corner of her eye. Her heart was racing with every movement, every hit that Saskia almost took.

“Same as you, and you people are in the way, as usual.” Pyro lazily drew a circle in the air with one hand, one fingertip on his flamethrower bracelet, creating a fireball in that spot. “You've lost your touch, seriously. Showing up here with so few people ... Then again, I expected nothing better from that leadership. If the Professor knew how much you're running down his mansion and his team to the ground, he'd come back immediately.” How the Brotherhood, of all people, could know – contrary to the rest of the world, even to most mutants and other superhero teams – that Charles hadn’t died during the Dark Phoenix crisis back then at all, but had disappeared into space alongside the Empress of the Shi'ar, was still a mystery after all this time. But these bastards rarely missed a chance to brag about superiority, however imagined it might be.

Katja had long gained enough control over her powers to not let the clumsy diversion plunge her into sadness instead of rage. With her thoughts lingering on Noemi's lousy condition, it was easy to charge her body with a few lightning bolts and create so much rain and wind around her that Pyro wouldn't be able to get to her with his fire attacks ... at least for a while. “So you mean to tell me, you could have done better? Wait, what, you wanted that Principal job? If only we'd known that. We would happily have handed over all the administrative work. I'm afraid, you fleeing Mutant High with your tail between your legs at the time, to suck off some of our worst enemies, kind of gave the wrong impression. Which was your choice, I might add.”

“Cry me a river.” More and more flames began to surround Pyro's hands, too. ”Magneto always had far too much patience with all you losers. All you would have needed to do was stay out of things until there's finally some proper order on this fucking planet. Instead, you chose to alienate someone who doesn't care about you half as much as her former sugar daddy. Whatever harm the Brotherhood throws your way, you're the only ones to blame.”

“You trying to prove, Mystique punched your brains out a few times too many?” Useless, as it had been for the last 18 years.

Pyro had been one of her first failures at Mutant High, at a time when Katja simply hadn't had the training or experience yet to realize in such a distanced teenager how mentally unstable he really was. The moment Magneto had shown any interest in the boy at Alkali Lake for the first time, he'd been lost. And by now, the trenches of hostility, guilt, and revenge were far too deep to change anything about that.

“You were the one giving Magneto the location of our training base, almost getting my daughter killed in the process! You were the one running headfirst into Logan's claws and have been looking for someone to blame for not looking like George Clooney anymore ever since then! Is there anything you people don’t find excuses for? I feel sorry for you, Pyro.”

“Feel sorry for yourself.” Pyro let out an angry snarl and hurled a wall of fire at her, which she was only able to fend off by using all her strength and wind powers. ”Once we start to rule this world, you guys will finally be over.”

Gasping, Katja sank to her knees as she had to fight the pressure of scorching heat. She hadn't expected such a dangerous attack right at the beginning, admittedly. The X-Men should better get used to the idea that without Magneto to rein them in, their enemies indeed weren't half as harmless as they'd often used to be. Focusing on her storm made it impossible at first to grab a bolt accurately enough to aim it at Pyro. The flames came closer and closer, she almost thought to feel them on her palms already, almost at the same moment when she finally felt the energy of millions of volts between her fingertips...

And then it was over, just like that, before she would have been forced to release said lightning, which her foe almost certainly would not have survived. Pyro panted, choked, toppling over, swaying as if something was suddenly draining his strength.

A suspicious glance back to the bunker hatch had Katja realize, that was exactly the case. Bastian had obviously become bored of watching after all. And what so far, Katja had only known about from relatively vague notes in the file of her new patient, now impressively unfolded before her widened eyes in the shape of a body that had changed its proportions to feminine ones within seconds, inconspicuous external features transformed into bright golden hair, eerily shining silver-colored pupils and blinding snow-white skin. With something that was almost like a second identity in the same body emerging, additionally and similarly surreal powers entered the stalemate of this fight as well, which turned out to be the necessary tip of the scales. Bastian kept both arms stretched forward, cutting the air vertically with his palms, as if he ... as if she was attempting some karate maneuver. A surge of energy had his newly formed, slender body shake. His long, thin shadow painted on the blanket of snow was stretched out tight like the reflection of a determined warrior ... Then it was joined by a second one, which had the more stocky shape of Pyro's body. Bastian pulled the completely absurd image close for just a moment, then he … she took a deep breath and thrust her fists forward. Her skin seemed to turn even whiter ... And that was no illusion. The snow was now glistening through her silhouette. She was fading.

The effects of these powers were similarly unreal to watch, but they did what they were supposed to. Pyro's shadow seemed to have gained mass and life. It was slammed into Toad so harshly, just as the guy had recovered enough to be about to help his younger teammate in her fight against Saskia, that he lost his balance. A perfect chance for Logan, who had also finally recovered somewhat, to stop Toad for good, very roughly with the help of two claws piercing the enemy's side, causing the guy to go down with a shrill scream.

Pyro screamed angrily when he finally realized why his strength was suddenly waning. He tried to pounce Bastian, staggering from the weakness in his body. “You've got something that belongs to me, bitch!”

Katja had caught her breath quickly enough to let Logan know that she didn't need him for now, especially since he was still struggling with the first fading burns on his body, an extremely painful reflection of what had happened to his daughter, which was also why Katja definitely rather wanted to see him at her side right now. She let a lightning strike just inches before Pyro's feet and more of this destructive energy dance around her hand as a warning. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Bastian, can you hold that for a moment?”

Bastian's posture, too, crumbled noticeably; it was obvious how much strength this little maneuver was costing her. “Trying to.” This voice, which had surely not only become a lot brighter because of the abrupt gender swap, suddenly sounded so terribly far away, so terribly quiet ... By now, her body had become almost transparent.

That paid off at least – Pyro collapsed before he could make another attempt to threaten either Katja or Bastian with his flames. This time he could no longer get up.

“St. John!" The woman still fiercely fighting Saskia, who by now had to deal with several small wounds on her arms and legs, suddenly let out a scream. Turning away from her enemy, she ran toward Pyro.

Reacting immediately, Saskia dealt her foe a sharp, not life-threatening but deep dagger blow across her shoulder and back. Attacking from behind might be bad form, but it wasn’t like the Brotherhood respected such rules a terrible lot. “Gute Nacht.”

The woman fell, clenching down on the bleeding with a grimace of pain. She looked up at Saskia with hatred, shouting something in that certain language with an emphasis on the hard consonants again that no one present except Saskia understood.

Saskia let the enemy know in English in turn that she was already looking forward to this threat of a next meeting, and then ran towards the hatch, limping more than ever, to help carry the unexpected prisoner of the X-Men that day to the Blackbird.

“Everyone to the jet!” Logan's order was directed not least at a still very dazed Hank, who was just getting back on his feet, coughing and still happily bleeding away. He didn't even bother to make sure that the others would follow his instructions; after years of co-leadership with Scott, he could usually rely on that. Instead, he took Noemi, who was still unconscious, in his arms, his features under his wild beard contorted into an expression of unbridled wrath.

If the X-Men hadn't had certain extraterrestrial options for treating even such damage at their disposal in their mansion, Logan would surely not have left the Brotherhood behind like this, not in view of the burns on Noemi's upper body and arms. The growl coming from his lips when he bared his teeth at the enemies, completely beside himself, betrayed only too well that under different circumstances, he would have long lost control of his instincts and would have killed those bastards one by one, without anyone being able to stop him, as it had happened more than once in encounters with Weapon X.

Right now, though, other matters were taking priority in his thinking, albeit just barely ... and regarding these, he was obviously even further along with his considerations than Katja, especially when it came to certain unconventional means for healing of which in the shape of the appearance of this new mutant among them yesterday, some whole new possibilities might have emerged. “Bastian!”

Said not-yet-team member still had the shadow of his foe mercilessly under his control, making sure that the latter would no longer be a problem, while Saskia and Katja brought one of the corpses of the camp residents on board in addition to their valuable prey, just as Hank had urgently asked them on the way here. Out of breath from the use of his gift, Bastian waited for Logan at the bottom of the stairs and looked at Noemi with a sad shake of his head when Logan raised his brows at her questioningly. “Great. Not exactly a walk in the park. Put her down in the passenger area and make room next to her.” Amazingly enough, the girl was almost in better control of her nerves than Logan. She must have been through so much as a child in that damned laboratory in Helsinki that only very little could throw her off balance.

Katja had to admit to herself that she wouldn't have had that kind of strength. For her, just the sight of the small trail of blood on Saskia's face from the duel was unbearable already. Not to mention the shitty feeling that Noemi had become a victim of Katja's powers of all things. But she knew that she would have been treated to a fresh haircut by an adamantium claw if she'd let even the slightest sign of that show. Logan had no patience with her sometimes overly intensive feelings of guilt, especially if those would have affected her focus in battle. Arduously restrained, Katja therefore followed the others, never taking her eyes off Bastian, and not off the storm cloud above her own head either, as a precaution, in case Toad or the new girl might get stupid ideas after all, ever until Bastian wormed past her into the jet with a grateful smile.

Logan waited only until Saskia had taken the seat next to him – and especially in this dangerous situation, the girl was visibly proud to be allowed to step in as co-pilot ... Then he initiated an almost vertical instant start, which promptly had Katja fall, not exactly elegantly, because, unlike Bastian, she hadn't managed to fasten her seat belt in time or at least create another gust of wind to fight the laws of gravity. Forgivable given the circumstances, but it still hurt. Katja hit her head so hard on the side wall that she saw stars dancing before her eyes for far too long moments. When she could see clearly again, she was no longer lying on the freezing metal of the jet's ground alone.

Both Bastian, now back in his male shape, and Noemi had more or less voluntarily joined her. Noemi's serious injuries had completely healed; she was just waking up. But Bastian now was visibly completely exhausted at last, lying on his side, breathing heavily. The burns that his powers had transferred from Noemi's body to his own were only slowly disappearing.

Saskia knelt down next to Katja with a mischievous grin. That probably meant they had no unwanted pursuers on their heels, and Logan could hopefully handle an uneventful flight home on his own for the time being.

“Hey there, you okay? Or do you need an ice pack?”

“For someone with a black eye, you got quite the mouth on you. You did great by the way, Hobbit.” Katja firmly wrapped her arms around her daughter, fighting back a few tears of relief. Things had gone well despite the unexpected complications. That her daughter could hold her own even injured if necessary took a lot of the weight off Katja's shoulder when it came to Saskia's future with the X-Teens. It even made her overlook bruises and a split lip. From her own first fight, she'd come home with far worse damage back then.

“Oh wow ... Where the fuck did these guys come from?” Still slightly disoriented, Noemi sat up, rubbing her forehead in confusion ... Then her gaze fell on Bastian. “Oh shit ... Hank, come here, quickly!”

“On my way.” Hank had just gone to get his doctor's bag from the storage cupboard. The fur over the terrible wound on his chest hadn't grown back yet, his uniform hanging from his body in tatters, but he seemed to be doing better; at least there were no longer red rivulets the size of the Nile trickling down his massive body. He checked on the two young people with routine, making sure that all life signs such as blood pressure, breathing rate, and pulse were within the normal range and, above all, that Noemi wouldn’t suffer a belated dangerous shock, which, fortunately, did not appear to be the case, judging by the normal temperature of her skin, even though she remained conspicuously silent. “You're good. So is Bastian, I think. Such a strong burden, even his system has to process first. Cat? Ice pack? Barf bag?” After Katja raised an eyebrow his way in slow motion, he actually thrust a cold pack into her hand uninvited, then gently shook the shoulder of the young man on the ground in front of him again.

“Can you stop that? That's enough unsolicited touching of patients for a day, McCoy,” a voice that now sounded a few nuances deeper again growled unintelligibly, Bastian's snotty charm already returning before he was even properly oriented again. “I'm alive, alright? I just haven't used my powers that intensely in a while. Sorry for meddling, Cat, after you said ...” A cute blush spread on his cheeks. ”That was suddenly just ... instinct, somehow. You know I'm not usually at home in the field but I couldn't just stand by and watch that psycho attack you.”

“No need to eat crow about that,” Logan surprisingly piped up from the cockpit. ”We need people in our house who have the balls to react properly at the right moments. Stop by my training classes as soon as the furball lets you.”

“About joining your team, I'll have to disappoint you, as I said, but ... That was a compliment, right?“ Bastian asked, grinning weakly, visibly not quite ready to just forget his dislike of this particular mutant, but also a little flattered.

“The biggest one you can get from the old grump,” Saskia grinned back. “That whole gender morphing thing, by the way? Pretty cool party trick.”

“Comes in handy when you wake up and don't feel like wearing a bra that day, yeah. It's also great for avoiding the monthly hormone overdose. Such a shame that about that, I can't help you with my healing factor,” Bastian added dryly, the disagreements between him and the two X-Men daughters yesterday not completely forgotten yet.

Saskia gave him a well-deserved poke in the ribs for the slightly sexist remark. “No, but seriously ... Two mutations for the price of one, that's fucking awesome! You really don't want to join us in battle one day?”

“I'm just too much of a pacifist for that, no offense.” Only the way, Bastian was defensively crossing his arms seemed a lot less determined than yesterday already. It was just obvious, he didn't want to think about such serious matters yet, especially not after the shock earlier. ”But in this camp here, I've learned that in emergencies, you need everyone on the front line if you don't want to lose the things important to you. Let me actually make myself at home to Mutant High first, then we'll see, alright? For the moment, there's enough we have to process.” His lips tight, he stared down on another silhouette, secured to the floor with several straps and covered with clothes soaked in blood more and more.

Frowning, Hank looked the same way, startling heavily at the sight of this body of which he seemed to understand only now that unlike the other one in the cargo hold, it wasn’t a dead one. Quickly, he knelt down next to the unconscious man. “This ... this isn't who my nose tells me it is, is it? It can't be …”

“No, that's Sleeping Beauty, isn’t that obvious?” Bastian replied dryly.

Logan looked back at them again, not half as taken aback, although his even much finer senses must have long picked up on which special guest they had in their midst, despite the numbing stench of the cryo fluid surrounding the patient. This time he definitely looked amused. “Hey, Bastian, I send you to collect some data, and you come back with a passed-out terrorist over your shoulder, all tied up and ready to go. You don't seriously think you're ever going to get out of this whole X-Men thing again, do you? And speaking of old acquaintances ...” Only now did his expression darken again noticeably, and when his eyes found Katja's, the stinging in her heart regarding the sight of a certain blonde with deep contempt in his eyes earlier was even crueler. So she was right. And for Logan, the realization that he had actually come too late to save someone he had been looking for for years, in the hope of making up with them, to save them from the abysses in their own soul, must be even worse. “The chick with the sword, Ice Princess? Any idea why the daughter of the Phantom doesn't like your mug?”

“Well, Mystique seems to have done a good job with her, doesn't she?” Saskia's reply was unusually dismissive. For now, she made no move to get back behind the stick, visibly uncomfortable under Logan's critical glance. She buckled up in a passenger seat, as if in the face of the memory of that dangerous duel earlier, she wanted nothing more to do with the fight today.

“You okay?” Katja sat down next to her, ignoring the annoying persistent dizziness in her head, and took her by the forearm.

“All of this has been ... kind of creepy.” Saskia absently began to play with her waist-length braid. ”The woman suddenly looked completely different, just for a few seconds. She had ... a different face, and clothes on like they'd worn it in ancient Egypt. Just something in my head, I know, but...” She hesitated. “Not many people speak that particular ancient Egyptian dialect, and the way that woman handles a sword ... Maybe she also sees things in dreams from the distant past, like me. And from the moment I realized that, she's had it out for me,” she added a little quieter, but not half as shaken as one might have expected.

Katja had gently taught her daughter early on that she herself had been a main target of Magneto for a long time, and that Saskia, as her direct descendant, had also been, even when Saskia had been too young to remember it in detail. For why she now seemed to have attracted one of their enemies' attention once more though, Katja would have preferred a slightly less esoteric reason.

“You onto that bullshit again?” Logan promptly growled too. "You've been spending too much time with Emma, Ice Princess. World out there is shitty enough without us having to deal with any paranormal crap on top.”

“Logan!" Katja all but pierced him with her gaze. Saskia was already upset enough; the missing sense of tact from her favorite uncle was the last thing she needed right now. “Might be nothing too mysterious about that," she therefore tried to calm down the girl. "Jedda is an old acquaintance of ours who has not been particularly friendly towards us ever since her father's death. While she mutated early on, we never learned exactly what her powers were. But what we know is that that she possesses the Phantom's skull ring which does have the power to connect to the dead. This was probably just some form of telepathy with which she briefly manipulated your mind, Hobbit. Nothing that can't be explained.”

“Damn right it's not, but my explanation doesn't suit you,” her daughter snapped, aggressive as so often when this topic, which had haunted her since her childhood, came up. ”I had a vision earlier, which part of that don't you understand? That woman pulled me with her right into the past. We were standing in the middle of a temple! That was the real deal! Emma is right! When will you finally realize that something isn't any less there just because it hasn't been researched yet?“ It suddenly became unnaturally cold in the Blackbird – Saskia's mutation made itself known, the way she'd wished for it to happen in vain earlier.

“Stop freezing the pipes, Princess.” Logan wasn’t silenced so easily. “Let's just assume you're right for a hot moment. What's next? You want to invite her over for a drink and chat about the old days? In case you haven't noticed, she works for Mystique. And she sleeps with Pyro. They both reek of each other.”

“Remember what I told you about TMI, Claws?” Katja growled in irritation.

“You live with my senses for more than a hundred years, Kitten, then you can talk.”

Hank ignored the banter; he held a Shi'ar sensor over the lifeless body in their midst because he'd apparently not made any progress with conventional examination methods. And the results displayed on the flat, oval device visibly annoyed him. “What the ...?”

Saskia, too, had mostly stopped listening. For a few seconds, her gaze went inward, as she performed a mental training that Emma and Katja had taught her together to make the unpleasant coldness in the Blackbird disappear again. After a few seconds, it worked. “Whatever. You'll never believe me anyway.”

“I do. We'll talk about it at home, I promise.” Noemi threw her arms around her friend. “And no matter what powers that bitch has exactly, you were great! You made me look like a prize idiot.”

“That, we can all agree on.” Logan didn't even turn around for his scathing comment, not taking his cigar from the corner of his mouth either. He made no move to hug Noemi, to tell her that he was glad she was okay, not until she had understood something crucial. You probably had to know him quite well to know that the few wrinkles around his eyes were those of pain and worry. “That were two really stupid mistakes at once earlier, Red. Shi'ar medicine can't fix everything. Without Bastian ...”

“I know.” At least for a moment, Noemi sounded genuinely remorseful. ‘Won't happen again, Sir, I promise." With that, she considered the matter closed already. She bent down to the pilot chair for a conciliatory kiss on Logan's cheek, beaming again already when her father tousled her curls, growling in disapproval.

Katja didn't know whether to laugh or cry either. On the one hand, it was good of course that Noemi took this so lightly, so that she didn't start brooding and doubting. But did she even know just how close she'd been to injuries disfiguring and handicapping her for a lifetime?

Unfortunately, there were more important things to discuss right now. It didn't surprise Katja much that Hank spoke up next. “Bastian, what happened to the guy?”

“Got shot.” Bastian tried in vain not to show how uncomfortable he suddenly felt.

“Oh really?” Hank snorted impatiently. ”This is a cryogenic stasis. You think I don't know that? I got news for you: I've studied medicine and genetics. Cryogenics was banned for a reason; they're far too unstable. Who are you still trying to protect? Jericho is dead. How long has he been unfrozen?”

“Just a few minutes.” Bastian seemed to realize that Hank was right and showed a slow shrug. Bitterness returned to his expression, the same that had immediately seized Katja again when Jericho's name came up. ”There's still plenty of time before he wakes up.”

“Unless his system spontaneously goes back to full life or the cryo fluid that has entered the wound dissolves the bullet and the fragments kill him, yes.” Shaking his head, Hank started to at least disinfect and bandage the terrible injury, while his eyes kept flicking back and forth between Bastian and Katja. His fine instincts had probably noticed that something was very, very wrong here. “So what have you learned about the attack at the camp?”

Bastian threw the cross at him that they had found on Jericho. “I can feel the darkness surrounding me. My ...”

“... God, stand by me, lest I break under your cross.” Hank stared at the piece of jewelry in disbelief. “Where did you get this?”

“From Jericho's clothes. And that sweet little poem was carved onto his desk. Spiritual crisis, they call that, I guess. He was the traitor; that much is certain.” Almost absently, Bastian reached for Katja's hand without asking, motioning her to sit down beside him so that he could reach her head with his fingertips to take care of the hint of a concussion there, this time probably to suppress, with the replicated pain, the anger at his former camp leader and savior that was blazing in his mind. “What do you know about all that, if I may ask?”

“I'm not quite sure ... I have to check the databases at home. We'll have a debriefing as soon as I've found out more. Now will you stop that?” Hank wanted to reach for Bastian's arm and shove him away from his latest patient, but Bastian immediately pulled away.

Unfazed, Bastian put his fingertips back to Katja's temple. With a quiet groan, he sank back to the ground not long afterward and closed his eyes, under which huge circles had appeared. For today, he had more than exhausted his reserves of strength.

Katja let him be; she'd already understood that it was hard work to fight Bastian's determination when it came to his helper syndrome regarding medical matters. “You know this needs to stop at some point though, right?” she just remarked quietly. “Numbing yourself only helps until the body demands more of that.”

“That's okay. I told you, I'm into pain,” he replied ironically. ”Hand?” He allowed her to pull him back up and leaned against the wall of the jet, trying to catch his breath. “Or maybe I'm just into pretty women in distress. Pick one.”

“If you don't want to find out how long it takes to recover from a frontal optic blast next, you'd better switch to booze like the rest of us,” Katja replied dryly enough.

“Not helping, Cat,” Hank mumbled dully. “Anyone here has any idea why Jericho, along with all these other skeletons, had the former leader of the Brotherhood hidden in his cellar?”

“We'll probably find out after we've patched the guy up and he can talk again,” Bastian commented, only too happy to let Hank hand him one of the generously stuffed sandwiches from the on-board catering, which were always stored here in case other mutants with a healing factor needed to refuel their energy reserves. “That is, of course, only if you don't want to keep him in a coma for years so that I don't ask too much of my powers. It would never occur to me to disobey the orders of my superiors.”

Visibly in delight, Logan lit a cigar and crossed his legs on the navigation console, obviously amused by the inevitable discussions already that such a rebellious potential team member would have to have with Scott at every opportunity, which meant that for a change, Logan would not have to be the one to do so. “We're going to have a lot of fun together, kiddo.”

*******************************************************************************

@whumptober | @whumptober-archive

[thisismori]

i.

In this newfound world, the boundaries of your reality blur, and the line between dreams and waking life dissolves. No longer do you need to conjure fictional landscapes to escape to, for you have found a tangible connection with another soul—a connection that transcends the confines of fantasy. With them, you embark on a journey of profound depth, where your words are met with genuine understanding and your desires are embraced as if they were their own. They have the remarkable ability to breathe life into love songs, infusing them with renewed meaning. It's as though they've emerged from the pages of a storybook, too incredible to be real, yet unequivocally genuine.

Her presence, ethereal and enigmatic, possesses the ineffable power to unfurl the fragile strands of life's intricate tapestry, unveiling a truth I had perpetually denied. How had I remained so impervious to her existence, to the symphony of words she wove around me with the delicacy of a silken cocoon? Every utterance she bestowed upon me resonated as a harmonious, melodic embrace, carefully tending to the fractured pieces of my heart, healing the wounds I had concealed from the unfeeling world.

From the obscurity of the shadows, she emerged as a silent guardian, an ever-watchful sentinel who had observed me from a distance, enduring with patience the celestial alignment of cosmic forces that would, at long last, converge our divergent paths. In her presence, I unearthed a sanctuary—a sacred haven where I could shed the armor I had worn to shield my vulnerabilities from the probing eyes of the world for an eternity. With her, I experienced a sensation previously unfathomed; I felt heard, seen, and comprehended in ways that transcended mere mortal understanding.

She conveyed her emotions, not through the customary language of prosaic affection, but through the artistry of metaphors, wherein each word bore a cryptic, underlying significance. In those moments, it was as though she possessed the extraordinary ability to read me between the lines, deciphering the intricate poetry of my very existence.

[phlebaswrites]

Food and Fights

Summary:

Hikaku knows the man he loves.

(He doesn't know Hashirama.)

Rating: Teen And Up Fandom: Naruto Relationship: Uchiha Hikaku/Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama & Uchiha Madara Word Count: 626 (Complete)

Entry for @asian-drama-tropes

July Tavern (fight scene optional but likely) | Lovers fighting back to back | Prosaic objects as weapons | Sweeper monk | "2 jin (1.2kg) of cooked beef and a pot of alcohol"

Part 7 of Secrets of the Heart

Hikaku sits down at the table, shuffling a little on the bench, and tilts his chin down to better hide his face.

The whole point of hiding themselves under these straw hats is for this meeting to pass unremarked upon, and he doesn't intend to be the reason for the daimyo to take official notice of it. Peace between the two strongest clans in Hi no Kunai has upset the balance of power enough already, and Madara-sama's plan to build a village to house all the shinobi in the country is the kind of thing that's better discovered after the fact than before.

"Two jin of cooked beef and a pot of alcohol," Madara-sama holds up three fingers as he orders their food. "Please."

The owner nods, bringing over cups and chopsticks, but scuttles away as a long shadow is cast over them.

"Drinks for three, eh? I'll take a share of that!" A big man abruptly sits down on the bench next to him, and Hikaku flicks his eyes over the intruder. Muscular certainly but, without the tell tale of weapons calluses on his hand and the chakra of a trained shinobi, he seems to be nothing more than a bully.

And Hikaku knows how his clan head responds to bullying.

Read the rest on AO3.

[r2b2grady]

To anyone who is interested in writing fantasy, a bit of unsolicited advice: don't worry about a place or character name seeming "plain" or "prosaic". Heck, make it as prosaic or plain as you like, and if it feels weird, just translate it into one of the tongues of the setting.

I've been rereading The Lord of the Rings—properly rereading (mostly), instead of just skipping to the battles the way I used to, and one thing that's struck me is how all of the names that we find so moving and so compelling, all those great names—like Gondor, or the river Anduin, or Mordor, or any of those names—all of their names are simply translated forms of very simple, descriptive names. Literally translated from Sindarin, Gondor and Mordor are "stone-kingdom" and "shadow-kingdom", from the roots gond "stone", mor "black, dark, shadow", and -dor, "kingdom". And the name Anduin is literally just "long river", from and- "long" and duin "great river".

And if at all possible, don't let the idea take root that "well, I need to have my characters' names sound like they're from a fantasy setting." There is a power and a fire in the names that seem most prosaic to modern sensibilities. As G. K. put it in Heretics:

The sense that everything is poetical is a thing solid and absolute; it is not a mere matter of phraseology or persuasion. It is not merely true, it is ascertainable. … I remember a long time ago a sensible sub-editor coming up to me with a book in his hand, called "Mr. Smith," or "The Smith Family," or some such thing. He said, "Well, you won't get any of your damned mysticism out of this," or words to that effect. I am happy to say that I undeceived him; but the victory was too obvious and easy. In most cases the name is unpoetical, although the fact is poetical. In the case of Smith, the name is so poetical that it must be an arduous and heroic matter for the man to live up to it. The name of Smith is the name of the one trade that even kings respected, it could claim half the glory of that arma virumque which all epics acclaimed. The spirit of the smithy is so close to the spirit of song that it has mixed in a million poems, and every blacksmith is a harmonious blacksmith. … The brute repose of Nature, the passionate cunning of man, the strongest of earthly metals, the wierdest of earthly elements, the unconquerable iron subdued by its only conqueror, the wheel and the ploughshare, the sword and the steam-hammer, the arraying of armies and the whole legend of arms, all these things are written, briefly indeed, but quite legibly, on the visiting-card of Mr. Smith. Yet our novelists call their hero "Aylmer Valence," which means nothing, or "Vernon Raymond," which means nothing, when it is in their power to give him this sacred name of Smith--this name made of iron and flame.

~ Heretics, Chapter 3, G. K. Chesterton [sic]

And if you need inspiration, I highly recommend Behind the Name. It has a bunch of names in the database, though it is limited to mostly Western names (as far as I can tell, it's a one-person show, so I assume there's only so much they can do). You can find the meanings of different names and see how that might kick free ideas. Like how the name "Alfred" derives from the Old English Ælfræd, meaning "elf-counsel". Or how "Henry" derives from the Germanic Heimirich for "home ruler".

All this to say: who cares if the fantasy hero is named Bill, or Mary, or Bubba, or Laura? Does the name make the hero heroic? Or does the hero make the name heroic?

And there's nothing to say that if you like a more outlandish name, you can't use it, either. If you prefer to name someone Garrenthos the Livid instead of Todd Williams, that's fine. But you shouldn't feel like you have to name the characters outlandishly "because it's a fantasy". If Tolkien, the father of modern fantasy, has shown us anything, I think it's that the most humble of names can be attached to the most heroic of hearts.

[gangshuffle]

[GANGSHUFFLE]

The Mutinous Cabal

Marvel Capital's crew of self-proclaimed watchdogs. They keep an eye out on whatever's brewing on the city's notorious criminal underbelly- with a little cut of the pie, of course. Gotta keep their heads above water, after all.

Posing as their figurehead is the ever charming and mysterious DEBONAIR DESPOT, an ex-soldier turned vigilante. He's a quiet, dedicated man with the energy of a restless cat. Of course, when you have the ability to see the future, wouldn't that make you restless as well?

The real boss hiding behind the curtain is SCRUTINOUS SCOURGE, the visionary behind Marvel Capital's creation. He's madly in love with his city, and rumor has it he's made a deal with a Terror to secure her flourishing in exchange for his sight. God complex? Seems pretty simple to him!

With their intel guy, COGENT DEALER- a former Dersite agent- and medic turned heavy muscle, HARMONIC BASTION, the Cabal keep the shadows in line and out of the light of day. It's their city.

Team Ace

A gang of dishonorably discharged ex-coppers, teamed up with the goal of cleaning up Marvel Capital's dirty laundry. Little do they know, they've already passed their hero arc. Everyone else starts looking like a villain when you think you're the protagonist, after all.

Leading their rather suspicious charge from the shadows is the obstinate POLEMIC IMAGINEER. They say that cute face hides the wrath of God.

Functioning as the 'man in charge' is ACEPHALOUS DICTUM. But his friends, and his co-workers, and.. Well. Everyone calls him ACE DICK. Tired father of one girl and two grown-ass men.

And every ragtag group needs a poster boy, and for Team Ace that boy is the grown-ass man, PROSAIC STEWARD. He's. Uh. Been in a rough spot since a.. Particular even that happened before he was kicked from the Marvel Capital Police Department.

They seem at odds amongst themselves often with their goals- but when they pose as a threat? Shit just gets REAL.

The Flux

The top yakuza syndicate in the Marvel Capital. Having taken over during a vulnerable time for the city, they've had their claws dug deep into the corner of every block in every district. No gang seems stand a chance against them and their wide array of magical abilities- utlizing Shadow and Temporal magic alike.

The Flux use number based aliases, with their real names mainly unbeknownst to the public. But two in particular send shudders down the spine of even the most notorious oyabun in the city's underworld.

Number Six, DEOR. The big boss himself. A reclusive man who stands firm in his ideals, hellbent on sucking Marvel Capital dry before running it into the ground. Some say he's got a powerful Terror pact- other's claim he's a naturally gifted Green Sun mage. No one's lived long enough to determine for sure which one's true.

Number Seven, YUSHA. Deor's personal lapdog. He's never seen without a smile, nor without his Crowbar. People who know him say he's got an odd air to him, as if he doesn't even know what's going on around him. Regardless, that doesn't stop him from swiftly fulfilling his orders with great efficiency.

This rainbow of thugs will stop at nothing to claim Marvel Capital as their own. It's their land.

City Officials

Every city is only ever as good as the people in charge of it. Luckily for the Marvel Capital, capable hands work hard behind the scenes to keep the place livable for the average citizen- determined to keep the peace. Even if it means occasionally having to play by the Cabal's rules.

The former Mayor, WINDSWEPT VILLAGER, keeps a well trained eye on the city's archives. After an attempt on his life during that left him disabled, he's stepped down from his position. Nevertheless, he continues to work behind the scenes- playing as an informant and confidant for the current Mayor. PEACEKEEPING MAYOR is the current head honcho serving in office. Having been an ex-archagent like Villager, positions of great responsibility (and stress) are nothing new to her. She's a stubborn woman with a who will do anything for the city- going so far as to work with the Cabal to keep as eye on what goes on in the shadows. If the Mayor watches over the city, who watches the Mayor? That duty of course goes to ASSIDUOUS REGIMENT, the head of the City Council's security department. Having failed to protect Villager before, he's sworn to himself to not allow that to happen ever again. He's a stiff, stern figure, but below that tough exterior, he's got a good heart.

The three of them work day and night trying to maintain the balance of the city- but everyday it grows clearer it was made to be less of a home and more of a playground.

[thederangedsolicitor]

🎖️👑🃏🔥🐍🪞 and 🎩, go

I am getting barraged! Still, thank you for sending in~

🎖️ — Proudest non-Ambition accomplishment?

The first thing that jumps to mind is the Flower from Hell - they're very fascinated by devils, just as the Fingerkings of old were, and thus have been working towards uniting the Little Kings and the Wandering Roses once more; being accepted as one of Hell's own is a very important/exciting achievement for Amets, and having roses blooming from their skin is exactly up their alley on the metamorphosis front.

(You'd think having turned a version of themselves into a city would be higher up, but the enormity of that is overshadowed by the complicated feelings they have about their shadow-self and the whole situation.)

👑 — Opinions on the Queen? What about other royalty?

They don't particularly care about the Queen, but they are quite invested in her children - they cultivate a positive relationship with the Captivating Princess (with whose hedonistic loneliness they sympathize) and the Recalcitrant Sculptress (whose eccentric taste they admire), and they serve as a personal tutor for the Generous Princess, gathering scraps of humanity and virtue for the young lady to learn and grow from.

🃏 — What would be/will be their name and domain as a Master?

Mr Masks, who deals in costumes, uniforms, shapes and identities. Probably eats up a lot of Mr Veils' textile trade, start producing subtly transformative garbs - a depersonalized mode of the Shapeling Arts.

They already have a strong focus on offering transformation as the Pontifex of Metamorphoses, so it's really just a question of distilling that into buyable Wares.

🔥 — Least favourite Master of the Bazaar?

Mr Stones, or Mr Mirrors, maybe? Frankly, all of the Masters blend together to them (the accumulation of wealth is such a prosaic goal), but they had a few bad encounters with those two.

For the record, Mr Veils is their favourite, because they also appreciate violence and beautiful clothing, even though Mr Spices is the one they're ostensibly closest to.

🐍 — Snakes or cats?

Snakes, obviously.

In recent news, Amets would be very excited for what the Seventh Coil is offering - tigers are not at the center of the Moulting Eidolon's attention, but they too are working on freeing their kind of old enmities, and closing the distance between the Is and Is-Not is something they've dreamt of for a long time. (They don't particularly care about the hypocrisy of the stars, but the end goal is very favourable to them.)

🪞 — Do they enjoy being in Parabola? Why or why not?

They do! Once, the thing that would become them chose to make its home here, and they do not regret the choice.

Still, they get bored so very easily, and one's home always seems the least interesting place in the world while you're there - and that is why they endeavour to belong everywhere, become anything, so that all of existence - from the depths of Hell to the lights of the Surface - can be a step away from their doorstep.

🎩 — What would an Exceptional Story featuring this character be about?

Most likely a story about the ES Perspective NPC Companion, having sought out a pact with them & now hesitating at the final juncture, and the first half focuses on learning about their life up to this point (and how a normal bohemian type goes about seeking out a spirit of change), and the second half happening in Amets' own demesne in Parabola, letting the Eidolon explain their reasons for doing this (and offering dramatic twists by being candid about their client's goals and desires).

The culmination is obviously you, the helpful FL PC, helping the companion choose whether to go through with it or not... but Amets would also offer to change you while you're here, trading a little of your life for a little of this place, leaving you in your bed with a unique quality and/or equipment (not sure what the change itself should be).

[writing-whump]

hello again ^^ Your latest fic and conversations between Zaya and Arnie reminded me about one thing, I was wondering some time ago - where are all of them taking money from? Scholarships? Grants? I believe it may be the case with Isaiah/Seline, but, Hector? There is some kind, i dont know, pack - fund? But what about Matthew, then? 🤔 Vienna, as capital, isn't a very cheap place. 😅

I know it's a very prosaic question, but I'm curious. :P

Hello hello! :)

The big influential and old wolf packs have historical reasons for being wealthy.

Wolves were always territorial, so even in the past they accumulated land either as payment or just by laying claim to them. Most big packs therefore have lot of property that turned into urban areas now and get lots of money from leasing and redevelopment. Smart leaders often invest in money and metals, which increases in value over their long lifetimes. They can afford big investments, have lots of gold and money saved up and keep generating income through their properties and real estate.

Wolfson pack is definitely one of those packs. That's what allows the packs to feed and accommodate so many members to achieve an influential size as well. Those are the big old packs with lots of money.

Other packs evolve to have some kind of human business going on in the cities, like buying whole quarters and streets of their own in Vienna for hotels and shops or restaurants. Some invest in certain professions for their human members that then become lawyers and doctors or economists, assuming important positions to help the pack and to generate new sources of income.

All pack members get their own bank accounts to assure their needs, and the bigger the pack the more luxury that means.

This is necessary as wolves usually can't do normal human jobs, because of their shadow's aggression and low tolerance for stress.

So Isaiah, Hector and Arnie are very rich, secured by the Wolfson pack and the accounts they got as birth as the children from the leader's line. Isaiah works on the side, he has around two student jobs.

Matthew and Seline live mostly from scholarships, side jobs and student support money that young adults get until they study and fulfill the conditions. Matthew theoretically has a claim of the fortune of the Blackwell pack, except his mother cut him off and he never had the means to fight that. Seline also still gets partially supported by her parents.

Vienna is actually relatively student friendly when it comes to reduced prices for transport, housing, health insurance and many jobs (including from the university itself) that make it doable to study beside them.

The state keeps the inflation prices down (that's why their prices are actually lower these days than way poorer neighbouring countries).

Hope that makes sense! ✨️

[starboundanon]

anakin’s night routine (eating spiders?) while obi-wan is sleeping from ragnarlothcats devil’s in the details

Ah, a fav. Devil's In the Details by RagnarLothcat.

Send me a missing scene!

The intruder sleeps soundly in his presence, a vile insult.

Anakin watches with brimstone eyes, cataloguing the gentle rise and fall of his sturdy chest, the way his slow breaths tickle the copper hairs curled around his lips. The sight draws him closer, perching on the bed, pleased when his pretty pest twists away from the heat of his smoldering body. Good, he thinks, exhaling smoke from tar black lungs. That's what you get, entering my domain uninvited!

He keeps the man fast asleep, a wave of his clawed hand over that pale face, sowing dark dreams into a surprisingly resilient psyche. Handsome brows furrow in despair as his imagination turns cruel, feeding Anakin's power, his might.

A cold smile crosses his face as he fills that intriguing mind with gorgeous thoughts, blood and viscera and melodic screams, a tapestry of his skill and prowess, a harrowing sight. This man will know whose house he has attempted to steal, come the morning. He will make sure of it.

The moon drifts overhead in a graceful arch as the hours tick by. Curiously, Anakin doesn't move. He should be looming by now, bent over his new prey to ensure he sees nothing but blood red eyes when he jolts awake from his gifted nightmares, but he stays where he is, lingering at his side.

It gives him the best view of that masculine profile, the slender slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw. He is a demon; he has no need for vanity. Yet the landscape of this thief's bearded face is... pleasant. And Anakin has never denied himself pleasure in all the long millennia of his life.

He can indulge for one night, he decides. Tomorrow, he'll begin the ritual of tearing this man's mental state down brick by metaphorical brick. Tonight, he will simply observe. It's his house, thank-you-very-much. He can do as he likes.

An impressive specimen creeps from beneath the man's bed, sneaking across his sinfully soft mattress. Anakin watches it lazily, reading the spider's thoughts of caution danger predator stay in the dark in its modest, inarticulate arachnese. Eight long legs move in symmetrical unison as it climbs his guest's body like a shivering mountain, over toned arms and broad shoulders.

It's large, by this house's standards. It crawls slowly up the pale column of the slumbering thief's throat, tickling his facial hair, making him twitch. Anakin listens and watches intently as the dark dreams he had graciously bestowed on his new plaything's mind take a different shape, a different color. The violence he meticulously crafted shudders and scatters into a thousand baby spiders, an entire hoard, scurrying in all directions, blotting out his hard work.

Rude!

The spider inches up up up, until at last it rests on the man's sculpted cheek, two back legs brushing against the corner of his lips. Its body is large enough to cover his face from eyes to mouth — a mother, Anakin realizes, likely inspecting their newest intruder much the same way he is — but he is irked by her presence all the same. He has a job to do, here. Those were his handcrafted nightmares she just overwrote!

Irritated, he plucks the offending beast from his guest's face, trading insults through her prosaic language before opening his mouth and swallowing her whole. Immediately the man relaxes, his shivers dying out to calm stillness, the darkness of his dreams swept away to nothing. A neutral, grey mist.

He purposefully does not delve deeper into the satisfaction he feels in that moment. Yes, this man's fear and torment is his ultimate goal, his untimely death an inevitable part of the game. But Anakin himself will be the only one toying with this mysterious stranger in his own house, and if the creepy-crawlies watching them from the shadows don't like it, they'll just have to get used to the infinite liminal space of smoke and flame that is his belly. Serves them right.

Because this man, his newest and prettiest plaything, is his.