#the fire is very unpredictable and growing and strong winds will push it this way tomorrow

[verdemoth]

mm goin through the horrors. the horrors are bad i can’t recommend the horrors.

[applejuizz]

irrational goals x and x mindless illusions

after years of relentless searching, kaito has finally managed to find ging. as the two hunters pass the evening in the mountains, ging tells a story of his past. characters: ging freecss, kaito (kite) pairing(s): ging x gon’s momma (in the past!) no warnings word count: 1.880

pretty much my headcanons on what happened to gon’s mother.

“For all those years that I’ve known you, Ging-san, and I would’ve never guessed you have a kid.” Ging’s laughter, loud and brash bounced off the cave walls and scattered along with the howling winds. “And I thought you knew better than to make assumptions,” the hunter replied wittily, his large, amber stare glinting with amusement.

Kaito huffed out a short-lived smile and took a generous bite out of his freshly-roasted fish. He chose to let the crackling fire fill the silence as he masticated, carefully pondering over his next words.

“You’ve left one hell of a legacy behind, you know. He’s got your willpower and plenty of potential.” In response, Ging grunted through a mouthful of fish. “He’s good with animals as well. He’d make an excellent hunter.”

Kaito raised his gaze slightly to catch a reaction from across the vivid flames of the campfire. Maybe it had been just a product of the lights and shadows constantly dancing on Ging’s features, but he could’ve sworn that for a brief, insignificant moment, his master’s petrified expression had twitched. Now, whether it had been the ghost of a smile or a grimace, he couldn’t tell.

“Looks like my son did quite the impression on you,” remarked Ging, swallowing the last of his bite. “He is definitely something. I’m surprised how you were never curious enough to visit. Poor boy grew up thinking his parents were dead.” “Good.”

The sheer finality in the hunter’s tone made Kaito’s head instantly shoot up to stare incredulously. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy, Kaito,” said Ging before his disciple could conceal his surprise, “hunters are greedy people. They seek adventure, despise routine and never settle. Bringing a kid into this world is a big and dangerous deal that we couldn’t bear.”

Then why did you do it in the first place? The question was entirely plausible, yet it died on Kaito’s tongue before he could voice it. It wasn’t his place to ask. Perhaps the boy was the result of an ordinary one night stand - that was quite often the case. Besides, he couldn’t imagine Ging lingering in one place long enough to fall in love and willingly father a child. Then again, he hadn’t thought it possible for the carefree adventurer to even be a parent at all, and he’d been proven wrong. In all truth, predicting Ging Freecss’s actions was a game of chance, similar to Kaito’s Crazy Slot, and the white-haired hunter wasn’t sure he liked that resemblance.

“Was his mother a hunter as well?” As he spoke, Kaito watched Ging’s posture stiffen, his usual relaxed attitude forgone. On second thought, it might’ve been more suitable to ask about his reasoning. “Who said anything about her? What did I tell you about assumptions?!” “You said ‘we’.” “What?!” “When you talked about bringing a kid into this world, you said ‘we couldn’t bear it’.” “As in you and me and every other fucking hunter in the world. Now stop nagging me.”

From the years he’d spent as his disciple, Kaito had learnt a lot about Ging as a hunter - extremely gifted, strategic, adventurous -, as well as a person - stubborn, unpredictable, carefree and at times, awkward. However, he had rarely, if ever got the chance to see a truly flustered, caught off-guard Ging. It took a lot to surprise him. Yet it seemed that the question Kaito had deemed innocuous had managed to utterly baffle the rogue hunter. He watched in awe as Ging’s features shifted through various phases of surprise, outrage and awkwardness, his foot nervously tapping the ground and his voice cracking with indignance. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.” The only response Ging gave was a graceful, yet expressive burp. He deliberately avoided meeting Kaito’s eyes, busying himself with wiping clean of meat every little fishbone.

By the time he spoke again, the fire had considerably dimmed. “She is a hunter. Part of the association that helped me create Greed Island.” Kaito was leaning against a smoother portion of the wall, hands behind his head, eyes closed in contemplation. When his master spoke, he immediately turned to look at him. The black-haired man was staring pointedly at the dying fire, scattering the ashes with a stick in a halfhearted attempt of keeping it aflame. “Ging-san, you don’t have to talk about this if-“ “Just shut up and listen, ‘cause I’m not telling this story twice.”

Kaito settled back against the stone wall and listened.

“As I said, she was one of the creators of Greed Island, so we were both pretty young when we met- 18, I think. She was the friend of a friend, she heard of our project and she wanted in. We were fine with it, since she was a strong Nen user and her contribution has made the game what it is today.”

The cave entrance was growing darker by the minute as nightfall crept in. They would have to get some more firewood.

“While we were busting our asses off scouting the island and thinking up cards, we got to talkin’ and you could say we grew... close. She was pretty and as charming as they come, simple-minded, and always up for an adventure. And I was a bit of an impressionable kid.”

“We wanted to travel together. She was passionate about myths and languages, I liked ruins. A match made in heaven,” Ging chuckled bitterly. “Now, don’t get me wrong, ‘twas nothing official. We couldn’t be bothered to label anything. But one thing led to another, and all of a sudden we were a couple of dumb nineteen year-olds with a baby on the way.”

So, Gon was a mistake. Kaito had figured that much.

“Obviously, we had to push back our plans - we wanted to try and explore the Dark Continent eventually - and we had no idea how we were going to raise a kid together when we didn’t even know how to define our relationship, but we never thought about giving up Gon. Not once. Soon after we finished up the game, Daina gave birth. May 5th, 1987. Five months later, I was urging her to come with me on an unofficial, undocumented expedition near lake Mosubi.”

The sheer name of that place gave Kaito the shivers as he listened attentively to the other hunter’s story.

“She didn’t really want to go. Childbirth had changed her. She began to realize the risks we’d have to take, the high stakes, the danger that was awaiting and how inexperienced we really were. But I was having none of it. I thought I was invincible, and I thought I’d always get what I wanted.” There was a pause, and Ging cleared his throat almost awkwardly.

“So, I threatened to leave by myself. Woke up that morning and started packing. She got scared, like I knew she would; there was no way to stop me, so she eventually gave in.”

“You pretty much manipulated her into following you,” Kaito concluded. Ging continued to stare into the fire for a while before answering, and his disciple was almost sure he’d managed to piss him off again.

“Yeah. I guess you could say that,” he answered calmly. “Anyway, we left the baby in-game, summoned a Panda Maid to care for him and left. Long story short, something... beyond my understanding happened on that godforsaken shore and...”

“Did Daina...?”

“No! I mean... she disappeared. I have no idea what happened to her. I couldn’t look for her. It’s a miracle I even got away.”

Kaito let out a breath he hadn’t even known he were holding.

“And before you start to think I’m some delusional dumbass, the moment I got back, I went to Greed Island and summoned Double Postcard to the Dead. I’ve been doing it annually since then. No response so far.”

Ging needn’t explain more. Kaito knew Greed Island fairly well from the time he had attempted to clear the game, and therefore he had plenty of knowledge on the card system. Double Postcard to the Dead is a card which, if summoned, allows you to send a message to a deceased person of your choosing. If the person is truly dead, you’ll get a response within the next day.

“Anyway, after all that, I’d realized a couple of things.” Ging raised his pointer in the air. “First. I was going to need at least a decade of training, experience and qualifications to even pass lake Mosubi’s shoreline, and second,” he raised another finger, “I couldn’t raise Gon on my own. It was too dangerous to pursue my goals with him around, and he would’ve been better off living a normal life.”

“So you sent him off home.”

“And lost custody in court when Mito decided to sue me. The rest is history.”

There was silence as Kaito pondered over what he’d just heard. He supposed he could understand the reasoning behind Ging’s decision to leave Gon in someone else’s care, but he could’ve at least visited. Kaito was no king of morality, yet he couldn’t have lived with himself knowing he had a kid out there that knew nothing of him.

“I’m sorry.”

Ging’s eyes switched back to Kaito. He no longer looked lost in space as he made a dismissive hand gesture, very much characteristic of him.

“Don’t be. It was for the best. I would’ve been a crappy father either way.” There was humor in his tone and the white-haired hunter laughed cordially, but he could tell his companion’s words were more than just a joke.

The more he thought about it, the more obvious it became. Ging had decided to utterly avoid his son not only for his safety, but also out of a selfish, yet understandable reason. He couldn’t have possibly bore the embarrassment of looking Gon in the eye and telling him his mother had gone missing simply because he had dragged her into his irrational goals and mindless illusions.

But you won’t be able to avoid him forever, Kaito thought to himself. If that boy is anything like you, he won’t drop dead until he finds you. I’ve seen the look in his eyes. You’re in for one hell of a ride, Ging.

“Yo.” He was awoken from his reverie by the hunter’s deep voice. “I’m gonna go get some more firewood. You coming or what?”

Kaito had barely noticed that the sky had gone completely dark and the cave was only lit by what little was left of the campfire. He could barely distinguish Ging’s features anymore as he stood at the entrance.

“Sure. I wasn’t expecting you to spend the night here though, Ging-san.”

As they walked along the abrupt forest path, wind howling at their ears, Ging scoffed. “You and your damn assumptions.” He grumbled and pointed at the sky. “No stars. Can’t you smell the thunder? It’s gonna rain tonight.” Kaito doubted a little storm would stop Ging from leaving if he really wished to do so, but he said nothing. “Oh, and drop the honorific.”

Kaito must’ve looked extremely surprised because Ging spoke again, a smirk creeping on his face.

“Don’t look at me like that. You found me, so you passed your test. We’re equals.”

[manontrashbeak]

On the Other Side

Summary: In short because I haven’t written a good synopsis this is what Manon Blackbeak’s life would be like if she was raised with her father’s side. Prologue below the cut.

It was dark out, that much she knew. Night had fallen seemingly when her water did. The babe in her womb was impatient and wanted out the moment she was ready. Lothian knew she should have left. She could have left weeks ago or never come back at all, but breaking habit was hard, and her oldest habit of all was to please her mother. There is no greater honor then bearing a Blackbeak child, but this one, her baby, was not just a Blackbeak. She was the climax of a long ago war and exiled people. The mixed blood would be their salvation, but Madrona Blackbeak would never let a Crochan live, her granddaughter or no. There was no leaving now, not with her witchling ready to rip her in two and not with the snowstorm ripping apart the world at the same time.

“It is almost time, Milady, almost time to push,” One of the resident healers told her. “Shall I go fetch the Matron?”

Lothian should have said no, wanted to, but her head nodded a yes anyway. She couldn't do this alone, and she needed to survive to get her daughter out once ready. The midwife left and her sister, Halston, came in almost as pregnant as her. Lothian wished she could stay, that her daughter could stay, just so she could have a companion growing up.

“How are you fairing, sister?” Halston asked, hand on her belly. Lothian knew her sister did not truly care if she was in pain or not, but she did want to know what she herself would be going through soon. Her sister had always been the favorite to their mother. Strong, unfeeling, strict were some of the nicer words to describe Halston, but Lothian never cared to be those things. All she wanted was to fly. She never realized that need was her telling herself to get as far away from her family as possible.

“I am ready to meet my daughter. And you? How are you feeling waddling around?” If there was one thing that Lothian beat her sister in, it was looks. Halston, while beautiful, did not compare to Lothian’s snow white hair and striking blue eyes that held the sacred golden flecks. The mention of Halston’s less than gracious way of carrying brought a sneer to her sister’s face. “I feel as you do, ready to have this thing out of my body,” was the reply. Before Lothian could tell her that the only “thing” in his room was her, their mother walked in.

The Matron was beautiful in her own right, ethereal really. Not marked in the slightest by her five hundred plus years of existence, Lothian’s mother could rival a goddess. “What are you two fighting of now? The witchlings in your bellies will soon rip out of your bodies just to get at each other,” She glided into the room with those words. As if she doesn't like us to fight, as if a babe wasn't already doing just that to Lothian’s body. “Are you ready, Lothian?” Her mother looked down at her and all she could do was nod. The healer came back and asked Halston to leave. Once the supplies were ready, and the baby was ready, the healer gave Lothian the go ahead to push. She bared down, her teeth so clenched she heard one crack. This went on for eternity it felt like till the midwife claimed to see her daughter’s head.

Her mother came to where her head was and leaned down, “Only so much longer. Hopefully, this child will be better suited to be a Blackbeak. I’ll have to keep her away from you till her learning years are done just so you weakness does not make an impression.” Lothian heard all this through her scream shattered ears. Her body went white not from pain but anger. The feeling swept through her until all she could feel, do, say were the words that not only damned her, but her daughter.

~~~~~~

The world was white and black. The Crochan could see nothing else, but the white world and the jagged black peak disturbing it. She had been there for three days on behalf of her Prince. He had been frantic since his Blackbeak lover had flown off in the night carrying their child. It had been five months since and no word of the witch or witchling had arisen. With the predicted birthdate around the corner the last royal Crochan wished to know whether his love or heir had made it.

Carefully as she could she walked from one side of the mountain to the other in hope of seeing a side door or forgotten passage. She had left her red cloak at camp, but that didn't mean she wanted to just strut into the stronghold. Farther and farther, she went around until out of the corner of her eye she saw the first color outside the monochrome scale. Blue was the only thing she could see from her vantage point, but blue was never a good color to see on the ground. She crept closer hoping that the sentinels keeping watch would still be inside in the aftermath of the storm. The blue led to more white. White skin, white hair, white gown, all surrounded by blue. The witch’s deflated stomach and blue stained dress tells of what started only hours before and the ripped open throat shows what ended it.

The Crochan jerks away in disgust. What vile female would do such a thing to a fellow witch in labor? The dead witches iron wasn't even out, proving her inability to defend herself while pushing out a child. The Crochan turns away to go back to the safety of the wood when she hears a small garble. Thinking the witch still alive, she swings her head back to the body with the shredded throat. The unseeing eyes still open and empty, she turns away again thinking the frozen wind caused the sound, but another color flashes in her peripheral. The Crochan stops turning and sees a babe barely swaddled lying next to what must be her mother’s body. She puts a hand over her mouth in shock and tears fill her eyes. A baby. They threw a baby in the snow to die.

She bends down and picks up the child. Her hair and skin as white as her mother’s and the snow she rested in. The cold had taken away any other color besides that and her solid gold eyes. She flits a finger over her pulse point. The heartbeat strong as if the baby refused to let the cold steal that as well. The baby hadn't made any noise besides the original babble made to get her attention, and continued to be silent and blink up at her. The Crochan smiled down at her.

“Lets get you home.”

~~~~~

Tristan hadn't slept in months. The thoughts churning in his head worse than any nightmare his subconscious could conjure, but unwilling to risk falling asleep in case of news or a flash white of flying in his periphery. He shoved his hands back through his hair in hopes that the motion would make him concentrate.

“You’re making me want to rip your hair out,” Glennis, his grandmother, said as she stepped into the tent. The camp they had set up was much to close to the Blackbeak Keep for her to be here. Her kind eyes and steady, encouraging presence was not suitable for the toxic air that mountain put out. “Lina will be back soon, probably with news.” Lina, one of his oldest friends, sent to the Keep to find Lothian. Him and his mate had been in a cabin on the border of Fenharrow and Melisande when she suddenly flew off in the middle of the night. It wasn't until a few days later, after wallowing, had he scented the change on her towel he hadn't noticed before.

A child. She ran away while pregnant.

As mad as he wanted to be, he couldn't be. This was exactly like her. That was why he fell in love with her in the first place. The wild, unpredictable witch he met in a small tavern in Melisande. He first thought her to be a very beautiful human woman until she had him pinned to an alley wall with a hand made of iron. From there it had been bliss. The last person he ever planned on falling in love with was the Blackbeak Matron’s daughter. For six months, they had hidden away pretending the world wasn't so cruel, and that they weren't on opposite sides of a timeless war.

“I know, but it won’t stop me from worrying. For them or Lina,” His reply was covered by the hands he had thrown over his face. He wasn't just worried, he was half dead inside because fright. Lothian’s mother would kill her for consorting with a Crochan, and his daughter would be killed because of the blood he gave her. “I shoul-“

His sentence was caught off by Lina shouting across the camp, “Tristan!”

He shot up and past his grandmother, leaping over the different clan’s fires on his rush to get to her. He slipped to a stop in front of her. His eyes roved over her face and across the sky looking for wounds or enemies. When neither showed themselves he looked down to what she was holding. A bundle of white was in her arms.

“I found her alive in the snow next to her mother’s body. I couldn't leave her,” Lina said cradling the child. He barely heard her over the roaring in his head. That hair. The hair he hoped his daughter would inherit. The white so brilliant it looked like the light the moon gave off when at its peak and completely full. Lina was still talking when he fell to his knees and held out his arms. She wordlessly handed the child over. Tristan brought his daughter close to his chest trying to keep her warm.

“But if we did have a child what would we name her or him?” Tristan asked with a smirk on his face.

“It doesn't matter. I’m not getting pregnant anytime soon, and her name will be for me to decide,” Lothian snapped back from where she was chopping carrots. The Crochan prince walked up behind her and looped his arms around her waist.

“So what would her name be?”

“Manon. I wish to name my daughter Manon.”

“Manon, her name is Manon,” He said still looking down at his daughter. At the sound of her name her eyes opened to reveal golden irises brighter than any forge. Glennis came up behind him, and Line had knelt with him in the snow. He looked at both and stood, Lina with him. As one they headed toward the front of camp. As one they stopped every witch to let them know their heir was home.

A/N: It’s NaNoWriMo!! Not gonna lie this (like most of my fics) is unedited. For NaNoWriMo, I typically write and post without editing and at the end post a completely finished and edited fic on Ao3. So sooner or later this will be out on Ao3 edited, but for now it’ll be posted in parts unedited.   

tagging: @rufousnmacska​  @propshophannah​ 

[sasorikigai]

The Winds of Change || A Hanzo Hasashi x Fujin Drabble

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥🌪️|| The splintering storm had passed, and Hanzo feels his flames undulating beneath his skin. He may not have a full potential of power no longer, the raw and destructive power of a maelstrom that makes him to be uncannily unpredictable and a perilous threat to any battlefield. For Hanzo Hasashi will silently beg for the sempiternal ravaging winds of Fujin’s to billow, instead of calming, diminishing and die away, just like the embers of his budding candlelight, fading in his heart. He remains standing erect in the middle of the storm, with the moribund stench of demon and human corpses sprawled in numerous hills as onyx crimson river saturates the oppressive heat of the Netherrealm, as writhing trembling lives weakly claw their way out of the dirt, only to spit the blood from between their teeth, as they become rigid and motionless. They would become nameless graves of so many would perish, desiccate and rot away in mere days, as the Sea of Blood will overflood with ample blacknessness. 

“How many more?” 

“The first wave of their onslaught has been sufficiently prevented, thanks to the combined forces of the Shirai Ryu, the Lin Kuei and the Special Forces as you know. Not many, have faith in that we could conquer them and remain triumphant.” 

Hanzo inquires, breathless, as the architecture of his walls crumble and the mighty barriers break as the scorching tendrils, scattering like clashing meteors as the last couple he was in close contact perishes like scattered stardust with a haunting shriek. Spiking throbs percussion his chest, as the hilt of katana clenches harder than his usual grip, as the transparent veins ache and throb with persistent threat of requiem. The songs have been forever replenished, and as long as he wears the power of the Hellfire, he will never truly die. For the pyromancer is burning still, for he’s the fire and the world is the rain, washing him out and drowning his flame. And Fujin serving as the torrential flurry of gale, granting him relief. For the Wind God knows what Hanzo is fighting for, and what cause he is fighting for. It was memories of his family claiming his subconscious, and even exsanguination was the grave risk the mortal was fighting against, lest Hanzo remains war-torn and caught in a catch-22, he will refuse to see Hanzo crumble like decomposed ruins, even as the razor-sharp flames continue to exacerbate the rapidity of his spilling. 

“私はそれらをずっと長く延ばすことはできません.” 

“"あなたは今、脆弱であるかもしれませんが、あなたはすでにあなたの運命を知っています-あなたはこの戦場ではなく、ここで死ぬことはありません.” 

The very identifiable vision of never discreetly festered, as fresh bodies become a torturous, twisted reality, as the raging ocean of his heart will forever recreate that recollection. For nothing sustains him more the hollow, vacuous absence of their warmth and presence, whipped away from him like the dust in the wind, scattered and rendered nonexistent. How he yearns to be pulled back into the static, gray reality, but he feels Fujin’s floating presence upon him, his kusanagi floating amidst the battlefield, severing the clinging life of the cawing, roaring demons that still crawl, refusing to die. 

Hanzo Hasashi stands firm and tall, with roots sinking deep into the earth. The copper and rust incessantly soaks his kunai, as does his katana and the contour of his gripping palm, wet and calloused. Hanzo may already be a human blur - a once-shadow of himself - as the Nether’s claim over his soul will grow evermore strong. It’s the face he makes when someone or something important was stolen from him; by another’s malevolence, by fate, by his own incompetence and shortcomings, by unfortunate circumstances and time. Frozen in a grasp, trembling and writhing, jaw aching from its eternal gaping open, as his set jaw grits as to not let his weakness run rampant and prevalent. The shark teeth of his pulsating wounds, soaking his front and his side, as the searing meteor craters’ potency only leaves further impressions as the residual aftershocks and percussions ravage, fissure through the expanse of his musculature. 

All the noise falls silently under the murmur of white noise, but something familiar stirs the foyer of the Wind God’s mind; if he could, if he had eternity, which Hanzo Hasashi doesn’t, he would sand down all the imperfect edges and clamp down the ruptured veins and gaping flesh, spewing rivulets of blood, blow the anger off until it is nothing more than a soft flicker, fill the pyromancer up with love and forgiveness and kindness, letting the bruised, exsanguinating body heal as to polish the darkest parts of his soul until it too, shines like aureate gold of before. Instead, Fujin finds himself gazing at this beautiful, iron-willed and feverously burning mortal on the verge of death who perpetually pushes himself to exist. To learn to exist perfectly amidst the curse of fire and brimstone, now turned into a benediction. 

He’s no longer grasping into the kaleidoscope of fractured radiance of his flames as the expanding confetti dies down, and his body suddenly betrays. Through the fogged-up glass of his view, he hears something in the distance. The clangorous bursting of Satoshi’s voice, resonating through the deep forest, taking over the jagged rocks of the Netherrealm’s unforgiving landscape. Hanzo is miles and miles away from Fujin’s grasp, yet the securing anchor, the stronghold of the chiseled arms become the solid chain around his midsection. The whirling tornado whizzes and whortles around them, as if they were the epicenters of the hurricane, and nothing outside of their periphery having already rendered naught. 

The appendages of oni is being severed, dismembered in fragmented pieces and the heads are being skewered by the bolt from Fujin’s crossbow. The invisible strings take mere seconds to load, or even fraction of a second, and Hanzo’s last glimpse of the world before he succumbs to unconsciousness is his own bellowed flames, only amplified and becoming conflagratory wildfire amidst the God’s wrath, fueled by the razor-sharp knives of their weapons, becoming executioners’ wrath before the last ounce of vigor drains out of him as his pressed form sinks into the earth, headfirst, kissing the blood-streaked bruise over his swollen cheek. 

___🌪️🌪️🌪️

Beaten and unwon, the pyromancer’s dead weight is nothing against Fujin’s indefatigable strength. Despite the numerous threats from the realms and the avarice and malice of the world, new organisms will always blossom as the life’s continued cycle, of its ouroboros will forever make the Fire Gardens radiant in effulgent, kaleidoscopic view. The pulsating portal back to the Earthrealm is sealed shut, as he moves like a whisper, then a zephyr, and he always ends up like a gale by he reaches the stairways leading up to the Sky Temple, where the Jinsei Chamber remains flowing with its purified sapphire ichor. The jewels scatter in the air, as Hanzo’s frame is lain flat against the rounded stone, the concave surface where the Jinsei’s flow will engulf heal him right back to full health. 

Fujin’s cloud white garment remains the color of painted sakura under the burning sunset. And he constitutes it as the blooming promises of life. For the heat, the hope, the still-expanding potential the Grandmaster embodies will forever beckon him as blood beckons the strenuous will, the sentiment that draws hidden, reserved strength, not weakness. 

The relaxed, laxed countenance of the Grandmaster, along with the entirety of his grimed, tattered flesh finds rejuvenation as once pasty-faced complexion regains healthy rubicund glow. Fingers curl and twitch, as the surge of Jinsei residing within him merges with the power and strength of basking stream, bathing him whole.

With a gasp, Hanzo awakes, with clutched embers spreading through his forearm, if ready to fight off the demon dwelling in his mind. No longer, Scorpion’s voice whispers in grating baritone, as he finds the rites of purification and ascension beyond the reaches of his power. No longer, his soul would be stagnated by the reaches of Scorpion’s abysmal, anarchical mandibles around his subconscious. 

The promises were sung, and sunk into the azure of oceanic depths of Fujin’s heart, and in a breath of liberation, the Wind God closes his distance, and lets his palm caress Hanzo’s swollen cheek. How he yearns to taste the sweet exaltation, a veneration of his authentic love and devotion. Perhaps he will conquer and devour him in pure transcendence... as lips seek Hanzo’s own with the same flames that once scorched and scarred the skin of Hanzo Hasashi, but like potent, burning ointment and emollient. 

“Welcome back, Hanzo, for your spirit was born of halcyon fire, you shall not be contained, and nor shall the shadows negate your resplendence.”  ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥🌪️|| 

@heamatic​ 

[crystalmoonarcher]

Surname, Given Name: Kawaguchi, Amaya

Birthday: September 15th (Virgo) Age: 19 Height: w/shoes 158 cm (5 feet 2 inches) w/o shoes 153 cm (5 feet) Weight: 56 kg (123 lb) Pronouns: She/Her Blood Type: AB Marechi: No

Rank: Hashira Weapon: Light cerulean blue Nichirin Blade Breath Style/Blood Demon Art: Breath of Snow - derived from Breath of Wind and Breath of Water.  This unique style makes use of quick and fluid movements to freeze a target.  It can cause the temperature to drop to dangerous levels for both the user and their opponent.

First Style: Snow Flurry - A quick succession of forward jabs, usually aimed at the throat.

Second Style: Blizzard’s Fury - Multiple quick slashes, usually used to chop off a demon’s limbs.

Third Style: Dance of Winter - Fast moving slashes done in a spinning motion.

Fourth Style: A Light Snowfall - A thin sheet of snow falls and disperses enemy projectiles.

Fifth Style: Everlasting Winter - The user moves quick enough to make it seem like they are in more than one place at once.

Sixth Style: Absolute Zero - A spinning attack unique to Amaya meant to slow a target’s movements.

Seventh Form: Yuki Onna - An attack unique to Amaya, in which the user dashes forward and hits the opponent with multiple slashes.

Stats:

Breathing Technique - 6/5

Speed - 5/5

Strength - 4/5

Stamina - 4/5

Intelligence - 5/5

Charisma - 3/5

Abilities:

Master Swordsman

Enhanced Strength

Immense Speed

Enhanced Reflexes

Flexibility

Ambidextrous

Demon Slayer Mark

See-Through World

Personality:

Seems cool, calm, and collected at first look but is pretty awkward

“Snow Princess”

Seems to space out a lot, but is actually paying attention

A people watcher

Quiet, prefers to listen to other people talk.  Will give some sort of gesture to show she is still listening

Will not start a conversation.  People have to engage her if they want to talk.

Afraid of people to some extent

Blunt with her words

Has trouble trusting people after past experiences

Will talk more if she actually likes someone

Is an ailurophile (cat lover)

Is (unfortunately) more likely to talk to a cat than you

Has a tendency to ignore people who annoy her and pretends they don’t exist

Would kill for her friends

Likes Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream

MBTI - INTJ

Appearance:

Blue eyes

Black hair tipped white

Bangs point down in the middle and slant in towards center on the sides

Hair is tied back with 2 ribbons and a snowflake hairpin

One of the ribbons accompanied by the snowflake hairpin holds some strands of hair from the front

The second ribbon holds the rest of her hair in low ponytail

Pale skin, she usually only goes out when there is very little sun

Thin, short arms and legs, small hands

Does not look very muscley but actually pretty strong

“Dainty” appearance

Usually blank faced

Voice Claim Japanese: Maki Kawase (Junko Konno, Zombieland saga)

Voice Claim English: Christine Marie Cabanos (Hapi, Fire Emblem Three Houses)

Background:

Amaya grew up with her mother(Amaterasu), father(Mamoru), older sister(Amane), older brother(Makoto), and two younger brothers(Masaru and Masaki) in a mountain home.  She enjoyed growing up surrounded by her family, and life had been relatively normal.  She wouldn’t have asked for it to change in any way, but fate had other plans.

When she was 11 years old, a demon came across her home.  Amaya was petrified as she watched the demon kill one of her family members one by one.  Just when she thought it would be the end of her life, Amane had jumped up and shielded her and Makoto from the demon.  As she cried for her sister, a demon slayer had shown up and saved the remaining siblings.  The two were led to the village at the foot of the mountain after the dead had been buried and respects had been paid.

Amaya and Makoto stayed in the village where they met two orphaned kids, Eri and Eiji Mori.  The orphaned children all stayed with an elderly woman.  However, it had taken a few months before the Kawaguchi siblings were able to settle down and get used to a life without the rest of the family.  As she grew more comfortable with her situation, Amaya began to play games with Eri and Eiji in the streets while her brother watched them.  She thought life wouldn’t change anymore after this, but her brother had other plans.

When she turned 14, Amaya learned that Makoto planned on becoming a demon slayer.  She had begged him to stay, not wanting to lose the only family she had left.  However, her pleas fell to deaf ears as her brother was set on his decision.  Makoto told Amaya to become a demon slayer and find him again, only then could they be together again.

As she watched her brother leave, Amaya made a silent vow to become a demon slayer.  She began training on her own and set out for final selection when she turned 15.  She had passed and returned to the village to tell her caretaker.  While her new found grandmother had been proud of her, Eri and Eiji were not.  The Mori siblings still offered their congratulations, however and continued to play games with Amaya until a swordsmith arrived with her Nichirin Blade.

Amaya left the village with the promise to write back to everyone she knew there, and she set out on her first assignment.  During a particular assignment, she ran into Makoto again.  She had been excited to see him again, but Makoto only had a look of horror and disgust on his face.  Her world had gone numb when her brother told her to stay away from him and that he never wanted to see her again.

Heading her own way, Amaya completed assignment after assignment for the next year.  Then one assignment brought her back to the village she had spent part of her life.  Worried, she rushed back without hesitation.  Upon arriving at the village, Amaya headed to the home where she had stayed, only to find that the elderly woman had been killed.  Filled with rage, she turned to confront the demon that had been lounging in the corner of the room.  Her rage turned to mute horror when she discovered that the demon was none other than her friend, Eri.

Amaya had hesitated, but she pushed down the feeling of dread and faced her unexpected opponent.  With a heavy heart, she struck down her demon turned friend.  Just as she thought things would settle down, the dying Eri informed her that Eiji had also become a demon and had gone to another location.  As Amaya was about to grieve for her losses, one of the villagers entered the building.  Not knowing the full story, the villagers had believed she had been the one to kill the elderly woman.

After being chased away, Amaya found herself fleeing up the mountain to the home she had lived in with her family.  She stopped to rest just outside of the home and tried to collect her thoughts.  As she was able to calm herself, she heard her kasugai crow arriving with a message: “Kawaguchi, Amaya.  You have been promoted to the rank of hashira!”

Amaya went on to complete more difficult tasks, and she met different demon slayers on the way.  However, she refused to allow herself to get close to any of them.  Whenever she felt like it was happening, she would just leave that demon slayer.  It went on for a long time, until she met a particular one that stuck out to her.

Taisho Secret(s):

Amaya has a scar on her back, but it wasn't from a battle as some newbie demon slayers have been led to believe. She got the scar from falling out of a window backwards. Shinobu was there to witness it. The other hashira are aware of how it happened, but most of them(except Shinobu and Himejima) tell some convoluted story of how it happened. As a result, newbie demon slayers do not know what to believe.

The home that Amaya is currently living in is the very same one she grew up in. She chose to return and repair the place because it holds some sentimental value. That and, it is also where the rest of her family is buried.

The snowflake hairpin that Amaya wears belonged to her older sister Amane.  Amaya found it hidden behind a bookshelf while she was repairing the damages done to her home.

Relationships:

Kasumi Shimizu - “She is actually pretty nice… Sometimes she gives me some food to eat when we are paired up on assignments.”

Makoto Kawaguchi - “He is my older brother, but I don’t think he likes me very much.  He said he never wanted to see me again.”

Atsuko Suzuki - “She is like an older sister to me, but I will not let anyone know that.”

Misaki Fujimoto - “She is a close friend of mine.  We get along well.”

Ren - “She seems like a nice kid.”

Sayuri Yukimura - “She is a friend of mine.  Kind of like a younger sister.”

Yuka Yukimura - “Why is she so loud?”

Yoshi Yukimura - “He… can be annoying at times.”

Yusuke - “I took him in after finding him in an abandoned village.  He is a good kid.”

Kiku Inoue - “A brat…”

Eri Mori - “She was my friend… She said she hated me for leaving.”

Eiji Mori - “He’s still alive somewhere out there, and he probably hates me just like Eri did.  But I don’t blame him...”

Tsubasa Kurahawa - “I like Tsu… He’s the first friend I’ve had in awhile.  I’d kill for him.”

Ishikawa Rei- “I’ll admit, he is like a brother to me.  But um... I don't know if he is okay with that...”

Nomura - “I think she is like a sister.  An unpredictable one, but still a sister.  I care for her even if she doesn’t know it.”

Akira Sato - “...is it wrong to say I don’t like him?”

Minoru Maki - “He ran away from me.  Did I do something wrong?  All I did was say hi…”

Hanata Fujisaki - “She fell asleep on my shoulder before.  I didn’t want to wake her up, so I just stayed there.”

Orihime: “She is an amazing person.  She is also my adorable tsugoku.”

[i-am-church-the-cat]

Close

You, yeah you! Do you want a not-really-soulmate fic that has tyrus, muffy, ambi, and wonah? Good, here you GO! *chucks fic into the internet and runs away*

----

When you met someone important to you romantically, you were drawn to them. They weren’t soulmates, not really. You could still end up in a horrible relationship with someone who you don’t love or doesn’t love you. But, it’s a knowing. A knowing that, them, that person, that is who fate decided you were going to be with, at least for a short period of time. Everyone just called it ‘soulmates’ because that’s what it seemed like. But Cyrus, having four psychiatrist parents, knew it was much more complex. It wasn’t your perfect counter-part for who you were then, it was fate pulling you to someone you might date or who might like you. It was a feeling, not that describable unless you felt it. Which, until seventh grade, Cyrus never had.

Everyone seemed to expect and understand that the boys were generally going to be pulled toward the girls, and the girls would be pulled toward boys. Cyrus had met his two best friends Andi and Buffy in second grade. They were inseparable, the perfect balance of creativity, confidence, and caution. By the time middle school hit, everyone just assumed Cyrus would end up with one of his best friends, or maybe both at different times. But Cyrus never felt that thing, the feeling that he should be in a relationship with either of them. He loved them like he loved his family. He would never want to drift away from his friends, but the feelings the trio had for each other were not romantic. The trio going through sixth grade without any of them being pulled to anyone seemed to further cement that fate had something planned for them. But that all changed when they met Jonah Beck.

Jonah Beck. ‘How do you describe someone so incredible?’, Cyrus had wondered back then. But know, he could clearly see Jonah as he was. Flawed, imperfect, human. Yeah, he might be the literal embodiment of a neutron star and have the soul of a golden retriever puppy on sugar, but he wasn’t always that. As Cyrus and Andi were drawn toward him, they realized that he wasn’t all warm sand on a serene beach or a bubbling brook in a melodic forest. He was a beautiful vase worn and cracked by wear. But as Jonah became a full-fledged member of their group, the trio helped fill those cracks with gold, and Jonah was even more amazing when they saw what a genuine friend and human being he was. He was the whole in the group that they had been missing, a penultimate moment on the ever-winding road that would be Andi’s and Cyrus’s love lives.

Now, Buffy, she never felt that pull toward Jonah. She had entirely different problems, different feelings. Cyrus and Andi had been ready, willing, expectant of their first pull toward someone. Buffy was content to be who she was, she didn’t really think she needed anyone else besides her friends and herself. But, oh, had Marty been what she needed. It wasn’t that overwhelming feeling that Andi and Cyrus got around Jonah. It was a gentle whisper, a small tug that brought her closer to the boy with every second she spent with him. It was a stronger feeling than what she had with anyone. Marty was like a cool breeze you needed just then, the feeling of adrenaline pumping through your system the longer and harder you worked. He was the feeling of when you shoot a basket and you know it was going straight through the hoop. It was a feeling you didn’t even realize until it was gone and you were weary down to your bones. By the time Buffy realized what she felt, Marty was walking away.

The friend group had three massively different first ‘soulmate’ experiences. Two of them had been drawn to the same guy, but one had been much closer to an actual relationship, and another had lost her’s before she could find it. Their second ‘soulmate’ experiences, though. Those were something else.

Andi’s and Buffy’s second were both with the same guy, though Andi met him much earlier when she still felt things for Jonah. Walker Brodsky had been exactly what Andi, and later Buffy, had needed. He had been that stretch you took after slaving over homework for hours, the first rays of sunlight after a gloomy day. He had been the break from the unending drama and pining that the girls had. But in the end, he had just been another push toward Jonah for Andi, and a realization about her feeling for Marty. Luckily, fate had plenty more in store for him.

Cyrus’s also came while he still felt for Jonah. But, god, the feelings Cyrus had for TJ Kippen, even as friends, felt like being hit by a bullet train. TJ had the breeze beneath Cyrus’s wings that lifted him higher than he ever thought he would go. TJ was that two-out, two-strike home run, the storm that just pops into a perfectly clear sky that stayed for a week and kept coming back. He was like the humidity in the south, totally unorthodox and more than a little uncomfortable for someone not used to it, but once you are, you notice it’s disappearance like the loss of one of your hands. He was overwhelming and freeing all at once, a thunderclap and a lightning strike. He was a hurricane that had sucked Cyrus up when he wasn’t paying attention.

Where Jonah had been something undeniable, a crush you knew you were going to end up having, TJ was something that swooped you up and carried you off. You didn’t know where you were going, but you knew you were fine as long as they were there. Cyrus was swept up and quickly left Jonah behind. But a problem with this unpredictability, this polarizing personality, was that Cyrus got hurt. Hard. But Cyrus was lucky it was TJ because TJ would move heaven and earth to destroy anything that hurt Cyrus, even the harsher parts of himself. If anyone was Cyrus Goodman’s soulmate, it was TJ Kippen. And it only took him two tries to reach him.

If only the others were as lucky. Cyrus could still remember all the late night calls from Andi, the afternoons just sitting with Buffy in silence, and the gentle conversations and advice given to Jonah. Andi’s was probably the hardest to figure out, business with Jonah having jumbled things up. It started when they met Jonah’s first ‘soulmate’.

Amber Kippen was a shark in heels. Her blue eyes could freeze people where they stood and a flick of blonde hair was an execution sentence. She and her brother started as the kind of insecure that was masked by sharp words, withering glares, and underhanded acts. She was a raised eyebrow in your direction, an amused smirk where she tried to hide her growing smile. She was the dancer whose emotions turned as easily as her body, the kind of dancing that left your memory foggy after. She was act now and think when it doesn’t hurt anymore. Even after she opened up, she was reckless and judgy, but she was the life of the party and the person you called up when you just wanted to forget. Amber had just been Jonah’s way to Andi, and then later Walker, and Jonah had just been Andi’s and Amber’s way to each other. Amber sparked a fire inside of Andi, and Andi was Amber’s calming hand. The second time Amber and Jonah had gotten together, Andi had thought she was fine. When she realized she was jealous, she thought she was jealous of Amber, but Andi knew that if Jonah came asking to get back together, she wouldn’t do it. It was only until Jonah went to find his next pull did Andi realize how much she just wanted to exist with Amber. And so they existed together.

Buffy’s was by far the simplest but the hardest to convince. When the pull she had toward Walker drained away, she was practically flown into Marty’s arms. Buffy could still feel all the things she did for him, even stronger now, but she refused to acknowledge it. One: because he had a girlfriend, and two: because she was sure she had lost all chances with him. They danced around each other for months. It was exhausting for everyone to watch, and Marty’s girlfriend broke up with him when she realized what was going on. Even then they still didn’t get it. But they were like two magnets drawn together, and they were already together before they noticed what was going on. When they did, the tension grew to a boiling point, and of course Buffy had to burst. She had ranted for a while about how she felt and how she was sorry for pushing him away the first time. Marty, in his usual fashion, took it all in stride and when she was done had taken her hand and told her he didn’t care how long he had to wait, as long as she was waiting at the end of the road, he would walk it. It was very sweet, but Buffy still got embarrassed over it.  

Finally, there was Jonah. After Amber, Andi, a beautiful flower-crown of a girl named Libby, and Amber again, Jonah didn’t really feel pulled to anyone. He just wanted to be alone while he worked himself out, and Cyrus’s stepmom(who ended up as his therapist) said there was nothing wrong with that. Your pull didn’t have to be to a person, just anything that will help you along the track to who you’re supposed to be with. It wasn’t until sophomore year of high school that Jonah was pulled toward someone again. The aforementioned were all together and going strong when Walker walked back into the group’s lives. They had lost touch after middle school, but he moved and was now zoned for their school. They found out that he had dated and gotten dumped by Libby who was now going strong with the captain of the girls’ soccer team at their old school. Jonah was steadily drawn to the boy who seemed to make entire worlds come to life on canvas. Walker, Andi, and Libby all bonded over being pan and Jonah had known he was bi for a while. One day they were hanging out and Jonah was just strumming his guitar and humming when he realized that Walker was staring at him intently. He had asked what was wrong and Walker had replied that Jonah was just too pretty to not be painted and pulled out his supplies. Jonah had blushed the entire time and before he left, he asked Walker out. There were now several dozen pages of song lyrics and hundreds of sketches made by and for the couple.

So now, here they were. Amber had left for college and everyone else was know in their senior year of high school. All four couples were going strong, and even though they weren’t perfect, they were exactly what they needed. And even though Cyrus knew, he knew there were no soulmates, it was impossible to conceive futures where they weren’t together. Maybe it wasn’t the perfect math, but it sure was close.            

[courteternal-rp]

→ general details

name ; era eveningstar

age ; appears 28 || actually 75

gender & sexuality ; female, pansexual

race ; high fae

do they hold a position or title? ; Lady of the Night Court, Queen of Hewn City

loyalty ; the night court

face claim ; caitlin stasey

→ in depth

→ aesthetics

a falling star in a dark, cloudless sky. bloodied, bruised knuckles under silver and sapphire rings. biting smiles of too white teeth. black lace and fighting leathers. fingernails that tap against a black, carved throne. wind that whips and tangles the hair. a treasure trove of heirloom artifacts. charcoal smudged fingertips. never let them see you cry. knowing the darkness. eyes that shift from purple to black. flightless wings. a sharp wit and a lilting laughter. tattoos that mark the bond of family. ancient betrayals unknown to her.

→ headcanons

charcoal art ; era cannot remember when this particular habit started. she always assumed that it was by the fire one night in the illyrian camp. that would certainly be the best place for her to acquire charcoal. she would try drawing the people around her into the dirt. when her mother noticed how frequently era would do this, ciel brought home a sketch book and nice pencils and ink pens for her daughter. while era loves the sketchbook, she never much cared for the pencils or pens. she filled the books with portraits done in charcoal. it was always portraits, for era loved to study and sketch people’s faces and expressions. it was always charcoal, because she loved the contrast of the black and white and the easy smudging and shadows she could create. there is never a week that goes by where she doesn’t stain her fingers with charcoal.

attire ; while era resided under the mountain, her clothing style needed to reflect the brutal persona that she’d worked so hard to cultivate. era wears dark colors with flowing fabrics that purposefully show large portions of her skin. they are often bedecked with gemstones that sparkled like stars. era wears crowns daily. however, this isn’t her preferred attire. instead, era prefers to wear classic night court clothing. whenever left on her own, era swiftly changes into the cropped shirt and loose fitting pants that gather around the shins. she does still favor the dark colors. era has illyrian leathers reserved for flying and fighting as well, but they have not seen use in many years now.

wings ; era’s mother was always very protective of era’s wings. perhaps it was due to her own being clipped at a young age, but it left a lasting impression on the girl. era never let anyone who was not illyrian see her wings. she never let anyone at all touch her wings. her brothers knew about them and had seen them on occasion, but even they were limited sightings. era loves her wings, though. like her preferred clothing, they were relegated to times when she was alone. however, she is hoping that can change now that she is out of hewn city.

→ powers

Aside from basic magic like glamours and summoning, Era’s powers are divided into her two separate heritages.

From her Illyrian side, Era is able to summon large, black bat wings onto her back. As she is only one-fourth Illyrian, she can do the barest minimum of battle magic. A small shield and quiver full of arrows and sometimes a small weapon is the length of her abilities. She does have a cuff on her wrist with a small purple siphon that can focus and extend get abilities somewhat. A few Illyrian warriors trained her in hand to hand combat. She is very adept at this, but out of practice.

From her father’s side, Era inherited darkness manipulation, the ability to winnow short distances, and the ability to mist. Misting is her strongest power. For unknown reasons, Era is unable to access the full extent of these powers. However, the manner in which she matured into power suggests that she does possess a wealth of it. While originally she believed it somehow bound to the high lord’s stolen power and would be restored when the high lord’s power was restored, it did not happen. Era is desperate to know why.

→ personality

vivacious ; era was always a passionate girl. growing up in an illyrian camp certainly didn’t rid her of that quality. if anything, it enhanced it. there were always males about with sharp wits that did not hold their tongue simply because she was a high lord’s daughter. era matched them beat for beat. what’s more, she loved being outside running and fighting and flying at any opportunity. laughter trailed everything she did. she was so full of life. even as she aged and her time at the mountain palace increased, era found her pleasures in testing the inhabitants of her father’s court. she poked and prodded and played with words. even when she was forced into her new harsh role and survival moved to the forefront of her concern, era retained that spark of life away from those that lived in the hewn city. her brothers can still see it, but few others have for many years now.

unrelenting ; era’s passion was easily molded by both sides of her upbringing. the illyrians taught her to never pull a punch- don’t hold back because it could cost you your life on the best of days. her father taught her to never back down- to flinch for anyone showed a fear that was unacceptable in his eyes. it only became worse when her mother died. era’s rage knew no bounds. she showed no mercy even to her father. when he died, the transition into a fearsome queen was not far behind. not every action she had to take to keep the court of nightmares in line rested easy on her conscience, but era never hesitated to do what was necessary.

adaptable ; in era’s experience, if you didn’t adapt- you died. while she was constantly torn between her mother and her father, era learned to swiftly change between the lively illyrian girl who lived with dirt beneath her fingers and the dark-eyed daughter of night incarnate who glittered in precious stones and crowns. she was forced to think on her feet both in a sparring ring and in political arenas, and era did it well. she was never very strong nor did she possess much power, but her true ability laid with her ingenuity. 

deceitful ; lying, two-faced, conniving, scheming, sly, cunning, foxy- all words that apply to era. although they apply, she’s never been quite sure of the accuracy. they all implied some sort of guilt. certainly she was two-faced. how could she not be with the rearing that she endured? era thrived in both environments, but her parents did not accept either one. her entire life was spent hiding one half of herself. era always prayed that it would be easier to reconcile the two dichotomous personalities with time, but when she was thrust into the court of nightmares, she desperately needed that duplicity on her side. eventually the truth-twisting became as much a part of her as the night itself. she has learned to embrace those descriptors and not see them as a bad thing, but a strength. the ends justified her means.

disciplined ; it doesn’t take a soft soul to rise at dawn every morning to either be punched in the face with a fist, or forced into a battle of wits with a male who’d been alive for centuries. era’s desire to prove herself stemmed at a young age. she always knew that her father didn’t believe she was his, and it became a desperate desire to prove him wrong in any way possible. era would spend hours listening to him conduct his affairs, studying texts in the libraries, and pushing herself to master her magic. contrarily, her mother always loved her, and era wanted nothing more than to make the woman proud. era pushed her body to its limits to learn how to fight and channel battle magic through her siphons. she wasn’t particularly strong, but she made up for it with fast reactions and hard work. era does not know how to give up.

unpredictable ; a huge factor in era’s life is how torn she is between the two sides of herself that she can’t seem to rectify. however, it has worked in her advantage when people try to anticipate her reactions. there is no telling whether or not it will be the illyrian or the princess of night who will be making a decision at any time. even era doesn’t know what she will do until it’s been done sometimes. her unpredictable nature has made her a force to be reckoned with in the hewn city. the court never knows what will make her angry nor how she will take that anger out on any given day. that is a reputation that has followed her through all the courts.

→ biography

Lord Vesper was the High Lord of the Night Court for nearly seven hundred years. His great grandfather had been the first High Lord to separate his court into two separate peoples- The Court of Nightmares, those who were unwilling to change their blood thirsty and brutal ways remained in Hewn City; and The Court of Dreams, anyone who saw a better, brighter future for the Night Court resided in the long hidden city of Velaris. Vesper, when it became his time to rule as High Lord, did his best to keep the people separate. However, he did not think the actions of his ancestor were completely fair. While there were many practices in the Hewn City that he disagreed with, the High Lord could respect their belief in tradition. Both Courts were his people, and he wanted them to be treated equally.

Vesper had seen many years of life when he finally found his mate. She soon became the consort to his court and his wife. Unlike many who were mated, the pair had a very loving and happy marriage. After several years together, they gave birth to a son. However, Vesper’s mate did not care for the Court of Nightmares, and his attention to their needs lessened significantly for years. Tragedy then struck. Lord Vesper’s mate was found dead- murdered in the woods near a trail she was known to walk frequently. The High Lord became incensed. It was agreed amongst all who saw him in the days following the loss of his mate that he would never be the same man again.

Vesper’s temper became short and uncontrollable. He did not listen to the words of anyone. He filled the void in his life with alcohol, faceless women, and whatever vices he could commit. Years passed with this pattern, and eventually the rumor of a boy who exploded into the night’s darkness when he matured reached the ears of the High Lord- his second son, a bastard. For a time, Vesper cleaned up his act. The rage remained, but he slowly drifted back into doing his duty as High Lord. However, both of his Courts had been hurt by his years in selfish absence, and Vesper was urged by his advisor’s to make peaceful amends and find a way to secure allies. Vesper relented and agreed to marry Ciel, the daughter of a powerful High Fae lord whose ambition had brought him into a leadership capacity. 

Ciel did not have a typical upbringing. Her father had been a merchant lord who seized the favor of the people during the High Lord’s grief. Her mother was an Illyrian healer. The two met only briefly when Ciel’s father came to the Illyrian war camps to bargain with the warriors for protection. The mating bond clicked into place immediately. However, appearances were still very important to the ambitious male. He bought an estate in the mountains where everyone knew he lived part of the time with his mate. No one knew who the mate was, however. It was assumed that he hid her because he did not want to share her. They did not even know he had a daughter until she was matured. Ciel’s mother often took her to the steppes as a child so that she might learn her own ancestry and traditions. As tradition dictated, and at her parent's insistence, Ciel was forced to have her wings clipped, and her father taught her to hide them whenever in public. No one would want to wed a half-Illyrian, and her father needed her to strengthen his family line and connections.

The marriage between Vesper and Ciel was adequate at the best of times and volatile at the worst. Her true heritage remained a secret to him, but Vesper always suspected that his new wife had her secrets. She had essentially come from nowhere into the most powerful alliance of the court. A year into their marriage, Ciel became pregnant with their child. The shockingly fast pregnancy only brought about more suspicions. Vesper quietly accused his wife of having an affair, and the child she was pregnant with to be a bastard. There was no proof of this, of course, and to turn out his wife and babe on nothing more than suspicion would have both Courts riled up. It would make him look heartless, it would make him look weak. It was the opposite of the reason he was wed in the first place. Vesper kept his accusations to himself (and thrown at his wife), but it caused an even greater strain on the pair. Once Ciel gave birth, tempers flared even higher. Vesper insisted the child, with tanned skin and dark eyes, bore no resemblance to him. 

Ciel gave birth in early winter. Vesper insisted on naming the child, despite claiming quietly that the daughter was not his. He had always been a glutton for control.  Era Eveningstar was what she would be called. Era spent the first three years of her life in the palace above the Hewn City. She was given every luxury the child of a high lord was expected to have. Her brother's came to play and dote on her frequently, as did the brown nosers of both Courts. The tensions between her parents never settled. After a particularly nasty bout of accusations and insults, Vesper landed a blow on his wife that knocked her unconscious. The moment she came to, Ciel informed him that she would be taking their daughter and would no longer live in his palace. The High Lord claimed that he did not care where she took the unwanted child, but there was a glimmer of regret in his eyes, the ghost of the decent male he'd once been. He did not ask where they were going. Ciel would not have told him anyway. While Vesper went under the mountain to sulk with his indulgent courtiers, Ciel and Era traveled to the Illyrian Steppes. Ciel knew that they were perhaps the only people in the Night Court strong enough to protect them should Vesper change his mind and want his daughter. He did change his mind, and Ciel learned that no one could stop him. 

Era then spent the next twelve years of her life torn between the two and trapped in their near constant struggle for control. She stayed primarily at the war camps. Her mother taught her how to summon her wings and fly. Supposedly, she should have been able to use battle magic, but the most Era could ever manage was a small shield, small weapons, and a quiver of arrows even with her siphon. It was likely due to her only being one-fourth Illyrian. The Illyrians, of course, claimed it was because she was a female. However, there were a few warriors who would deign to spar and train the daughter of the High Lord. Era struggled, but did not give up. She was not as strong or powerful as the other Illyrians, but she was clever and pushed herself. Before long, she was as skilled with a blade or with her fists as any, even more than most females in the camp.  During the night, Ciel focused on Era’s education and lessons in manners and subterfuge. Era loved these lessons and quickly took to the game of pretend.

Ciel, desperate to protect her daughter from Vesper’s wrath, impressed upon her the importance of keeping her wings a secret, and she swore that so long as Era's wings remained hidden, she would never clip them as her father and mother had done to her. The only way Era could be protected was to protect that secret at all costs. The secrecy became even more important when the High Lord of the Night Court decided he wanted to have Era for more time. He wanted their custody split in half. Ciel could obviously not refuse.

Era only left when her father sent one of her brothers to collect her, as they were the only ones Ciel allowed to know were Era resided, and they had been sworn to keep the location hidden, even from their father. Although both were well aware of what would happen to their sister should Vesper ever find out. Era did not believe they would have betrayed her trust even if they weren’t sworn not to. 

The older she became, the more her father inexplicably wanted to spend time with her. During their time together, he bid her to follow him around like a pet. Her pretty face was meant to be seen and not heard while in public. Vesper was happy to let all admire the beautiful girl. They believed her to be his, even if he did not. Era used this time as an opportunity to observe much of her father’s business and the people he conducted himself with. Some were far more frightening, and ancient, than others. Era wondered if she might ever be trusted to do this work. Her hopes were highest when the High Lord would take the time to explain why he made some decisions. At night, he would teach her lessons in politics and would pose puzzles to her. She enjoyed these lessons too.

Era could not help but feel torn between the two parents, even though she would have to be atrociously naive not to see that her father still did not believe her to be his child. He only brought her to his palace in order to torture her mother, although occasionally he would comment on her eyes being violet in certain light as if a realization dawned on him, but it was often shaken away. Era craved his approval and love all the same. The girl would do whatever possible to please both of her parents. It often meant tearing herself in half to do so. While her parents’ relationship was horrible, Era could always rely on her half-brothers instead. More than her time with either mother or father, Era most looked forward to when her half-brothers would come to spend time with her. Even as a toddler, she begged for them both to come more frequently and stay longer. They were the greatest sense of stability in her life. They were the only ones she felt whole with, and Era trusted them both entirely.

Things changed when Era neared maturity. Like both of her brothers before her, Era set the mountain trembling as the dark, billowing power of night burst from her and engulfed the space near her. Anyone around was blinded by the wave of darkness, and just as quickly it had vanished. Yet, the rumors spread swiftly through the Night Court. Vesper sent for her immediately. There was finally proof that Era was indeed his daughter, or at least he thought there had been. When brought before her father, she could not provide proof of the powers that had been witnessed. It was as if something inexplicably blocked it from her access. The High Lord believed it all to be a trick by Era’s mother, especially as the burst of powers had revealed where Ciel had been living with Era for all of these years. He was furious about the deception, and his rampant paranoia pushed him to believe Era the bastard of an Illyrian. She did have the angular features and tan skin of their people, but Vesper still could not prove it. Era was devastated to be so close to fixing the perception that her father had of her and failing completely. How could so much power appear and vanish in the same moment? It was supposed to be instinctual. Her brothers had promised her it would be, but it felt like a curse. Vesper would not listen to any reasoning on the matter. 

Instead, Vesper's temper got the better of him yet again. Era became frightened of what he might do to her as they stood alone in the palace. Her mother had told her how cruel he could be. A part of her had never wanted to believe it, but as he raised his hand to her, dark power threatening around him, Era realized that he could hurt her. She spread her wings wide and swiftly launched herself back. In a moment of fear, she broke the one rule that had been the most important in her life. Era was immediately taken and confined to her rooms at the palace. No one was to let her out under any circumstances, even her brothers. Vesper would do whatever necessary to confirm her a bastard now with this newfound ‘proof’ despite Era’s attempts to explain the truth about her mother. This confinement lasted for three months. Era was only let out to eat. Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to find a way out, but it was fruitless. She grew very restless and anxious during this period. 

By the time she’d learned the fate of her mother, it was too late. Vesper, as High Lord, commanded the Illyrians cast out his wife and ensured that no one would dare take her in for care. The female had already fallen gravely ill and passed away with not a soul to help her. No one even knew where the body lay. Era's father knew too late that Ciel had been Illyrian and thus could still not prove without a doubt that Era did not belong to him. It was the first time that Era truly hated her own father, but it would not be the last. Era had trained every single day while contained. It took some time, help, and patience, but eventually she mastered minor acts of darkness manipulation. She had the proof that she needed, even if it had been too late to do anything about it. It was not the only darkness that overtook her.

For the next few years, Era was sequestered to the Hewn City. She did not know if it was a punishment for her bearing Illyrian wings or because her father could no longer look at her due to his own guilt. It was utter torment to be trapped under a mountain where she could not fly or fight or feel the moonlight kiss her skin. The cruel people beneath the mountain had sided with her father. His brutality had finally earned back their respect. As Era was mocked, shoved around, struck, and humiliated daily, she adapted. The girl who had once been so vivacious and full of laughter altered herself. She embraced the darkness and became what the Court of Nightmares desired. She learned how to play the game, and she played it well. The Hewn City soon learned to fear her, full powered or no. They would regret their torture. 

Era only decided to show her father the truth of her darkness when he was on his deathbed. It was her deep desire for him to know his every mistake as he died. The shock itself may have killed him. He managed to speak with each of his children privately, but quickly. They all knew that he did not have a lot of time left. To Era, he apologized- both for what he had done in the past and what was to come for her. He’d set in place actions which he could not undo, nor would he if capable. When the bastard of a man died, Era’s eldest half-brother became the new High Lord. They all watched as the power shifted into him. Finally, the Night Court would have the High Lord that they deserved. What Era had not expected was to be named the Queen of Hewn City. Her father had placed her in charge of the Court of Nightmares, as someone had to enforce the terrible people that resided there. 

Era begged for her brother to release her from this duty, but he would not- could not. She couldn’t understand why. Although he promised there was a reason, Era would never be able to understand how her brothers could leave her under the mountain to live with her voided self. They visited as often as they could and neither withheld punishment from those who still attempted to bring Era to ruin. Years passed as she reigned this portion of their court relentlessly. There was no room for weakness or slip ups in her Court. Era would never bend to their will again. She was forced to become vicious, mysterious, seductive, and terrifying. She molded herself into the monster she needed to be. Even the General of Hybern learned to fear and admire her work. A part of her learned to love that control.

The news of the Book being stolen moved swiftly through the Night Court. Both of her brothers winnowed in to her as soon as they heard. While the High Lord had to go and do everything to stop the mortal from escaping with such a powerful artefact, Era and her other brother were left to defend The Court of Nightmares and The Court of Dreams respectively. The Children of Night- a triad that would protect all their people. 

The Wall coming down could be felt through all of Prythian, even into the Northern borders of the Night Court. Yet, Era was more disturbed by the unmistakable knowledge that something horrible had happened to her High Lord, to her brother. When he was brought home with bound powers, Era knew that nothing would be the same again. The truth came to light. Vesper had not trusted the general, as he remembered Hybern from the war and knew a man like that could never change. Yet he could not deny them access to his Court without risking weakness, but he only needed to show them one Court. The Court of Nightmares. A Court that he’d charged Era with for specific reasons. Primary of which being that he believed she was the one capable of rising to what was necessary, but also because Vesper never thought his daughter would crumble to the pressures of it as her brother’s might. He’d unintentionally been training her for the position for years with his own actions, and even in his dying wishes, even when he’d accepted that she was indeed his daughter, Vesper placed his own desires and needs above Era’s welfare.

But now she was free if she so chose to be. 

But who would she be without two sides at war for her and in her? Which side of Era held the most truth of her character? Even she did not know. The Children of Night agreed to attend the summit that was to be held beneath the Sacred Mountain in the Middle of Prythian together. Era held little desire to go back beneath a mountain, but they all knew each other's strengths and weaknesses. War was on the horizon. They had to protect one another, and Era's skill set and reputation would be invaluable in the times to come.

[sidpah]

Cold War Souls

Blessedly alive, outside in the bright morning haze, a large field stretches green and full before me. Megaphone in hand, from a tall nail and glue stage, white flag waving behind, a voice peals out from my throat to a mass of half-clothed natives. I am paying my recompense…

“All these Cold War Souls, you, you, you! Selling yourselves for an empty political promise and a slice of stale bread! – The body is a market, the world an industrial stripmall – Poor panicked souls clinging to ghosts of pleasure, long extinct. Driven to scavenge, suckling rain pipes, forgetting every lake they pass, they dry up, crumble, sell themselves for air…” I am so inspired by Jerry Greenestreet’s vibrancy I co-opt his whole patina…

“Oh, but to be sovereign. To be steadfast. To be dreaming of daybreak… To be willing to walk through the desert all alone, all open and pliable and fragile. This heavy armor crumbling into sand; will for survival forsaken in peace. To enter the tunnel and not think about the mountain or ocean that’s swallowing you whole… Saints and Patriarchs cling, cling, cling to tradition, while Saviors and Soldiers burn for their collective faith. (But who trusts a man with a Russian automatic beaded on your eyebrow? Who trusts a man cutting a D for Damnation into your chest with his short scepter?) Their pockets are overflowing but their arms are too short to reach their own spoils… Sages and Heretics stand fast behind one opinion, but a Martyr knows that only one is all it ever ever ever takes. Where the Piper plays, neither wonder nor mystery find nutrients to grow – Steel and granite anthems – Plowing eighteen miles an hour over cemetery fences – straight through mosque walls and footbaths, tiled fountains and the kneeling faithful – Surrounded by three hundred and sixty degrees of rocket-proof alloy the fires of Hell don’t seem so hot! Lies justified by injections of fluoride and testosterone – Drink up plenty Pride! Eat much Loyalty to make muscle strong! You’ve heard them on the streets, you’ve heard them on the radio waves, you’ve heard them in your fitful dreams! ‘What’s right is right, what’s left is mine, what’s black is burnt; I’ll hear no goddamned debates!’ Pilgrims chant, repeating the names of their god on ninety-nine clay beads, polished by friction of finger pads, friction of mind on mind, burning itself out until it relinquishes control and reveals the nature of their unified god – Everyone’s unified god – Tanks rain the melody of chaos, screeches of twisting steel and crumbling mortar – Singing along staves of fetid retribution: ‘Any line they lay out, you’ll suck it down whole’ those voices tell us without saying a goddamn word... They’re selling you nine pounds of ether bronzed with fool’s gold, and eleven soldiers waving a flag at half-mast to distract all the cameras as the carnage slips past – And the rockets slip past and caskets slips past and the gospel slips past and more Cold War Souls slip into the reinforced bear hug to slumber away that long winter with red skies and brown grass and a black halo dispersing above mountain peaks –”

“So let’s lean upon the leaders and judges! Let their rhetoric and lies be the wind for our sails! Let it push us to find ourselves a New Land far away from their covert wiretaps and black sites torturing children in the cursed name of liberty! We’ll draw upon our weakest moments and display them sans the obligatory shame… Sometimes it feels a disgrace just living off water and fruit… We’ll laugh, comparing scars, tracing the light outlines on each other’s limbs and forget how they’d ever come to be. We’re all the squeamish products of billions of manipulating fingers molding us in their own morbid self-image… So fuck being lazy! And I say fuck playing sane to continue the contrived cellophane ugliness of our suburbanite ideals…. Let’s listen for each cell in our skin to join together a roar like city streets revolting and turbines taking flight just to know there is life within us! And let’s realize as one that between feeling and craving exists the root of all our pain, and let’s cut it away like wheat from chaff!”  

I’m not convinced they can understand a word I say, but I continue, too driven to wrap up my prelection…

“Why else do we bother to pretend someone’s listening? That they’re motivated and planning a movement we’re all awaiting, though secretly a little terrified it might actually come to fruition? – (change is too unpredictable to be comfortable) – Why pretend that divine inspiration is a communicable disease? And that epic shifts really happen by tiny imperceptible degrees?...”

I notice then, a man very much out of place. He wears a white short-sleeved button down linen/cotton blend it looks like from here, and cargo shorts, green like he’s on a Polynesian vacation. As I talk he seems to be looking uneasily around and he’s starting to give me the fantods because I realize that on more than one occasion it’s appeared that he’s been speaking covertly into a watch which means he’s either undercover or deranged and I’m not looking for competition on either front, so I decide to pack it up for real…

“We’ll recount our greatest defeats, caving in to Easy. When we daydream the long amatory lists of If Onlys and Someday I Wills, when they’ve all turned stale in our midlife sobriety and seen as feeble pipedreams that’ve smoldered down leaving us filled with cancer and emphysema, oxygen tanks slung across our bony shoulders… Let’s run far, far from all the men of promises and power stations, greedy congressmen and their football-headed gold-plated champagne sons, cold rubber sheets on the oily beds of prostitutes and the locust hands of the suffering wretched destitute. Let’s sit here and wait for humanity to slow itself down so we can reconvene with the world, or if she likes, let her wither fondly, adored by handful of children present at her bedside. Her last words reminding us there’s no purpose to life except learning the best way to go about dying…”

My message is garbled. I forget my original point. Why I am up here trying to incite a riot? It was all related to something…

“I give up! I see! I drip stagnancy and chemical noise! – I lack an inherent meaning,” I yell to the congregation. So why can’t I stop looking for assurances in the places where I should be cultivating uncertainty spontaneous and rippled with delight? I don’t expect a miracle will happen. I don’t expect to survive this ordeal… Still, I can’t say I’d mind a sign from some wise old dimensional porta-god… maybe one telling me this plight’s not just a big mistake… Giving me assurance that there’s no road to a distant blistering hell… Gentle reminders that there is a path up to a place where a mountain can still sit still and silent as a still and silent mountain – not erupting spark laughter, not carved out for rumble of tourist picnics and suicidal presence-junkies leaping from jagged cliff-nose… And that an unconcerned breath watched is still just a breath witnessed by the Universe – Inhale the sparks of divinity and exhale the bones that are left!...

“Let’s plant our fields and wait for the Sun to get tired or burn herself out like an enraged toddler crying herself to sleep. No more of our incessant struggle to unearth an ultimate, cerebral meaning to existence when there never was one back when we emerged from her crescent womb… What could we find to pacify our trembling minds except that it’s okay to lie down and collapse into Unity?… And that there is a greater peace in surrender than in revolution…”

A gunshot offstage… a hole above my ear… crowd noise drifting into the ocean… …there is no Moon at the bottom of the sea… she never thought to throw herself into the water… …thick green leaves protruding from the side of my head… drops of animal blood across my cheek… chanting, repetitious vowels in asymmetrical phrases… a low moaning chorus of throats all directed from the same worried mind… A pale distant song… gorgeous in its simplicity, yet I can’t follow more than a note without forgetting what came before… this way I can’t tell whether it’s a melody I’m hearing or a long droning hum… Kalday, Kalday… Just let me sleep here… just let me sleep…

[piermanwalter]

Star Wars Army Swap AU Part III: Biotech Grievous

In a galaxy where the Confederacy of Independent Systems went super into biotech instead of mass industrialisation, and the Jedi’s secret deal with the Kaminoans fell through so they had to create a different army, the Republic soldiers are droids and the Separatist soldiers are clones.

Tune in next time for the GRAND DROID ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC!

Backstory

After the Kaleesh, avian-reptilian inhabitants of the planet Kalee, were ravaged by the insectoid Yam’rii of the planet Huk, the Yam’rii appealed to the Republic for help to continue the war effort. Jedi-led Republic troops joined the Yam’rii. After almost all population centers of Kalee were destroyed, the Republic refused to send help to rebuild. Grievous, a Kaleesh warlord, was forced to take out an enormous loan from the InterGalactic Banking Clan that he could repay in no other way than working for them for the rest of his life. Dooku intentionally sabotaged Grievous’s shuttle, permanently damaging his mind and body to later be shaped into the ultimate military commander for the Separatist Clone Army, and to ensure he would never escape the influence of the Sith. 

As Grievous was being rebuilt, the IGBC Chairman San Hill proudly presented Dooku with plans to use Grievous to gain as much wealth for the newly made Confederacy of Independent Systems, some of which ran against Sidious’s other plans. After choke-slamming San Hill into a wall for being so presumptuous, Dooku gave what was left of Grievous’s body to the Techno Union to reconstruct instead, but still being funded by the Banking Clan. The Techno Union broke budget limit records and poured billions of credits into a single being out of spite. Dooku intentionally did this to create the best living weapon possible, and to use company ownership to leverage the Banking Clan to do whatever he wants, until the Techno Union regrew Grievous’s damaged brain against Dooku’s permission. Suddenly remembering his old life and becoming fully self-aware, Grievous fell into deep depression upon realising he turned into a giant insect just like the ones that slaughtered his people. After Force-Pushing Wat Tambor off a balcony for causing this disaster, Dooku gave Grievous to the Trade Federation. And then the Trade Federation discovered how to clone force-repelling ysalamiri, escaping Sith control almost completely. Because of this, there are four Separatist special interest groups fighting amongst themselves for custody over their mutual creation.

How does General Grievous feel? It is common knowledge that Grievous hates his position and wants to become a free agent. Despite this, his corporate overlords feel safe with their influence over him, because he lacks motivation beyond killing Jedi and is often so depressed he can barely move.

Biology and Engineering

The Techno Union influence is obvious in his streamlined and organic design. Derived from the Skakoan ironclad beetle, an incredibly sturdy creature that is able to withstand crushing pressure, yet is still light enough to fly in standard atmospheres, his exoskeleton is not as powerful as the purely mechanical design suggested by the Banking Clan, but it is much faster and more efficient. Grievous does not need to need to be recharged and he can eat and recover from injuries quickly. If he drinks enough metal salts, ferroin, and other compounds like those, he can heal from exoskeleton injuries even stronger than before. Even the few mechanical components can be repaired with nanomachines. The mottled white carapace plates are not technically part of him, and can be torn and broken off without hurting the rest of his body. They are technically living beings by themselves and when replaced, must be grown around him. He is strong enough to resist outer space, but doing so is highly unadvised since his almost entirely organic body requires enormous amounts of oxygen to function, to the point where two emergency tanks of liquid oxygen are installed inside him before missions to low-oxygen environments.  

Grievous has two circulatory systems because his own heart is too weak to oxygenate his entire augmented body. He has one circulatory system pumping hemoglobin-red blood for his remaining tissue and a second circulatory system pumping hemocyanin-green hemolymph to his insect-derived exoskeleton. Grievous owes his incredible speed and reaction time to his hemolymph-powered hydraulic muscles, like a jumping spider. 

His own lungs were brought to optimum health, yet they are still not efficient enough to power his entire body in conditions of extreme stress and activity. When the carbon dioxide levels in his blood become too high, his mechanical air filter kicks in. He cannot use the air filter all the time since it runs on electricity, so it recharges when he breathes normally and is only used in extreme situations. He can magnetise the metal plates around his waist to store lightsabers. It is not strong enough for him to stick to walls, but he doesn’t need it, since he can easily climb around with the exoskeleton’s limbs. Aside from the communicators located in his head, those are his only mechanical components.

After the Techno Union regrew his brain, he was able to feel stress normally again, and was caught in a state in where he was struggling to breathe with his own lungs, but his CO2 levels were too low to trigger the air filter. Techno Union agents had to break into a Trade Federation core ship to tell him how to live with his body, and perform emergency surgery to lower the trigger threshold of the air filter. 

Toxins in his blood are filtered out and incorporated into his continuously growing wings. His doctors can identify his health from what colors and patterns that appear as his wings grow, like a ever-printing diagnosis report. The wings serve no other purpose and are too flimsy and weak to do anything except from billow dramatically without wind. Grievous rips them off before serious battles and it is possible to tell how long he has gone without fighting by how long his wings are.

When cut off from all CIS communications for too long, his body automatically enters Panic Mode, producing enzymes that make his metabolism more efficient, making him slower and slower, devoting all energy to generating electricity to send out distress signals, until he eventually turns into a cocoon. This is meant as a safety measure in case he is ever stranded or captured, preventing him from starving to death or revealing any information. This also unintentionally forces him to answer his holomessages on a regular basis instead of ignoring everyone and choosing to remain miserable and alone. But many other things, such as being in a shielded facility, breaking his receiving antennae, or everybody blocking his comm number for too long will cause him to enter Panic Mode too.

Combat Effectiveness

Not strong enough to duel fairly, Grievous relies on overwhelming speed and unpredictability to successfully fight against Jedi. Using his ranged weapon skills from his previous life as a Kaleesh kolkpravis soldier, he fires both slugthrowers and blasters from a distance, preferably while hidden, in order to cause as much injury and confusion as possible before charging into close lightsaber combat from the opposite direction that he fired from. 

Dueling against Jedi, Grievous must stay on the offensive at all times, switching between lightsaber Forms, jumping back to open fire, and directly slashing with his arms. His organic body, while fast, is easy to influence using the Force, so whenever he feels outclassed, he immediately retreats, finds a good vantage point, then fires another barrage, starting the vicious cycle again. Grievous earns his title as the Clone Army’s greatest Jedi hunter, carefully stalking a dangerous prey that could easily destroy him, yet always coming out alive, if not always victorious.

Any disadvantages he has against Jedi are compensated for in his brutal effectiveness against Republic droid troopers. Because fluid pressure travels instantaneously, he is capable of moving even faster than an electromagnetic servomotor. He does not require his mechanical components to live, so a common tactic for him is to charge straight into a droid formation, take a deep breath to calm down and deactivate his air filter, then set off an entire bandolier of EMP grenades. In most situations, Grievous needs no fancy strategies when dealing with droid troopers, effortlessly dismantling them with his lightsabers, ripping the damaged survivors apart with his feet, and taking random potshots for fun.

All of this makes him sound like an unstoppable war monster, which would be true if it wasn’t so hard to motivate him to do anything. Grievous is overly protective of his troops since many of them serve as officially mandated depression therapy, and especially after he found out that all of the B1′s are female. To get him to do something he doesn’t want to do, one must either threaten him or convince him. 

Role in the Separatist Clone Army

There was some slight miscommunication when Grievous was ported from a mechanical system to a biological system halfway during construction. The Techno Union created a low-maintenance highly-autonomous self-healing exoskeleton more suited to long campaigns and guerrilla warfare instead of actual lightsaber combat. Count Dooku was very disappointed when his multi-billion-credit weapon was unable to kill Jedi as efficiently as he had expected. After throwing Wat Tambor off a few more balconies for good measure, Dooku later changed his mind when he heard of regular clone troops performing remarkably well against Jedi. Commando Tup infiltrated Republic battle lines and shot two Jedi in one day. General Kraken punched Anakin Skywalker so hard he couldn’t stand. His range of skills combined with the competence of his elite troops allows Grievous to be an actual general instead of a single-purpose anti-Jedi weapon. 

As the leader of the Clone Army, many Separatists look up to Grievous as the ultimate symbol of the Confederacy, as an Outer Rim Non-Human who was destroyed by the injustice of the Republic and the treachery of the Jedi, then repaired using technological innovation. The higher level Separatists, on the other hand, tend to see him as either a valuable potential asset or a poorly controlled puppet, so Grievous often engages in uncivil obedience. After the Banking Clan felt worried that one of their greatest assets was interacting with other companies more than themselves, San Hill expressly banned him from relying on the products of other corporations. Although San Hill meant products such as weapons, vehicles, and medical equipment, for the next day, Grievous did not interact with his second-in-command Supertac Tey-Zuka, a Techno Union product, his field officer “Himiko” OOM-135, a Trade Federation product, or his intelligence team leader Commander Faie, a Kamino product. Likewise, when Count Dooku felt that Grievous was becoming obsessed with his Jedi lightsaber collection, he forced him to get rid of them. Grievous distributed the lightsabers among his own troops, which caused a wave of chaos and dismemberment they have yet to recover from.

There are beliefs that a sad disobedient creature of unidentifiable species is unfit to be the symbol of the Confederacy, but it is of almost unanimous agreement that at least he isn’t the rage-fuelled lung-puking trash-droid that was his original design.

From the Republic’s Perspective

In the beginning of the Droid Wars, very little was known about the ghostlike figure who stalked the battlefield, killing as quickly as it disappeared. Later, the CIS propaganda campaign made sure the entire galaxy knew the name of Grievous and exactly what the Republic did to him, his planet, and his people. The Confederacy’s promise to liberate any planet from debt and war like they did with Kalee if they renounced the Republic is a huge breaker of morale. Grievous is noteworthy among Republic diplomats by being willing to negotiate with violent military leaders, but attempting to kill Jedi, bringers of peace, on sight.

Although psychological warfare has limited effectiveness against machines, there are horror stories told by the Republic droid troopers about the severed limbs of Grievous landing in the dirt and growing into terrifying trees with branches of arms, and a Jedi who fought him and survived, but a bit of his carapace got stuck under her skin, embedded itself into her skeleton, and devoured her from the inside. How terrifying must a being be in order to strike fear into machines?

Tune in next time for the GRAND DROID ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC!

[livingcorner]

5 Ways to Clear a Garden Full of Weeds

Has your garden been overrun by weeds? Weeds are every gardener’s pet peeve as they take away from the lawn’s beauty and use up much-needed water and nutrients in the soil.

You're reading: 5 Ways to Clear a Garden Full of Weeds

In trying to clear a garden full of weeds, it is easy to do more harm than good, so it is important to go about it carefully. Read on, we’ll show you how to get rid of those pesky weeds.

Tools

These are the tools and supplies you will need to clear a large swath of weeds in your garden:

Assorted weeding tools

Weed burner

Organic and inorganic mulch

Herbicide that is labelled safe for edible plants

How to Clear a Garden Full of Weeds

Sometimes, depending on the type of weeds you are dealing with, you might have to try various methods before you can completely eliminate the weed. Try any of these methods of getting rid of weeds in your garden and see which one works best.

1. Block out the light

Plants need sunlight to grow. If yours is a large garden and manually uprooting the weeds is not feasible, your next best option is to starve the weeds of sunlight so they can die a natural death.

Mulching keeps the soil moist and cool but blocks out sunlight, which effectively prevents weeds from growing. You can use organic mulch to suppress the growth of weeds but this type of cover can let in some rays of light and allow weeds to continue growing.

If weeds have overrun a large portion of the garden, consider using plastic mulching. This is a black polyethene film that you can spread on your garden and effectively kill the weeds underneath.

If you do not want to see polythene every time you look at your garden, you could cover the plastic film with organic mulch. Just be sure to keep an eye on the mulch to pull out any weeds that may grow on the organic mulch and sink their roots into the biodegradable film underneath.

Inorganic mulching minimizes the need for cultivation and even better is that it protects the soil from erosion and moisture loss.

Cultivation unnecessarily disturbs the soil, expose weed seeds and roots to sunlight, and encourage weed growth. By covering the soil, you can clear weeds without damaging the soil.

2. Pull them out

The Salutation Gardens

Another option is to manually pull out the weeds. If you do go this way, you want to be very careful about how you do it.

It might be tempting to just reach out and tug out the weed but this does not do much to solve a bad weed situation. When you pull out weeds this way, you only end up breaking the plant and leaving the roots in the ground to germinate again.

Read more: What to Grow in a Kitchen Garden

A more effective option is to grab the plant at the lower end of the stalk then gently pull it to release the entire plant from the soil.

If you are dealing with weeds whose roots are firmly dug into the ground, pulling them out using your bare hands might be too cumbersome. In this case, consider only cutting the head of the weed so the plant will not receive the sunshine it needs to continue growing.

3. Use weeding tools

The Salutation Gardens

Weeding tools, even though manual, make the work a bit easier than pulling out unwanted plants. The secret is to pick tools that are comfortable to work with and that get more work done in the shortest time. The best ones have a strong steel head and firm handle that fits well in your hand.

The long-handled hoe is a good tool to start with. There are many styles of hoes to suit the various preferences of gardeners. While some prefer the flat hoe, a hoe with a sharp, diamond-shaped blade can be particularly handy for digging in and chucking deep-rooted weeds.

Whether you prefer to stand or kneel when weeding, be sure to choose the right tools for your needs. For example, if you are dealing with weeds with deep roots, you might need a tool that can grip the deep roots and pull them out. An angled hoe, on the other hand, will come in handy when you do not want to harm the plants adjacent to the weeds.

4. Use a weed torch

The Salutation Gardens

A weed torch is a perfect choice for clearing weeds in a large garden without the use of herbicides. This tool comes with a small propane gas tank that fuels a hot flame used to burn weeds.

When you direct the torch over the growing part of the weed, the plant becomes dehydrated and eventually dies off. A weed torch works best on green weeds. Torching brown and dry weeds increases the risk of a fire. It is also important to get an okay from the local authorities before using a weed torch as these are regulated in some communities.

Other than the flame-based weed burner, you can also use a weed steamer, which works like the weed torch only that it uses hot steam to kill weeds. Use the tool to direct pressurized steam into a bed of weeds. This will shrivel the leaves, prevent photosynthesis, and thereby kill the plants.

5. Apply herbicides

The Salutation Gardens

If all else fails, consider using herbicides to get rid of large swathes of weed. The advantage of herbicides is that they can kill weeds fast and save you the time and effort of manually removing unwanted plants.

However, you should keep in mind that chemical weed killers can disrupt the eco-system in your garden. There is a risk of stunted plant growth, contamination of edible foods, and indiscriminate killing of beneficial flora and fauna.

Before using herbicides to kill weeds, it is best to weigh the pros against the cons. Many weeds are resistant to herbicides but chemical weed killers might be a good option if you want to clear your garden for purposes other than gardening, for example, if you want to construct a structure there.

Extended Tips

When they overrun a garden, weeds can be quite difficult to get rid of.  If you plan to continue cultivating after clearing your garden, you should take steps to prevent a weed overgrowth from happening again. Here are a few recommendations:

6. Develop a formal weed control strategy:

It is possible to keep your garden weed-free and this starts with having a serious weed control strategy. Every gardener will have a unique strategy depending on the realities in their garden. That being said, there are a couple of things to consider when planning your strategy. These include:

Read more: Terrace Garden Design: Information On Building A Terrace Garden

The life cycle of the weeds so you can know the right time to apply pre-emergent

The beneficial plants in your garden

The type of weeds you want to control

Availability of safe herbicides to use that will not destroy your beneficial plants

7. Minimize tilling

The Salutation Gardens

Tilling exposes the soil to oxygen and distributes nutrients. However, tilling also brings up weed seeds to the surface and exposes them to sunlight, allowing weeds to grow fast and take over you garden within a short time.

A better alternative to regular tilling is setting up a no-till garden, which requires you to till only once when you start the garden.

Once you loosen up the soil, cover with about five inches of organic mulch to preserve moisture and prevent weeds from growing by blocking out sunlight. When you want to plant seeds in a particular spot, simply push aside the mulching there.

8. Weed regularly

If possible, try to pull out weeds in your garden at least twice a week. The small, new weeds will be easier to manually pull out. It is best to weed after watering your garden when the soil is moist and the weeds are easier to pull.

Apply pre-emergent

Applying herbicide can keep new weed seeds from sprouting. In particular, consider applying pre-emergent, a type of herbicide that when mixed with water creates a barrier on the surface and effectively prevents weed growth. Generally, water should be applied within twenty-one days of applying to activate the herbicide. As always, consider both the benefits and downsides of using chemical weed killers in your garden.

Wind, birds and wildlife also play a big role in transporting weed seeds from one area to another, which can contribute to weeds growing back even after clearing them. The secret to keeping your garden weed-free is to adjust your weed management strategy with the season and the needs of the garden.

Summary

There is no single method to clear a garden full of weeds. Weeds have varying lifecycles and are so unpredictable that one type can survive heat while another other one dies just by cutting the head of the plant. Try one or more of the methods we have recommended above and see which one is the most effective for getting rid of unwanted plantation in your garden.

Have you tried to clear a garden that has been taken over by weeds? How did that go? Leave your questions and comments below—we love hearing from you!

Source: https://livingcorner.com.au Category: Garden

source https://livingcorner.com.au/5-ways-to-clear-a-garden-full-of-weeds/

[calling-gull]

The Gull’s Call - Ch 1 - The Storm

The Gull’s Call sliced through the growing waves with her usual ease, her captain and crew going about their work with a good will. The sun was bright in the sapphire sky, the wind filling the trading ship’s sails without ceasing for the first days of the voyage. Rarely had this crew seen this kind of perfect sailing weather. The winds over the ocean, and that body herself, were unpredictable, sometimes requiring extreme feats of adaptability to survive. The captain became increasingly unnerved at this odd show of good favor from the elements, leaving him on edge, wondering when the tides would turn against the ship, and how severe it would be.

Three days after the beginning of the trip, Captain Daniel Conaroy woke up feeling as if a storm were building toward them. He went about his work that day, plotting the next few days’ worth of sailing, but even the crew was affected by this feeling of expectation and anxiety. About mid-day, the feeling intensified, along with a low-frequency sound - more  vibration than audible sound - that also only grew worse, more intense, as the hours passed.

Suddenly, the sound simply stopped. This silence lasted for five minutes or so, and then - it was hard to explain what happened next with any clarity. A great, ear-rending cracking sound was heard. The sound was so great that it was felt deep in the bones. A sound that seemed to fill the entire world. Soon after, the world simply exploded. Flames, and a bone-shaking roaring sound, as if the earth itself were screaming in pain and rage. Clouds grew as the crew of the Gull stood watching disaster heading ever closer.

“The hell are you waiting for, ya bastards? Ya know what’s coming, an’ you know what ta do! Get to it!” The Captain’s voice cut through the amazed stillness of the crew like a whip, and the Gull’s crew leaped to their work.

Cargo was tied down as tight as could be, hatches were closed and blocked to keep as much water out of the cabins and hold as possible, and the bailing crew prepared their equipment. From the look of the weather, things were going to get very bad, very soon. It didn’t take long for  the ocean to turn into a churning, writhing thing. The weather inevitably followed.

It would be impossible for the Captain, in later years, to accurately describe those next few hours. The few hours that destroyed his entire world, and separated him from the things, and land-bound people that he loved the best. It was chaos. Lightning, thunder, an unearthly, terrifying roaring that shook the world. An enormous shape in the sky coating the world in fire from above. The ocean, herself, was like some insane combination of the twisting, turning of a carousel, with the violent up and down of a rollercoaster.

Somehow, however, the Captain and six of his crew survived. The ship was utterly destroyed, too much of the wood simply splintered to attempt to rebuild. A few barrels of supplies, and some useless bits and bobs survived to wash ashore with them, but the outlook was more bleak than anything this crew had suffered through before.

A shelter was cobbled together from longer planks along with saplings cut down from the surrounding jungle. Wide, thick leaves, though they dulled the sailors’ knives, were wrenched off of plants and trees to lash together, creating rude walls and a roof. It wasn’t too sturdy, and both the roof and walls leaked, but still, it allowed the men to warm up, and dry out a bit. It gave them somewhere out of the storms to rest.

During the next few weeks, two of his crew simply seemed to give up, dying from injuries they’d suffered, and the extreme depression of being stuck, seemingly forever, away from their families. The rest moved on with grim determination. They knew what the Captain had lost by being stranded here. They chose not to dwell on that, nor on what they had been robbed of in their own lives. They decided to live on. Living meant going about the work of surviving with the hope, however bare that hope was, of returning someday to the world and lives they’d lost.

Over the next few months, the Gull’s crew built up real homes. They lashed together the thicker sapling trunks to create two walls, an inner, and an outer. Between these wall sets, they filled, and tamped down sand and soil, creating rather solid walls that could last through a storm surprisingly well. Those same leaves lined the inside of the wall cavity, both front and back, to keep the sand and soil inside those walls, posts sunk deep into the ground to anchor them. Water was located by the crew’s witch, and a well dug, being surrounded by bricks molded, and dried in the sun to a nice hardness.

Within a year, they’d lost hope of rebuilding the Gull’s Call, and finding home once more, and simply tried to live. Sometimes, the Captain didn’t even think about her. Sometimes, he went  whole day without looking at the picture he kept in his compass. The image was snapped in a moment of utter freedom and joy. Her hair blew in the breeze off the cliff, the bright blue sky, and hint of the sea beyond framing her perfectly. She’d turned to look at him over her shoulder, in the middle of a joyful laugh. It was the perfect picture. He couldn’t help thinking, however, that soon she’d have to give up on his return, and move on with her life. He hated the thought of it, of another man putting hands on her, but he knew that there was nowhere better than another’s arms to soothe the anguish of loss.

That didn’t mean that he liked it.

One day, a year and a half after the wreck, he looked around with a bit of satisfaction. They’d built ‘cabins’, a mess hall with a rude kitchen, toilets away from their water, and a ‘barn’ in which to cold-smoke fish and those odd flying reptiles that peopled the island, to preserve them. They had everything they needed… except for other people.

“Cap’n. Cap’n!” Daniel’s first mate, and engineer, came running up to him waving a pale green sheet of something held high in his hand. “Cap’n, I got it to work! I got the paper to work!”  The man shoved the still slightly damp sheet into his captain’s hands, and waited, breathless, as Daniel examined it. Finally, the Captain handed the sheet back to him with a wide grin under his bristly beard.

“Boy, I think you’ve got it. Lets hope, when it dries, it takes ink or pencil well.” Captain Conaroy clapped the man on the shoulder, and pushed him toward the mess with a grin. “Time ta’ celebrate with a drink!” He called the other three crew to celebrate with them. The wine they drank wasn’t all that strong, but it gave them a warm buzz. It wasn’t much of a celebration in civilized places, but it worked for these folk.

He didn’t know why, there was no way to send messages, but the ‘invention’ of this paper raised the spirits of Gull’s crew immeasurably. It was hope, somehow, that things could get better.

[velerodra-valesinger]

Long Division

Vel’s body was still weak, and recovering slowly.   It was the type of recovery that took time.  Even more time due to the energy she’d been expending to maintain her bond with Mira.   The druidess was physically well, but her psyche was shattered.   Mira had become dependent on Vel’s presence.   An unforeseen complication.  

Vel didn’t know much about Mira, she had tried to peer into the woman’s memories - but refused to delve if she sensed resistance, not wanting to inflict more damage to an already broken mind.   At times, she had to, find a safe place for Mira to lurk, preferably outdoors and away from any commotion.   Then she could focus her energies on her own body.   Unless the feral cat found some cause for terror (which did not take much), at which point Vel's focus would shift towards her again.   She longed to find a nice field for her to roam peacefully in.   Perhaps that would keep her calmer while the monk was unable to play an active role in Mira’s existence.  

Despite the amount of energy spent towards maintaining Mira, she had managed to improve her own condition as well.   She had altered her dietary habits, ensuring proper nutrition.   She needed to gain some weight back.   As it stood, she was underweight.   Her muscles had also wasted away, along with her range of motion.   She was out of shape.   In every way.   But she was beginning to rehabilitate.   And for the most part she was resisting the urge to push herself.  

Pandaria was a nice backdrop for this.   It reminded her of when she first became a monk.   And living in a house inherited from her Master, made it feel as if the late Pandaren was still with her.   Still teaching her.

Some days were slower than others.   She tended to the house, which was modest in size, but had been in desperate need of dusting and organizing.   And then reorganizing.  

More daunting were the grounds outside of the house, which were sprawling.   Her Master kept livestock, his tigers, a cloud serpent, cranes, turtles and a pond for koi.    There was enough land for his creatures to roam.   But it had become an overgrown mess.    Little gardens had become riddled with weeds.   Some trees had grown far too large.   She had hired a few Pandaren farmers to assist her with the land.   She tended to the smaller gardens herself.   It was light work.   And she enjoyed the fresh air.  

A month had passed since her return, and she’d managed to arrange her home back to what it once was.   She still leaned heavily on a staff to walk, but her muscles ached less.   And she was able to start stretching her limbs lightly.  

Running was out of the question.   Even push ups and sit ups were still out of question.  

Her emotional outbursts had declined in frequency.  She felt a general sense of peace.   She did not get to visit the city often, but she enjoyed the few times she had managed to take her walks there.  

Nightmares still interrupted her sleep, but she was learning to deal with them.   For once, Vel let all of her influences fade away, and she focused on herself.   She focused on her recovery.   She ignored what she had been through.   She ignored the parts of her that felt defeated, and lost.   The parts of her that wanted nothing more than to lash out at the world recklessly.   The parts of her that viewed herself as a remnant left on Azeroth by the Legion.  

She’d ignored all the bitterness.  

She was more and more finding herself at peace.   She was more and more the Vel her Master had forged - controlled, disciplined, calm, and (mostly) patient.   Less and less did she feel as if she was the Vel her mother had reforged - insecure, unpredictable, manipulative, possessive, clever and always teetering on the precipice of madness.      

She should have known better. To ignore part of herself.

The chill of Northrend pricked at the monkette’s pale skin.   She stared into familiar azure eyes atop a spire in En’kilah.   The part of herself she had ignored, grew tired of being ignored.  None of the feeling she ignored were resolved, they were just left to fester.   And when the parts of herself she’d pretended did not exist could no longer could remain part of the whole, they turned to the creature she thought might be able to comfort her.   To relate to her.  

A trip to Northrend in her condition was foolish.   Near suicidal.   Yet, she’d made the trip.   Slowing the recovery of the other parts of herself that had been doing so well.   She leeched energy away from the monk that had refused to acknowledge the darkness inside herself.   And her darkness took its own shape.   She was divided.   Literally and figuratively.  

She knelt before the one she had come for and she was greeted with warmth atop the frigid spire.

Aria was an observant creature. She watched, in stone like patience. Her mind was a far busier place. Not a movement or sound from her as the Monk knelt, only watching with a keen awareness. The wind howled, and whipped around them, blasting worn stone and causing ice and snow to gather in corners. After a few moments ticked by, dark lips parted. Her echoed voice was, as always, delicately soft. Somehow still rising above, or simply becoming part of the under current of consistent wind. "It is a great tragedy." She began gently. "To see the haunted so lost. You are welcome in this place, my Wraith. I have learned much in my time, the chief among them, not everyone with a beating heart, is alive."

Vel almost let out a chuckle as she forced herself to her feet. She grasped for the clunky wooden staff at her back and shifted her weight onto it.    Well, what weight there was to lean, she was a fraction of herself.    "At least I am a great something, yea? Even if it's a tragedy."    she shook her head, "I'm not being literal..." she noted, anticipating her humor to be lost in the howling winds.    

From the top of the spire Vel was taken out of the cold and into the necropolis of Naxxarar.   Words were exchanged.   Vel could entrust Aria with her story, and she did.  Within those walls, Death had been kind to her.  Helpful.   Understanding.   Instructive.   Supportive.   All in such a short span of time.    

Then, Aria drew her close and tempted her.   She offered to remake her.  

And in those moments, Vel was neither her mother’s creation nor her Master’s student.   She was the remainder of yet another internal division.   Something that was uncertain, but something that found comfort so close to Death.  Parts of her that had long been quiet were starting to push aside the less certain.    

It all came down to a simple question.    

"Do you wish to be more?"

Vel nodded,  "I must be."   she paused, careful to add, "Not...  right now...   but - I think...   soon."

Aria blinked, looking down at Vel. "Why... would you wish to postpone, being more? What logic is there in this pain you feel? In recounting how others betrayed or harmed you?"   Her head shook a bit, as if refusing any answer that may come preemptively.

Though Vel had answers to those questions, thoughts - many of them, clarifications and justifications - none escaped her lips.    

Aria's hand rose, starting at Vel's hip, to slide up leather carefully. Rounding to the Monk's stomach and to drag her cool touch up and over her chest and soon, seeking a light grip of the other's neck. "I could remake you." Her soft voice, a gentle and low whisper, dark lips brushing gently against the lobe of Vel's ear as her voice seemed to layer a couple more time, growing both more sinister and at the same time, remaining calm. "You would be you, but reborn, unscarred, untarnish, strong, capable, belonging to not only to but with me. With all of Death, with every Monster and every forgotten creature."   She wasn't trying to hold Vel around the throat but kept her palm over her chest, and fingers curled to follow the slender neck. Her own armored form moving slightly to press to Vel's side. "There is nothing to be afraid of and everything to gain... I wish for your consent but it is not required."

It was at that point, Vel began to accept that she would not leave Naxxanar unchanged.    Uncertainty plagued her.   Aria likely could hear the reservation in her voice.   How much that mattered to the Knight, was hard to say.

"I intend for you to remake me...   I will not resist. I will stay here - with you. Just let me get used to the notion of being - reborn. I was reborn once. I was told I was part of something. That route - didn't go so well. This, may be different... but let me wrap my mind around it. I am not going anywhere."    

Aria shook her head slightly  "You were lied to and molded by corruptors, by beasts... you believed what you were told as many have and all have found their gods to be false. That was no a rebirth it was an execution." The frost fire in her eyes flicking to life in orbs as she stared back at Vel intensely. "You will stay."   The words very firm and laced with meaning. 

Both hands found the Monk's hips, seeking to grip at the slight curve tightly. She neared, ever closer, until petite nose tips brushed and lips were a whisper from doing the same.  However, instead of a cool press, a deep amethyst smoke abruptly bubbled up and poured out from between the Necromancer's lips and it's direction was very specifically, aimed within Vel's mouth.  

It was only a blink of time, over as it began but visceral and physically jarring. Aria knew it was going to happen so she had that benefit and the wherewithal to speak, a slight rasp to echoed words. "... a gift."

While one side of her struggled to pluck weeds from her gardens, another side of her awoke in an oversized piece of furniture, and felt a dizzying swell of power surging through her body.  

Though, she was pleased to be able to be comfortable, she could not help but wonder why she was still alive.  

The threads that wove together to form the tapestry known as ‘Vel’ shifted, weaving and unweaving from one another, bouncing between two distinct locations.   The demonic influences on her soul, did not warn the rest of the monk, about what the other parts of her were doing.   Where she was, and Vel was too weak, in this form, to realize that she was divided at all.   Especially given the focus she’d been allocating to Mira.  

In Northrend, the blonde simply waited.   She had said she would not leave.   She did not intend to leave until she was more.

Of course, she was now guilty of the same sin as her distant counterpart had been.

She should have known better. To ignore part of herself.

Her mother’s daughter, the demonic essences that had twisted her soul had left part of Vel to embrace her end.   It would be useful, they reasoned.  Kill off part of her, and it would be easier to regain control of the other.    Whatever Aria managed to create, would be - in some manner - connected to the living monk.   Though, it was hard to predict how it would all play out.    The demonic influences still craved the Ascension she’d been assured she would attain by the woman she once called her mother.   The whispering of the serpentine threads, were ignored by the recovering monk.

It was cyclical, she suppressed contradictions in her personality, to a point where they reached such extremes, the only resolution was some sort of division.  

However this was different.  Normally the threads all returned to one being, perhaps arranged differently, but always - one body.   Should Death claim her in Northrend, it would surely have an affect on her in Pandaria.   And possibly even on Mira by extension.  

And Vel, had no idea it was coming.  

If only she listened to the parts of herself she preferred to pretend didn’t exist.   She’d have heard them plotting.   They wanted this.  

Unlike previous divisions, this one - would be permanent.  

@thefrozenheart, @anorasmira (this is myself  - i dunno why I’m tagging)

[utsus]

NaruHina prompt: Hinata's upper arms.

AO3

If it was going to happen to anyone, Naruto would’ve peggedit to be Kakashi-sensei. He was lascivious and perverted and he always looked astride away from doing something unsavorywhen Iruka raised his voice.

Really, it could’ve happened to anyone; Naruto just neverexpected for it to happen to him.

A fear boner. Sort of. Emotionally, at least.

On the battle field.

Sai was never going to let him live it down.

✧

The morning started ordinarily enough, with Naruto risingwith the sun on his back and the sounds of metal clashing outside his tent. Theair smelled wet with copper, heavy with anticipation. He changed and readiedhimself for another hard-fought day, coming out of his tent completely into thesun. It refracted against the mist, a constant here, and made the day seemsimultaneously over bright and murky. He nodded to those he passed, his name afamiliar kind of awe on their lips.

War changes people. It changes everything.

Naruto still felt unused to it—them. The changes. A fellowshinobi walked past him, ducking his head so quickly he might’ve come away witha mild case of whiplash. At his hip the sun caught in a gleam of charcoal, andNaruto recognized sharp familiarity.

The spiral symbol carved into the iron—it was his.

He tried not to think about it too much, it was just toobizarre.

One of his Captains approached him, nothing more forgreeting than a terse nod before he began to debrief Naruto on what the nightshift had had to offer. Naruto listened with half an ear, weary andbattle-beaten but still kicking. His Captain matched his steps and didn’t haveto ask to know where they were headed.

On the border of Mist, visibility was nil and wicked. Ithelped them prepare, though, for the real fighting. So they carved out a spaceamongst the thinning trees, bare and blackened—not from fire, but from disease.The moors ahead of them were as unwelcoming as they were unforgiving.

Between the trees, they made space to train. To fight. Tokeep idle muscles warm and flexible, to keep their minds geared for the unpredictabilityof war. His Captain stopped beside him when they came to the outskirts of thefield and Naruto could feel his eyes on his profile.

But Naruto had eyes for someone else entirely. They may callhim Commander, now, and he would do his duty to the utmost esteem, but therewere still moments he carved out for himself alone. In these rare times, he wasjust Uzumaki Naruto again. A young man who could be freely curious; a young manwho had learned how to yearn.

He was only a few days past twenty, still growing, the goalahead of him looming but still out of reach. He’d always had his sights set onbecoming Hokage—yet he had never expected to become a war hero on the journey. He’dnever expected war, at all. He supposed that’s how it always was. Unpredictablewhile striking at the heart of nations.

He wondered presently if sheshared a similar rupture of surprise regarding her new status and the titlethat unofficially came with it—or if, somewhere along with mastering medicine, becominga squadron Captain, and Lording a clan even while on the frontlines, she had cometo expect this.

Hyuuga Hinata had always moved like water, effortlessly graceful,powerfully elegant. Slipped right through his fingers.

War had sharpened her edges, brought her to points. Shelearned to move like the breeze: unseen, but unmistakably felt. She had no need for blades, her palms quicker and nimbler andjust as severe. More so.

She leapt away from her assailant’s swift attack, bodytwisting through the air to avoid a new assault of flying kunai, and came downhard with the blunt end of her palm against her opponent’s neck—and just likethat, the spar was over. She had triumphed.

She caught her squad leader’s body before he could fall tothe ground. She laid him down carefully and knelt at his side to check hisvitals as those around her chattered, hushed and awed, whispering.

Naruto had heard it all before. Frigid. Omniscient. Angel of Death.

Hinata shifted, tucking her hair behind her ear as sheglanced over her shoulder. She caught Naruto’s striking gaze and blinked, once,a breathtaking consideration. He had only enough time to realize belatedly thather Byakugan wasn’t even activated. Then she turned away, back to heropponent-turned-patient, and Naruto watched the man come back to consciousnessin her arms with an expression of keen wonder.

Something dark inside him swirled.

Naruto thought, bastardnever stood a chance.

Whether he was referring to her squad leader or himself, hewouldn’t say.

✧

Naruto should’ve planned for this. An ambush was expected,when it came to the Mist. They were impatient but bloodthirsty; an ambush wasnever going to surprise them as the Mist expected it should.

But the Leaf had not expected him. Not here, on the outskirts of a dilapidated and abandonedvillage gradually sinking over time into the moors.

A Warlord, someone cried through the comm.There’s a Warlord here!

Naruto cursed as he weaved away from another sharp-toothedassailant wielding a blade larger then Naruto himself. He’d made the mistake ofedging towards the moor and had lost his footing long enough to feel the biteof that blade against his waist—had he moved a second later he would’ve done soin two pieces.

“Retreat,” he hissed through the comm, leaping from beam tobeam and pushing through the fragile and broken rooftop to attempt to achievesuperior position. His heart thundered in his chest, adrenaline surging. Thatwas Hinata’s squad. “Squad A, retreat.”

“Understood,” came the squad leader’s warbling voice, andNaruto’s heart dropped to his feet. Where was Hinata? Hers was the voice heneeded—the voice he should’ve heard. Was she too busy in the fighting? Was sheinjured? Was she—

He would not entertain the thought. He twisted through theair with a hiss, releasing a multitude of shuriken to slow his opponents down.The stars took three of them from the roof, but the other two absorbed themlike living pools of water. They laughed and charged and even as they swungtheir mighty swords for the very heart of him, he could not completely focus onthem.

It was a foolish thing to do. A Commander would never be socareless. But he was young yet, and he had never asked for the title, andthough he would do justice to the weight of it, they had to have known that hewould fail it. He had a track record of failures longer and wider than the gulfthat ran between Leaf and Sand, still freshly filled with Naruto’s friendshipwith Gaara. They had expected too much of him, and he had expected too much ofhis squadrons.

Hinata still had not answered.

He turned and put all of his weight behind his fist andwatched the skull of the enemy shatter around his knuckles. The man fellheavily, bounced on impact. Naruto turned to the next assailant and heardbubbling over his shoulder, never a good sign. He fended off his masterfulswordsmanship with clenched teeth, forcing himself to breathe through theimpacts.

Kurama, a shadow in his mind, whispered: drop low.

Naruto had long since learned to obey that tone of voice. Hedid as he was told and watched as the Mist shinobi whose skull had shatteredaround his fist heaved his sword horizontally, right through the space Narutohad stood a moment prior. He had aimed to cleave him in two.

Naruto wasn’t surprised that he was up and fighting again,or that he looked untouched and unhurt. He had been on the frontlines of thiswar with Mist for years. The tricks of the Mist were many, but he had nearly seenthem all.

He lifted his hands and said the words and suddenly he wasn’toutnumbered anymore. The Mist nin around him cursed, turning to fight off hisclones, each of which charged with Rasengan in hand.

Hinata’s squad leader’s voice came over the line again, andhis words threatened to shatter what was left of Naruto’s hard-fought control.

“Our Captain,” he panted, sounding both panicked andexhausted, a painful conflict of anxiety and fatigue. “She is facing the Warlordalone.”

Naruto lost the breath in his lungs.

A Mist shinobi didn’t get the title of Warlord by favor ormere triumph. They won the title by committing a multitude of atrocities. Theywere heartless and cruel, cold-blooded and hungry. Beasts made from a differentcloth, maws always gaping. Mist shinobi were known for their cruelty, the chaosthat ensued from their bloodless fingertips.

Their Warlords were known for nothing less than their pleasureof annihilation.

Naruto knew how strong Hinata was. He trusted her. But burieddeep in the folds of his battered and weary soul there was this: an animalistic need to protect those he loved, despite whatmight stand in his way. Death itself could rise up before him and Naruto wouldbeat it back down, teeth and claws bared, Kurama breathing through his veins.

Naruto had fought too long and too hard to create andmaintain a family of his own.

He could see the tinge of crimson around him, the way Kurama’schakra leaked into the air around them. The Mist nin closest to him gasped, theweight of Naruto’s oozing chakra bringing them to their knees.

He felt the heat of a distant explosion, felt the way theearth trembled and the rickety house beneath him quaked. He thought he heardlaughter, loud enough to break apart the clouds. Naruto left his enemies behindhim without a single look back, a blur of orange and black. The sounds of hisclones crashing against them was soon lost to the wind rushing by him as hisfeet moved swiftly over the earth, bringing him unerringly to where he neededmost to be.

He headed for the flames even as he felt them clawing downhis veins.

He hoped he got there in time.

✧

When Naruto arrived, he registered three things at once.

First, the Mist Warlord was more than twice Hinata’s height,and wider around the middle than a pillar of stone.

Second, he was quick. Quick enough to make Hinata’s thighs, fatiguedfrom overuse, tremble.

Third, he was going to lose.

Hinata had cornered him in free space, her chakra a visible,fine-lined stream creating a glowing sphere of restraint around the Warlord,even as he moved. Hers was a moving prison of chakra, the cage of which was asmuch an attack as it was a defense; it erased every chakra center it touched. Itreminded Naruto of the Akatsuki member from Mist whose sword drained chakrawhen it bit.

Naruto’s eyes caught and held on her bare upper arms,glistening with sweat, defined and flexed in tension. He had always known herto be strong, of a special sort—drawing to his eyes—but this was new.

The way his eyes caught and held and couldn’t look away fromthe physicality of her form, the way her arms moved in liquid elegance onemoment, and then struck viper-quick and critically with stunning designationthe next. Her strength silenced in him the roaring of chaos he found so unremitting,and in its absence, something new and equally dangerous lurked.

Desire.

She leapt and twisted, ducked low and dodged, all the whileslicing in and carving her way through the mass of chakra centered throughout thegiant’s body. His monstrosity of a sword was still clutched in his hands, heavyenough to require both, and it was then that Naruto knew the true strength ofthe man.

That still he held onto his sword, even after Hinata had struckevery one of the glowing spheres of chakra from his arms. He was moving bysheer will alone. His shoulders dragged and he was panting, wounded prey.

But so was Hinata. Blood dripped down from her forehead andalready her eyes were swelling deep, mottled blue. A broken nose. She wasfavoring her right side and Naruto could see the rip in her uniform, a perfectslice over her left collarbone and shoulder. A jab rather than a swing—inches awayfrom her heart. An astonishing move with a sword that large—Hinata must’ve beenstartled. She was weary, broken and breathless.

But Hinata had never let herself be a victim. Protective ofher squadron and present on the warfront, she was a predator sensing a kill;she did not hesitate. She moved in close, allowed herself to be caught. TheWarlord’s hand swallowed her throat whole and his laughter blanketed the entirearea, a booming thunder—Naruto could just barely hear someone screaming hername—realized too late that it was him.

Hinata was quicker than the threat at her throat. She kickedout and Naruto saw it: the streamline lethality of her chakra control.

From the toe of her sandal a stream of chakra radiated, everblue, thinner than thread. It sliced through the big man and brought him to hisknees. She brought her hands up—Kakashi’s voice, suddenly, ruthless andclinical in Naruto’s mind: a foolishmistake to have allowed a Hyuuga to keep them—and sliced through the chakrain his wrists. Her biceps contracted, glistened. Naruto’s stomach filled withheat, and fear.

The sword clattered to the ground, heavy enough that Narutofelt the vibration of it fifty feet away. Hinata did not pause to see if theman would fall completely. She leapt over him and secured her win with deftfingers, the veins alongside her eyes pulsing with heat. Her hands moved soquickly over the Warlord’s body Naruto had to strain to see them, catching onlyafterthoughts of fatal blue. She leapt into the air and twisted, and Narutoknew this attack, too.

A beast of her own making, a single sapphire creature ofchakra and fangs surrounded her palm and slammed into the Warlord’s back. Thebig cat did not stop where her palm did. It ran through him, taking and takinguntil every light within him was gone. Naruto watched Hinata fall to her knee,not moving her eyes from her quarry until she had watched the final light inhis eyes flee.

Naruto could see her squadron on the outskirts and hewondered idly how long they’d been there, if she’d ordered them away. Behindthe Warlord there were waves of fallen Mist, freshly silent. Of course, Narutothought coolly, the Warlord had not come alone.

When Naruto had arrived, the Warlord had already appearedquite wounded, as though Hinata’s squadron had intercepted him and done theirbest before parting around what he presumed to be Hinata’s order. She must havewanted them safe. Naruto could see now that they were in awful shape, somehunched over, some being supported by others, all of them bleeding. Far lesserin number than he knew them to be. Naruto turned his eyes back to Hinata andknew without question, without doubt, that she had challenged the Warlord aloneto save the remains of her squadron.

It was unlike Hinata to not use her adept mind for strategyto defeat an enemy. Naruto wondered for only a moment why she hadn’t kept hersuperior numbers, why she had isolated herself to singularity. But he knew whatit meant to need to protect those you cared about. Hinata had done just that,as best as she could.

The Warlord had seemed an easy man to challenge, arrogantand cocksure. A young woman standing before him, provoking him into singlecombat must have amused him; enticed him. He’d probably thought it a game.

He probably never expected to lose.

Naruto moved.

“Hinata,” he called, parsed segments of awe and fearinterspersed into something of a sigh. He felt breathless and weary, and heached for her. For what the war had taken from her; for what it would continueto take from them all. “Hinata.”

She turned to him and he could see the collapse in her, thebattered spirit. He lost his breath when she turned to him, tears in her eyes; asurprising softness. Before the war had begun, when he had allowed himself tothink about her apart from all others, he would think first of the gentlenessof her curves. She had no angles to her. Every deceptively delicate slope of herhad humbled him.

Even on the front lines she had somehow, somehow maintainedthat softness. She guided her squadron kindly, gently, quietly. Taught them ofstrategy and of survival. She was a wraith in the darkest moments of night,tending to the wounded, still wearing her armor. She sat under veiled canopiesin camp with those who could not be saved, and she told them stories, hushedand secretive, theirs and theirs only. Like war, her kindness had changed him.

But he had not seen her cry for years. She was the strongestwoman he knew, right there with Sakura-chan, and though her tears didn’t makeher less so, they shocked him for their rarity.

“Naruto-kun,” she breathed, and this was a breach ofprotocol, but Naruto savored it. He let her voice curl around his name and bringhim home; it had been so long since he’d been there. So long.

He guided the sentiment behind her voice into the deepestand warmest parts of him. His heart called out to her, beckoning.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, and he was the one who reachedfor her.

She came willingly, gladly, into his arms. Hinata allowedher tears to fall stoically, silently against him. It was Naruto who trembled. Shock,maybe. Desire was there too. But all the more surprising was this: the fear.

Despite it, his desire only grew.

In another moment, another time, maybe he would’ve kissedher.

But the beast she’d slayed still breathed slowly behindthem, unconscious but alive, awaiting a secure trip to Ino’s shadowed quarters.Blood ran down Hinata’s cheeks. The skin under her eyes swelled with color, roseneggplant.

Now was not the time for romance.

Soon, though, Narutocouldn’t help but to think. It resonated within him, the first drop in arippling effect; the ocean of their beginning.

Soon.

[auroraxrp-blog1]

AURORA is pleased to introduce Alexious Maximilian DeAndre known as Alex, a Very Rare Wind Dragon not affiliated to AURORA. He is 114 years old, but looks around his mid twenties. Currently working as an Author, he likes Discipline, Charisma, Strong personalities, Writing, Protecting those who can’t protect themselves and The sense of freedom but is not very fond of Stubbornness, manipulative beings or ideas, being judged, bullies, mistrust. Wanna know more about him, make sure to pay a visit !!

–GENERAL

name: His Highness the Prince, Alexious Maximilian DeAndre alias: Alex DeAndre used commonly during ‘human’ interactions. Alex is also used among people in his close circle. age: 114 + appears to be in his early to mid-twenties affiliated: yes or no if yes, headquarter: - years they have been part of AURORA: – are they a mentor within the headquarter they belong to: – race: Wind Dragon

race description: Wind Dragons specifically reside within high rising and ragged mountains. The extent to where their homes reach know no real limit, liking it better the closer they are to the sky. Wind Dragon much generally all look the same, apparently formed by an amalgamation of clouds, mist or what seems to be smoke. They have glowing blue eyes, more piercing than the sun rays and instead of a horn, have long, flexible ears, spikes go along their long necks and end upon their reptilian shaped body.

Their usual age span is 500-800 years, depending on their living circumstances and environment. Wind is their friend as well as their ultimate weapon, the skies their home . The more powerful and skilled the dragon, the more ways it can manipulate wind, even being able to create full blown storms for the wind to wreck everything in its path. An angry Wind Dragon is as lethal as any natural disaster.

Wind Dragons as unpredictable, much like the sporadic nature of wind itself, each Dragon has its own specific characteristics. Generally laid back and genuine they have a great love for adventure, to explore and greatly adore everything that shines.

occupation: Author of thriller crime series with a strong presence of the supernatural world that some humans consider purely ‘fictional’. Blending in with the humans comes easily, given that he’s been trained since an early age by his royal dragon parents how to maintain his human state by the help of ‘tattoo’ like Runes drawn into his skin, they were enchanted by several Witches and Warlocks and every so often he needs the enchanted Runes refreshed. Some of the Runes on his body act as protective and detective Runes while the rest help him change into Hybrid form swiftly and for a decent amount of time without necessarily wearing him out.

unique features: In his human form, exquisite ‘tattoos’ ( which are actually runes) of different shapes are scattered over his entire body, some on his arms, one on the side of his neck expanding down to his collar bone and the rest mark his torso. In his Hybrid-form his hands enlarge and grow into dragon – like hands. Claw, ragged scales creating a natural armor all in white while his eyes glue a bright Azure and his hair turns from dark brown to ashen white. His true form reveals a gigantic beast, as if formed by tremendous clouds and white smoke. His wings are wide and thin in texture, so thin that the sunlight passes through them since his full form is made in a way that he can easily 'hide’ among the clouds and have the sunrays pass right through him, rendering him 'camouflaged’ in a sense till it’s he’s upon his oppressors or enemies and it’s too late to flee. This gives him a stealth and tactical advantage which ofcourse gets taken away somewhat when the sky is dark and clear of clouds or mist.

class: Very Rare

–POWERS & WEAKNESSES:

main power: Elemental Dragon Physiology

magical abilities: He can transform into an Elemental Dragon. The full form differs from the “Hybrid form”, his normal or 'hybrid’ form where he is made of both the element and normal flesh, and “Full form”, a form where they are completely formed by the element in which case he seems to be formed by clouds and white smoke. As explained earlier the Hybrid form enables him to turn his hands into large dragon claws, scaled and white. This ability of either going Hybrid or Full form allows him to use the ever present wind as his main weapon, which then becomes the application of his main power: Elemental Dragon Physiology. While in Hybrid form he is only half as strong compared to his full form, his Hybrid form enables him to create violent gusts of the wind, sharp and swift like swords being flung forth While in his full form he is able to create an entire hurricane. And ofcoure the extended claws themselves are fatal to anyone wth whom they come in contact with.

non-magical abilities: In his human form, he is trained in hand-to-hand combat and long-range shooting, his weapons of choice: Bow&arrows. Skilled in several different forms of combat due to a number of mentors he had from different parts of the world to learn how to always hit his mark with precision and speed.

weaknesses: As Elements go, one element may defy the other. Water & fire, for example, cancel each other out. For the Wind element, abilities based on light, dust and paper manipulation are what render him 'weak’ so he is easily detectable and loses his 'stealth’ advantage. His hybrid form is only half as powerful as his full form. Moreover due to the impracticality or showing his hybrid form–and successfully exposing himself as a 'freak’ to any surrounding humans– he needs to be careful where and when he transforms.  Since in his Hybrid form he’s only half as strong as his full-on form and going full on dragon may not always be convenient, which leaves him to working with his hybrid form so naturally, limited amount of time to stay hybrid and keep using his wind manips because his stamina is running out– for 20 minutes or an hour to be more precise, it’s all going to depend on whether he went hybrid for the first time in the day, which means his stamina wasnt used up before hand and if he’s gone hybrid multiple time during the day that obviously drains him out faster.  Not only does he need to hold his hybrid form, he needs to make attacks/defenses count. With that is related is the quality of his wind manipulation, less time, lower stamina leads to weaker blows or shaky defenses.

–PERSONALITY:

likes: Discipline, Charisma, Strong personalities, Writing, Protecting those who can’t protect themselves and The sense of freedom. dislikes: Stubbornness, manipulative beings or ideas, being judged, bullies, mistrust positive traits: Kind-hearted, protective, courageous, pro-change, open-minded neutral traits: Brooding, unclear loyalties, secretive, negative traits: rebellious, moody, strong fear of being misunderstood, mental state: Ambiguphobia, a fear of being misunderstood

personality description: wind is light and pleasing to the senses when cool but feels heavy and exhausting and thick when it is hot and humid, likewise, he has his different moods, ever changing and easily affected by the atmosphere he would be present in.

He grows to trust people over time. His friendship and frankness are earned over time as well. Even though he considers himself a social being with an open heart and mind he at times finds it hard to warm up to certain individuals. In his case, the first impression isn’t necessarily the last impression. He would know, to meet Alexious for the first time is different, by the third time the entire experience changes.

He has a reserved and formal way of speaking, when it comes to courtship and actually having ‘fun’, the Prince might feel out of his comfort zone but still pushes on. Not entirely incapable of getting playful, he does know how to have fun. Several average human things still fascinate him from time to time so he is learning, adapting and grows into a new individual every day. Due to the history of his family, the legacy of Dragons hunting dragons for the sake of jewels and favors, Alexious is afraid of being misunderstood to be ‘one of them’. He believes every living creature has the right to live. Every innocent life needs protection and every villainous presence needs to be checked upon and taken actions against. He for one, is not a cold-hearted bounty hunter. He is not like his Father and most certainly not the pride of his Father’s eyes.

–BIOGRAPHY:

place/realm of birth: New York City date/year of birth: 1903 if half-breed, parents: Both parents are Wind Dragons if water being, nature: –

biography description: It was as if he was born to become that man who seemed to be on a mission to go against every law established by his Kingdom, by the King his very own Father. Alexious still wonders if he was born to the wrong kind of Wind Element Dragon family. His father and the entire Kingdom seemed to have lost their way at some point. While news of the war was brewing in different realms, His misguided and vicious Father had taken up ‘dragon hunting’.

As the saying goes, to hunt wolves you need wolves. Wind and certain other Elemental Dragons joined forces in these endeavors, ofcourse this gained the entire Kingdom a bad image. Other beings had every right to intently watch the Kingdom while certain hunters, human and non-human began to associate themselves with this Kingdom of dragons that even hunted their own kind—for what? The thrill of it, the’ favors’ it would bring upon them. Worst of all no one seemed to thnk this was entirely wrong.

Except for the young Prince, Alexious, a young man his Father had wished to groom into their mightiest Dragon Hunter. However, Alexious had no desire to do so, it was as if he wasn’t even his father’s son. His morality s different from the King’s that it earned him the displeasure of his Father. At his own home—the Palace atop rugged and treacherous mountain ranges of the Wind realm—he was suddenly a stranger, an outsider with new ideas and opinions that either fellow Dragons gawked at or glared at him for. After all one day this very Prince would be king? Was he even fit for the throne and to carry on the legacy of his Father? Perhaps if someone had asked him whether he wished to be King of such a Kingdom he might have answered ‘No’. T

hen again if a change was to be brought about, he knew one day he would need to take charge and set things right. Things that several Wind Dragons knew as tradition, as their established way of life. Alexious, still a young Dragon had no idea how to bring about a change that would quite literally shift several lives upside down. The Dragons needed to live in unity, no matter their elemental differences, they were one. Branches of the same tree, disunity meant the doom of their kind. The dragon hunting practices were leading to an unreasonable number of fatalities, the Kingdom had acquired more enemies than friends. The Palace began feeling like it stood of shaky basis, ready to crumble into dust.

Then there was the matter of the war, humans had grown notorious and the creatures of all kinds were defending their kin. War was in the air his father refused to send out any troops. They were to fend for themselves first, the knights and hunters and scouts were all to carry on as commanded. Delegates came to visit in peace, from independent peace organizations converse with the King, the Prince and the court of advisors and senators along with the High Knights. The King did not heed. The Prince felt a burning passion to change things. If the King was not going to help protect a world that was crumbling fast, a war that was spreading like wildfire then he Alexious would take matters into his own hands. So he does something drastic. Something similar to what a traitor’s action would seem like. Taking a handful of Knights, scouts, warriors and hunters loyal purely to him he spreads his wings and leads numbers of Dragons into the battle field, pushing away at the human battalions and continue to defend the win realm, much to the surprise to some who had thought the King didn’t mind fellow dragons being killed as long as his precious palace was kept out of it. Even though he knew humans from outside the Wind realm would not give him any favors, those, of course, he would kill. The King was blinded by pride and ambition but Alexious’s actions made the King and those loyal to him furious.

Alexious gets the news on his way back from the battlefield, he had a few brave Dragons back there and was in mourning when he hears of the attack on the Palace, his home. Rushing back in time to barely save his father he sends a clear message to the human kind: He won’t stand still nor continue alliances with those who wish to harm his family, home or anyone of the other creatures that existed. A rather ‘new’ statement from a kingdom so focused on earning golds, jewels and favors by killing their own kin. The King was ill but he would live. The atmosphere in the Palace clearly marked how it was not fit for Alexious to continue living there but he would still very much be calling the shots, still, the Prince had experienced the brutalities or war and it had changed him in ways. Humans could not be trusted. Humans still wanted them gone. Alexious travels back to the country and then the city of his birth—New York City where a whole other love story had begun.

His father and mother had met there, fallen in love and out of that love came Alexious. His father knew his little Dragon would become the pride of his eyes, young Alexious was Kept in NY for several years, the small family made trips around the world. Even though he was a child, his perceptive mind absorbs the details of different cultures of the different countries he visits. Cities like Seoul, Tokyo and London make great impressions on his growing, inquisitive mind. His last trip is int the Wind realm where he continues to live and train as the only son of the King. He doesn’t truly understand what for, but he along with the common knights receive intense and extensive training. He learns different languages, learns different arts, he paints at sunset and clashes swords at sunrise. Archery became a passion and magic, a fascination. His Father called upon different mentors from different parts of the world to educate and enlighten his son, Knowledge was the true power—after Alexious’s mighty combat skills. Allied Witches were called upon to enchant and burn ‘Runes’ into the milky white skin, each Rune granting him abilities.

Alexious grows, too wrapped up in his studies and training that it’s not till he’s a young adult when he truly learns of what an actual Monster his father was. Alexious now resides in New York, somewhere in a lavish loft by the suburbs he is watched over by his hand selected guards—royalty it seemed needed to be watched and protected no matter where he went—Writing, one of his passions become a ‘career’. He was fascinated by many mundane things humans did and so he writes, from being a ‘new author’ to becoming somewhat well known he wrote thriller crime series, a strong presence of the super natural creatures present there. He was cherished by the writing community and his fans for his vast imagination yet…little do they know, his writings were not all entirely fiction. Presently he has begun working out ways to reach Aurora, an organization he truly respects and appreciates. With a number of enemies his father gained for the entire Kingdom, it would do Alexious well to gain a larger number of allies.

[mastcomm]

Why These Australia Fires Are Like Nothing We’ve Seen Before

SYDNEY, Australia — In late October, lightning struck brittle earth on Gospers Mountain in New South Wales. The remains of trees bone dry from consecutive winters with little to no rain were ignited, and the fire quickly spread.

Three months later, it is still burning.

The Gospers Mountain fire, which became Australia’s largest “megablaze” as it grew to link several separate fires, offers a sense of the scale of the country’s most disastrous fire season ever. The blaze has burned two million acres, enveloping hinterland and wine country, and prompted a special mission to save prehistoric trees so rare that their exact location is kept secret.

That fire is now largely contained. But dozens of others are still burning in the southeastern states of New South Wales and Victoria, some out of control, despite heavy rain in some areas in recent days. And fire season is far from over — hot and windy conditions are expected to return this week, and a month of summer remains. Here is a look at the devastation.

The amount of land burned is immense.

The modern world has never seen anything quite like these Australia fires.

About 16 million acres have burned in New South Wales and Victoria, where the crisis is centered. That’s an area about the size of West Virginia. Millions more acres have burned in other parts of the country.

What sets these blazes apart, in terms of their size, is that they are happening in populated areas. Until now, fires this large happened mostly in places like northern Canada or Siberia, where few people live and blazes burn largely uncontrolled.

“What we’re seeing in Australia, in a completely different environment, are fires that are approaching or even exceeding the magnitude of things that we only saw in the most remote forested regions in the world,” said Ross Bradstock, the director of the Center for Environmental Risk Management of Bushfires at the University of Wollongong in New South Wales.

“We’re looking at a globally significant fire season in Australia,” he added.

The numbers from Australia dwarf those from some of the most high-profile fires in recent years.

The bushfires in southeastern Australia this season have burned about eight times as much land as the 2018 fires in California, which covered nearly two million acres and were the worst in that state’s recorded history. They are also far larger than the estimates of 2.2 million acres burned by September last year in the Amazon basin, where farmers, some emboldened by the policies of President Jair Bolsonaro of Brazil, ignited tens of thousands of fires to clear land.

“It’s quite phenomenal and far exceeds anything you would see in the western U.S.A., which is a very fire-prone area, the southwest of Canada, the Mediterranean and parts of South America,” Dr. Bradstock said. “It’s so much bigger than anything else.”

It goes well beyond a ravaged landscape.

Australia has had deadlier fire seasons: The Black Saturday bushfires, which began in February 2009 when downed power lines ignited blazes that were spread by 60-mile-per-hour winds, killed 173 people in Victoria. The 2018 California fires killed 103 people.

But the losses Australia is experiencing in lives and property are still staggering, and not yet over. At least 29 people have been killed. Hundreds of millions of animals, by some estimates, have perished or are facing starvation or dehydration in devastated habitats. And more than 2,500 homes have been destroyed.

Smoke generated by the fires has blanketed Sydney, Melbourne and Canberra, at times giving them some of the worst air in the world. The prolonged exposure of bushfire smoke to millions of people has raised fears of health effects that could last for years.

Early this month, NASA began tracking a plume of smoke from the fires that was the size of the continental United States. By Jan. 14, smoke had circumnavigated the globe, returning to eastern Australia. Along the way, it caused hazardous breathing conditions in New Zealand and discolored skies in South America.

The fires have also produced huge amounts of heat-trapping carbon emissions. A top expert on greenhouse gas emissions at Australia’s national research agency told NPR that the fires in southeastern Australia had produced as much carbon as the entire country emits from man-made sources in more than eight months of the year.

Climate change helped set the table.

Why have these fires been so vast? While Australia is normally hot and dry in the summer, climate change is bringing longer and more frequent periods of extreme heat. That makes vegetation drier and more likely to burn.

Last year was the hottest and driest year on record in Australia, and some regions have been gripped by drought for years. This season, the fires started earlier than usual — some as soon as July — and they are expected to last well into February and even March.

High temperatures, strong winds and dry forests have combined to create the conditions for powerful fires. There have even been blazes in wetlands and rainforests that have not contended with this threat before. To combat the flames, tens of thousands of firefighters, most of them volunteers, have been called on to work long days over extended periods.

Most of the fires have been caused by lightning strikes, though some people have misleadingly pointed to arson in an effort to minimize the links to climate change and the Australian government’s inaction on the issue. Others have argued that the drought is unrelated to climate change, though there is evidence that warming temperatures have been a major contributor to it, in part by pushing rain out of areas where it once fell.

“The wildfires decimating Australia, killing people, ravaging wild habitats and pushing communities and firefighters to their absolute limits are growing and coalescing into the country’s worst peacetime catastrophe precisely because of climate change,” said Paul Read, a co-director of the National Center for Research in Bushfire and Arson at Monash University in Melbourne.

Here is what the future looks like.

In Australia’s history, most bad fire seasons have coincided with the warming of an El Niño pattern. But that is not the case this time, showing how much this season stands out and the danger the country faces with more unpredictable weather patterns in the future.

While scientists have long predicted that climate change would bring longer and more intense fire seasons, the blazes were not expected to be this bad this soon, Dr. Bradstock said. Under his projections, Australia would not have seen this kind of devastation for another 40 to 50 years, he said.

“I guess I’m as shocked as anyone about what’s unfolding and, probably, like everyone else who’s involved and affected, we’ll very quickly recalibrate thinking about what we’re doing,” he said.

Recalibrating means expecting these phenomenal fires to continue to occur, particularly as Australia’s drought shows few signs of ending and temperatures are expected to continue to climb after the warmest decade on record.

“We would be extremely foolish, given all the evidence and the magnitude of this event, to just laugh it off as a one-off phenomenon,” Dr. Bradstock said. “I think we have to get ready to deal with a season like this again in the not-too-distant future.”

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[kayawagner]

100 Dungeon Descriptors Table

Nothing fancy today, just a list of dungeon descriptors, helpfully listed in d100 format. Oftentimes I find myself wanting to make a new dungeon or area and am short on ideas. This list is useful for inspiration, kickstarting design with an idea or two about which ideas can be formed. Alternately, you can pick one or two as overarching themes and then flavor smaller areas with another selection. Of course you may need to get creative if you end up with conflicting descriptors that make no sense together, but if it’s too bizarre you can always ignore the one you like least and/or roll again.

Here’s an example: We’ll go with an area with two random descriptors and three sub areas each with an additional descriptor of it’s own. Our rolls* are 9, 53 , 51, 14, 90. That gives us main traits of Icy and Rectangular rooms. So we have a start of an idea. Rectangular rooms is pretty standard dungeon stuff. Icy implies cold or ice creatures and a certain environment. Maybe this is high in the mountains, deep underground, a magical cold, or far to the north/south. We’ll decide later. Our three sub zones are Large scale, Geothermal, and Non-euclidean. Giant is easy. So we have a giants’ castle in the high mountains covered in frost and ice. Under the castle we’ve got a series of geothermically active caverns. We could go fire elemental here, but I like making the geothermal energy a power source for the giant’s castle better. So the castle has steam driven gates and other cool steam type devices, as well as few “ice giant engineers”, although no steam heat. In the caverns themselves, there are a few ice giant taskmasters (nearly naked because of the heat) and a bunch of slaves that maintain the steam pipes. Beyond the castle, carved into the mountain is a series of rooms with odd magical geometry. Let’s combine that with the ice to have sliding traps and block puzzles that rely on the non euclidean nature of the space, placed to protect some appropriate artifact. On advice of my test audience, we’ll also add some man sized blind penguins and ice-template gibbering mouthers to this area. That even gives us three adventure hooks: against the giants, free the slaves, capture the relic.

Wet: Moldy – damp, and mold grows everywhere

Wet: Flooded  – ankle to waist deep water everywhere

Wet: Underwater – entire place is underwater

Wet: Rotten – sodden, and everything is ruined, turning into mush

Dry: Crumbling – dry rot, crumbling stone

Dry: Dusty – a layer of dust and grit cover everything

Dry: Parched – dry air that makes you thirsty and uncomfortable

Dry: Dehydrating – moving air the pulls moisture away, full of mummified husks of small creatures, etc…

Cold: Icy – covered with a layer of ice, formations on walls and ceiling

Cold: Clammy – cold and damp air, works through your clothes

Cold: Glacial – biting cold, walls of ice

Cold: Crisp – cool but invigorating

Hot: Smoldering – piles of still warm ash, may have low oxygen levels

Hot: Steamy – geothermal vents, geysers, etc…

Hot: Magma – flows of magma (1500k about 3 times as hot as a campfire, 500k) in large rooms, heat may dissipate enough to approach, in small rooms maybe not

Hot: Warm – general warmer temperature

Live: Positive aura – depending on the strength, area may be covered in growth or items may animate or burst into frantic activity

Live: Swarming – filled with large swarms of vermin

Live: Live rock – dripping mineral water creates slow growing formations

Live: Genius loci – a spirit caretaker oversees the area

Dead: Bodies – corpses litter the area

Dead: Negative aura – may cause a feeling of illness or unease, bolster undead or even damage the living

Dead: Ruined – once worked the area is falling apart

Dead: Eerie – feelings of being watched, prickling of the skin, etc…

Vegetation: Overgrown/roots – plant growth and hanging roots block passages and cluster about the ground

Vegetation: Flowering – strange cave flowers grow or sprout from bushes or vines

Vegetation: Fungus/mold – large fungi or molds grow throughout the area

Vegetation: Gardens – carefully tended (once?) gardens dot the area

Natural: Solution caves – caves formed by minerals dissolving, often wet

Natural: Lava tubes – formed by magma flowing out of a space, stone is hard, rooms are tunnel like

Natural: Fracture caves – full of debris,  layers of rock collapse to form caves

Natural: Erosion caves – made by action of wind or water wearing down rock, may have strong winds or high tide

Manufactured: Hewn – crudely carved out of rock, surface still shows tool marks

Manufactured: Supported – soft stone supported by columns or beams

Manufactured: Rough Brick – simple stone bricks carved from rock shore up and finish walls

Manufactured: Advanced Brick – smaller, fancier, or simply better made stone bricks

Sounds: Whistling – sound of wind forced through tight passages or over odd formations

Sounds: Rumbling – perhaps an indication this area is unstable or of seismic activity

Sounds: Battle noises – inhabitants often get in noisy conflict

Sounds: Moaning – the wind? or something more sinister?

Smells: Decay – death, decomposition, mold

Smells: Dirt – the smell of earth and dirt

Smells: Chemicals – strange acrid brews, sickly sweet tangs, some kind of strange chemicals are on the air

Smells: Metal – the distinct smell and taste of metal, is this a metallurgists, a mine, or just an ore rich area?

Denizens: Beast – area is populated with animals, predators, scavengers etc…

Denizens: Lowlives – slimes, fungus monsters and insects

Denizens: Magical – elementals, undead, constructs and other unnatural things

Denizens: Humanoids – primitive or advanced humanoid tool users

Scale: Tight – small rooms, tight passages, crawling and squeezing through tunnels

Scale: Standard – normal room and passage scale

Scale: Large – larger passways, huge rooms, perhaps natural or built by giants

Scale: Mixed – a mix of scales, often natural but also a characteristic of an area inhabited by different sizes of creature

Shapes: Rectangles – standard square and rectangular rooms

Shapes: Ellipse – circles and ellipses

Shapes: Angled – angled rooms other than squares and rectangles, triangles, hexagons, unusual shapes…

Shapes: Natural – caves and natural passages

Maintenance: Maintained – the area is being maintained, passably clean and repairs are made

Maintenance: Expanding – the area is maintained and new areas are being built on the edges

Maintenance: Abandoned – no one is doing maintenance, most things still work but some don’t and wear is obvious

Maintenance: Collapsing – no one has done maintenance for a long time, few things work, most are broken, missing, or destroyed

Airy: Strong winds – winds howl through the rooms and halls, light items are blown away, doors may be flung open or characters pushed down

Airy: Cavernous – huge open caverns with vaulted ceilings

Airy: Chasms – deep chasms voids and pits

Airy: Open – one monstrous cavern with discrete areas within, sneak a little overland into your dungeon

Architecture: Monolithic – huge construction from large slabs of rock

Architecture: Sparse – clean unadorned construction

Architecture: Embellished – covered with engravings, runes, patterns, etc…

Architecture: Stylistic – an unusual or alien style

Obscured: Foggy – mists, steam or fog blanket the area

Obscured: Screened – webs, vines or other obstructions shroud the area

Obscured: Magic darkness – rooms or the entire area is covered in magical darkness

Obscured: Twisty – no special obstruction, just very few straight passages so vision only extends to the next bend

Size: Small – your classic 5 room dungeon

Size: Medium – larger complex, 5-15 rooms

Size: Large – larger yet, 20-50 rooms

Size: Extra large – sprawling multi-“zone” area

Unique: Architecture – contains a unique piece of architecture, statuary, or other landmark

Unique: Foe – contains a unique monster, NPC or the like

Unique: Magic effect – contains a special magic effect, either an aura over the whole area or a specific feature like a magical portal or pool

Unique: Treasure – has a special one of a kind treasure that may have its own backstory or associated quest

Danger: Hazards – venomous critters, naturally occurring rockfalls, pits or fire gouts

Danger: Traps – area is/was home to a trap builders and has many traps

Danger: Monsters – area full of deadly monsters

Danger: Curses – area holds curses or other magical dangers

Treasure: Coin and items – standard treasures

Treasure: Raw ore/gems – area has been or can be mined for raw ore and gems

Treasure: Art – area has art objects that can be looted as treasure

Treasure: Goods – not much in the way of treasure, but area has trade good that can be sold

Magic: Changing – shifting walls, moving rooms and other tricks

Magic: Non-euclidean – the area has a definite arrangement but its full of portals, bends in reality or other weirdness that make it difficult to map

Magic: Wild – magic in this area acts unpredictable

Magic: Null – magic in this area is suppressed or nullified

Crystal: Studded – walls are studded with raw crystal

Crystal: Monsters – monsters in this area are weird crystal versions or crystal themed monsters

Crystal: Walls – this area is carved from a massive crystal deposit, glass or obsidian

Crystal: Items – furniture, decorative items, tools, and weapons in this area are all made of crystals

Technology: Stone – denizens of this area use stone age technology

Technology: Bronze – foes in this area use bronze or another soft metal

Technology: Steel – this area has steel or another hard metal technology

Technology: Steam – this area features early steam tech

  *Using my Polyhero Wizard dice, because they’re what I have on hand. Now I can use the old “mad wizard” excuse when players look at me funny.

100 Dungeon Descriptors Table published first on https://supergalaxyrom.tumblr.com