#the Forbidden Power

[merloksdigitaltoes]

!! JUMPSCARE WARNING !! They were forced to do a group project

[browa123]

The Warring Demons

I haven’t mentioned this yet, but Kirb has two swords because it gives a place for all the metal framing in his prosthetic arm to go when he turns into his smaller form. He’s gotta chunk a few feet off his height in order to grow a second left arm after all.

Because the Fantasy!AU takes place in its own reality and not a video game, the Virus can take full advantage of Zetto's powers because there's no way to pull his consciousness out of his body, and that includes his ability to shapeshift. So, that's how Alpha finds out about Kirb and Zetto being the same person.

Which of course leads to:

...after Nylocke stabs him in the back and all that.

Geeze Alpha, guy just got over a really nasty bug running through his system, give him a minute.

Having Alpha find out early, and before everyone else save for maybe GC leads to a pretty interesting dynamic I want to experiment with later with the AU.

[olessan]

🥲

[penofwildfire]

NEED people to remember that the point of Arin is that he's just a normal kid. Normal kid, no powers, no genetic ties to important characters, nothin. That's the basic premise of Arin as a character and as a person. Always ALWAYS remember this.

[zanepilled]

quest for the lost powers changed zangst nation history forever. original book scene under the cut

i wish the show would touch on his trauma more because the character development in just these few chapters was crazy

[reality-detective]

The "Holy Frequency" 111 hz

Frequencies will change our whole corrupt medical system. In fact it has already been coming out, EE Systems (Scaler Wave Frequencies) have been opening everywhere. The one I have been going to is about a 40 minute drive, it took me several trips before I started feeling the effects because I could only go once a month. However, if you could go once a week, the benefits would be great. Better sleep, calmness, less inflammation which means less pain and I seem to have more energy. I AM certain if I could go more than once every 2 weeks which I have been doing for the past 2 months, my list would be longer because I would notice it more. But then too, just because I don't notice it, it has to be doing more than I AM aware of. 🤔

[rosewalkersjayaforever]

[nerd-artist]

Two druids in love. Varlsin and Zoheira 🍃🍂💚🤎

[merloksdigitaltoes]

so when are you reading the forbidden power… your homework is due. 😐 when’s your review coming out??? WHEN MILK WHEN

WHEN WILL YOU UNDERSTAND MY ADVANCED REFERENCES MILK

I still need to get through chapters 7 - 12 but i know some stuff now! </3

[browa123]

Guess who’s experimenting with Blender’s video editor

(Audio from Shadow the Hedgehog RTF, Video from Terrain of Magical Expertise)

[cloudpinesapling]

They!! The line art is done!!

[macaroonkitti]

Quick treat for my Zelda followers, thinking about Link post totk <3

[morverenmaybewrites]

Imagine Wayne Manor as a Haunted House (Bruce Wayne x Reader)

Been thinking about Wayne Manor.

What it would be like as a haunted house, and Bruce Wayne cursed as its last living heir.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

In an upstairs bathroom, a leaky faucet drips water like tears. A strange stain darkens the bottom of the tub, where one of Bruce's ancestors had drowned herself after the loss of her lover.

No one ever uses that bathroom, yet there are days when Bruce can hear running water. And he would feel a grief so profound that it would leech all of the color out of the sky.

And he would remind himself, with renewed determination, of all the terrible fates that befell anyone who has loved a Wayne.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, older perhaps, than Gotham itself. Where the walls are overrun by kudzu vines, the fat purple clusters of their flowers all but hiding the weathered stone.

Except, perhaps, in the East Wing, where even the vines do not grow. The walls remain blackened, the windows cracked and warped. Here, there once lived an heir who thought that he could outlast the curse. Or perhaps he believed that there was no curse at all.

He had held the wedding on the grounds itself—ignoring the way the grass twisted around his bride's ankles like starving rats—and moved her into the East Wing that very night.

One would hope that they were happy in the week before the fire. Where the heat was so intense that it blackened the Manor's stone walls and the smoke that rose from it blotted out the sky.

One would hope they died instantly, suffocated in their sleep before they even knew what would happen.

And yet, Bruce knows they did not. Perhaps it is only his own pessimism. Or perhaps, the Manor wanted him to know.

It was she who died first. Her smooth skin turning cracked and leathery, blisters forming on her skin and bursting like the fat of a pig on a spit.

It was she who died first, and the heir had enough time to run away. To live with the knowledge of what he had done to her.

But he did not.

Instead, he lay down next to his bride and let the fire claim them both.

And Bruce Wayne, heir to Wayne Manor's wealth and tragedy memories, would wake up some nights with the taste of ash in his mouth.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, a cursed house. A house that has claimed everyone its heirs have ever loved.

But oh, it is hungry. Its once-thriving grounds have become dry and barren. The grass that had once twined around a doomed bride's ankles have grown yellowed and shriveled.

For while its previous owners have kept it fed with its share of tragedies, Bruce Wayne had starved it.

Bruce Wayne, who as a child would wake up with the taste of ash in his mouth, who once used an upstairs bathroom where the faucet drips water like tears.

Bruce Wayne, who promised himself that he would be the last heir Wayne Manor would ever have.

Now, imagine you. You who have lived in Gotham City, your whole life.

You who would pass by the Wayne Manor on the way to classes or to work, and you would look at its barren gardens and its cracked windows.

And you would feel...something.

A pull perhaps or an ache, one that could only settled by approaching this house, this cursed lot, placing your hands against the wrought iron gate so that you can get a better look.

And you would see its blackened walls and its barren gardens, the grass yellowed and withered and dead.

And you would feel a strange sort of tenderness for a place that looks so unloved.

You feel the cold of iron against your palms, a flash of heat.

And then—

"Ouch."

Somehow, you had cut yourself against the gate. A wide cut, a deep cut, straight against the meat of your palm.

You don't quite know how it happened. And perhaps, it did not matter, because the only thing you can focus on is the pain that throbbed against your skin like a heart.

You curse, try to staunch the flow, and in doing so, you catch a glimpse of a figure.

Perhaps it was the mansion's old butler or perhaps one of its many ghosts. But as he approached, you knew that this could only be one person.

The heir to Wayne Manor was said to be a glib playboy, one who would spend rather spend his family's vast amount of wealth on drugs and women and sex than actually fixing his broken-down home.

And yet, when you meet him on that fateful day, he did not look like the blindingly beautiful man you had seen in the newspapers.

He didn't have a fixed smile that could have meant anything from loathing to adoration, he didn't wear a suit that cost more than your yearly salary.

That day, he looked human. He looked reachable.

Perhaps that was what made you accept the handkerchief he so graciously handed to you. Perhaps that is what makes you smile—a little clumsy, a little lopsided, but a smile all the same—as you say,

"Thanks a ton. See you around, Bruce Wayne."

And when you walk away, you do not look back.

You do not see what Bruce Wayne saw.

You do not see how your blood dries preternaturally fast on the surface of the black gate, as if something was drinking it in.

You do not see the way the grass along the driveway twists around your ankles like a starving rat.

And you definitely do not see the expression on Bruce Wayne's face when he realizes what it all meant.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its once-barren gardens now blooming with life. Galica roses with buds so heavy that their stems drooped, as if begging one to cut them and place them in a bouquet.

Imagine Wayne Manor, which has fed well on centuries' worth of tragedies, as a house starved.

For its latest heir, Bruce Wayne, had vowed never to fall in love.

Had vowed that whatever curse lingered in his family tree like the rot in an oak would die with him.

Imagine your blood drying on a wrought iron gate. And a leaky faucet that drips water like tears for a story that already has an ending.

Imagine a blackened wall, and the story of a man who lay down next to dead bride, to be consumed alive in a fire.

Imagine Wayne Manor, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

And now imagine: its hunger.

[littlelionpaw]

Ever since I saw this TikTok of Petra, I've been a total goner for her. Well, more than I was anyway. How sparkly can eyes be??? I started these sketches months ago and finally found the time to finish and post them!

Petra is one of my favorites in both HZD and HFW and I hope we'll see her again in the third game!

[reality-detective]

Written in 1954 👆

Read it. Read it again and open your eyes 👀 then ask yourself; "What is going on in the world today?" 🤔

[tytarax]

Our Father, of all of us

Of the poor, of the homeless

Of the marginalized and the unprotected

Of the disinherited and the owners of misery

Of those who follow you and those of us who no longer believe in you

Come down from the heavens

For there is Hell

Come down from your throne

For there are wars, hunger, injustices

You don’t need to be one and three

With just one who wants to help

It would be enough

What is your kingdom? The Vatican?

The Banks? High Politics?

Their kingdom is misery, violence.

Their daily bread is rape

Gender violence

Pedophilia, dictatorships

In temptation, I fall daily

There is no tomorrow in which I am not tempted to create a humble, just God

A God who is on Earth

In the valleys, the rivers

A God who lives in the rain

Who travels through the wind

And caresses our soul

A God of the sad, of the homosexuals

A more human God

A God who does not punish, who teaches

A God who does not threaten, who protects

That, if they fall, will lift them up

That, if they get lost, will extend a hand

A God who, if they sin, will not blame them

And who, if they doubt, will understand them

For that is why you gave them intelligence

To doubt everything

Our Father, of all of us

Why have you forgotten them?

Our Father, blind, deaf, and idle

Why have you abandoned them?

The words of her prayer echoed in the void, a lament carried through the stillness of the place. Here, between the layers of existence, where neither Heaven’s light nor Hell’s fire reached, she ruled—a gray wasteland of wandering souls, where time bent, and judgment lingered out of reach.

Y/N, known as Death, walked its shadowed paths, her form draped in flowing obsidian, her wings like a torn night. The souls in her care trembled when she passed, for even here, in the land of waiting, her presence bore weight. She was not cruel, but she was absolute. She was not forgiveness, nor was she condemnation.

She simply was.

And she had been since the moment mankind first erred.

Her existence began in the garden, on the day a man and a woman stood before a tree and chose to defy the divine. With a single bite, sin entered the world, and through sin came death. She appeared as the shadow cast by their choice, a being neither blessed nor cursed, but necessary. As their naked shame drove them from Eden, the golden angel and his lover fell, casting themselves into the abyss. Their rebellion birthed Hell, and with it, she found her purpose.

From Adam to Moses and beyond, her reign stretched, a silent witness to the rise and fall of countless souls.

Her wings stirred the air as she walked, trailing whispers of a timeless truth: Where sin began, so too did Death reign.

Lately, however, something was shifting. Heaven, for all its proclamations of purity, had dirtied its hands. The boundaries between realms grew thin, with rumors of clandestine acts spilling across the planes. The Exterminators, Heaven’s sword, had begun to cut deeper, venturing beyond their mandate to cull Hell’s chaos. It was not their place to meddle with the balance. It was hers.

Y/N paused, her sharp gaze cutting through the haze that veiled her domain. She spoke, not to the wandering souls, but to the realms above and below. Her voice was calm, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of a thousand ages.

“Sin entered the world through man’s folly, and death through sin. Through me. You could not escape me then, and you cannot escape me now.”

Her fingers brushed against the mist, parting it to reveal Hell in the distance. Its sprawling expanse flickered with life and fire, chaos and control. At its heart were the Seven—monarchs of sin who wielded power as old as her own.

And if Heaven thought it could encroach on her realm, bypassing the laws of balance, it would find its reckoning not in fire or light but in her shadow.

A faint smirk curved her lips, though it carried no warmth. “You cannot rewrite the beginning, and you will not dictate the end.”

With a final glance back at the stillness of her domain, she stepped forward into the parted mists. The paths closed behind her, and the gray silence was left once more to the wandering souls.

Death was no longer watching. She was moving.

Taglist: @ultimate-percussionist