#the jailer is the key: ic

[riftofthestars]

"Always hated that term... 'Broken'..." He has to spit the word out with disgust. "Objects can be broken. The continuity of the property of an object, activity or concept can be broken."

"Saying that someone is 'broken' makes it sound like something is wrong with them. Trauma is trauma. Nothing more, nothing less. It doesn't substract from a person's figurative value. It doesn't makes someone unworthy of patience and affection. It doesn't make them 'broken'."

"It makes them hurt. It makes them defensive. It makes them scared."

[riftofthestars]

He remained quiet as the chain undid itself from around the reporter, clearly pleased with what he managed to achieve. What he was unread for were the sounds that came out of her - his reaction of being genuinely dumbfounded transformed by his mask in only a slight head tilt.

He watched her as she fled, the chain disappearing underneath her sleeve. He would find out more about her at some point - not just from a background check. That was more of a scare tactic, but it still would help him determine some aspects of this curious reporter.

Until next time

riftofthestars​:

The reporter was a strange one. The way her actions fluctuated were indicative of something going on behind the scenes, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. And she was right. He knew much less than he would have liked to let on.

He could not help but respect how she stared danger in the eyes, even if it was just a mask that had dropped soon after. Even if only in short bursts, such courage was rare.

His back straightened completely with a few more cracks and his head turned completely around to look at his two guards. “Schedule a background check once we get back to the manor.” He ordered before turning his gaze back to Marie.

“It is indeed a very sturdy chain.” He tugged at the chains again, pulling her closer by a step. He could at least get the final word in. “Very hard to break and even harder to get out of.”

The jaw of his mask opened so very slightly next to Marie’s ear. “You will be seeing a lot more of it.” then the jaw clamped back down in the air before the chain began to unslither from around her waist painfully slow.

A small, "Ew." left her as his head wheeled around backwards, but it didn't last long when those words left his mouth. He didn't mean... on her, right? No. No, no, no. Maybe it was context she didn't know, right? Her pale eyes looked between the back of his head and his lackeys as she leaned around him to look more clearly at them.

A silent, 'Don't you fuckin' dare!' if it meant what she thought it did. Her background wasn't at all hard to find. From the old news reports to the blog she regularly kept updated, or even indirectly with the interviews she did for work. She was littered all over and plenty of her information was free game. For once, she wished it wasn't.

Snapping straight once more the reporter let out a disgruntled sound as he pulled her closer, forcing her to stumble a bit as she attempted to resist. Once more her gaze lifted, always seeking to meet his gaze even when nervous.

"..." Her lips parted to speak but the feel of the chain loosening around her made Marie pause. Agonizingly slowly, she could feel the chill of it through her shirt and each link that gradually uncoiled from around her middle. It made her swallow, an involuntary sound escaping her - anxious for a few reasons and most of them she didn't want to address at all.

Only when it was loose enough to escape from, she did so. Ignoring the small chill that ran down her spine. The reporter shot The Jailer a look of mild annoyance and... apprehension in regards to his final words to her. With a scoff she quickly took off in a fast paced walk, the one hand that never ceased to stop clutching the harness beneath her shirt only held tighter and she fled.

[zahrastranslations]

Tan dulce / So sweet ✨

So sweet and perfect. Soft as the moon. Of my dreams, the owner. Of my luck, fortune. Of my flower, spring.

She’s driving me crazy if I think a little about her. The queen of my eyes. First protagonist of my most broken dreams.

[I don’t know if it’s the best thing to do, whether to live your way or paint everything in a different color and live my own way.]

She grabs my hair tightly. She bites my ears. She transports me to Heaven. She even bends the bars of my ice cage.

Such a sweet jailer. With her hidden keys she opens all the doors for me. She closes my wounds and goes down my stairs.

[Chorus x2]

How long without being a flower. How long without smelling the sea. How long without seeing the sunlight. How long looking, looking back (x2).

[17meltedcandles]

A bite of me🧁

🍪she/him

🍪minor!! (Guess lol)

🍪 very asexual (Aegosexual)

🍪I love my boyfriend sm🎀

🍪INFJ

🍪Mexican American girl

🍪ice skating,violin, piano

🍪 coquette, mori kei, dollette, starflesh, ice princess, ballet core

🍪The Cardigans, LDR, May Jailer, The Sundays, Folk music, Heavenly

🍪The Virgin Su1c1des, 50 First Dates, Dangerous Liasons, Kiki’s Delivery Service, I believe in Unicorns, The Last Unicorn

So many opinions, not enough words

[westdallasgang]

The story of how Bonnie helped smuggle a gun to Clyde inside the Waco jail: March 1930.

"One of the boys in jail with Clyde was named William Turner, and his home was in Waco. He had a gun concealed at his house, but didn't dare ask his sister or mother to bring it to him. He didn't hesitate to use Bonnie for the purpose, if she was game. With the man she loved behind bars, Bonnie was game for anything. Turner drew a map of his house, where the key was to be found, the place where the gun was hidden, the place where the ammunition would be. Bonnie was to get the weapon, but that was only half the job. She had to get it to Clyde in the jail without arousing suspicion and without getting caught. All of this was unknown to me at the time. I hadn't the least idea what we were getting into. I knew Bonnie was going after something for the Turner boy, possibly some article of clothing. She ran errands for Clyde and his friends all the time, anyhow. It wasn't till we got out there and I found nobody was home, that I began to worry. After Bonnie located the key and walked in, she cooly informed me that she was after a gun so Clyde could make a jailbreak!

I never was so scared in my whole life. My feet were like ice and my knees like water. I just knew policemen were all around the house, waiting to pounce on us when we came out. I begged Bonnie to leave, but she said, no sir, she wasn't budging till she found the gun. When I saw that she was determined, I started to help her hunt, for it seemed the quickest way to get away from there. The gun wasn't where Turner said it would be. We turned that house topsy-turvy before we found it on the window seat, and the place was in such an unholy mess that there was a big story in the papers the next day about it being ransacked. By the time we got the gun, I was simply shivering with fright. I felt that everybody we passed knew we had a gun and were going to stage a jailbreak. Bonnie wasn't scared, though. She put on 2 belts, one under her dress to hold her slip tight to her body, and another on top. She slipped the gun between her breasts in the pocket the 2 belts made.

We drove back to the jail, and Bonnie asked to see Clyde. The jailer said Bonnie already been up to see him once that day, and if she went up again, she must not stay long. Bonnie, backing off all the time, so that he wouldn't touch her and feel the gun, promised him if she could see Clyde for a minute she wouldn't bother the jailer for a long time—and believe me, she meant that. The jailer let her go up and I sat perspiring. Finally Bonnie came back. We left as quickly as we could. We drove home and went inside the house, locked the doors, pulled down the shades, and just sat there. We were both frightened now. Scared they'd shoot Clyde down. We didn't sleep all night and at daybreak, Bonnie asked me to get a paper. There it was—the whole story. Clyde Barrow, Emory Abernathy, and William Turner had walked out of jail to parts unknown. — Bonnie's cousin, Mary.

[aishangotome]

Chapter 6-2 Trapped in a Picture (身陷圖畫)

Chapter 6-1

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It was unbearably cold here. Even the heavy cloak couldn't block the bone-chilling cold. The lantern held by the guard leading the way flickered like a dying ember on a deserted island, threatening to go out at any moment.

After passing through the narrow, damp corridor, the Empress was led to the innermost cell. It was even darker here than elsewhere, and the only brazier had long since gone out.

Guard: Your Majesty, we've arrived.

In the shadows behind the cell bars, Li Rui sat quietly.

He wore only a single layer of clothing, his feet bound by iron shackles. Even in such a filthy environment, he remained meticulous, his back ramrod straight.

Empress: Leave us. I need to speak with the Second Prince alone.

Guard: But...

The guard didn't dare continue. The Empress's gaze sent shivers down his spine.

Once the guard left, the Empress removed her cloak's hood, revealing a pale face. Her eyes were moist, and her slender hands gently touched the bars.

Li Rui looked over, a smile gracing his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Li Rui: Mother.

The Empress took off her cloak and passed it through the gap between the bars.

Empress: Rui'er, put this on quickly.

Li Rui didn't move. His gaze lingered on the cloak for a moment before shifting away, his calmness unsettling.

Li Rui: There's something I've always wanted to ask you, Mother. How do you see me?

The Empress was taken aback, unsure why Li Rui suddenly brought this up. She watched as the young prince slowly rose and walked towards her, his full lips pale from the cold.

Li Rui: You once made me swear on my life to protect Y/N, no matter the time or circumstance.

Li Rui: When you said those words, did you foresee this day?

His expression was as gentle as ever, yet strikingly different from usual.

Li Rui: I did it, Mother. Are you satisfied?

Empress: Rui'er...

Empress: In my heart, you and Y/N are equally important.

Li Rui: ... Mother.

Li Rui echoed the Empress's words, a bitter smile finally appearing on his face.

Li Rui: Of course.

He turned away from her, retreating back into the shadows.

Li Rui: Mother, your health is delicate. You shouldn't stay here too long. Please go back.

Empress: ...

Seeing her once spirited son now tormented and haggard, the Empress's heart ached. Her intuition told her that something had changed in Li Rui, but what was it?

She carefully folded the cloak and placed it on the ground. She glanced once more into the shadows, wanting to say something to Li Rui, but the words caught in her throat.

Empress: Rui'er...

In the end, only these two words escaped her lips. The Empress sighed softly and, dragging her weakened body, turned to leave.

In the shadows, Li Rui's gaze followed her until her thin, frail figure, like a dying flame, finally disappeared into the darkness.

-

When Han You stormed into the interrogation room, the jailer had just poured a bucket of ice water over Li Rui.

The water, laced with ice shards, soaked through the bloodstained red garments. The person tied to the rack was covered in wounds, a strand of dark hair falling across his bloodless face.

Han You approached Li Rui with icy killing intent, showing no restraint.

Han You: You entered the underground palace again?

Li Rui's eyes were half-closed, he remained silent. So Han You reached out and pressed against the deep wound on Li Rui's waist. Han You wore a metal thumb ring with sharp spikes protruding from it.

Han You: Where's the key? Where are the things inside?! Did you take them?!

Li Rui let out a low laugh.

Li Rui: You'll never get it.

Li Rui: This kingdom will always belong to the Li family.

Han You: We'll see about that!

Yin Zhong stepped forward, holding a bowl of medicine. He pinched Li Rui's chin, forcing him to drink it.

Yin Zhong: Hundred Insect Claw. A hundred claws scratching at your heart, gnawing at your bones and marrow. No one can withstand its torment.

Yin Zhong: Your Highness... it's better to confess sooner. It'll lessen your suffering.

But Li Rui didn't struggle. He didn't even make a sound. He simply hung his head quietly, as if asleep.

If it weren't for the constant stream of cold sweat and his white-knuckled grip, no one would have guessed he was enduring excruciating pain.

Time ticked by slowly. Three incense sticks burned out on the table, yet Li Rui still hadn't said a word.

Han You's patience finally ran out. He kicked over the table, glared at Li Rui, and stormed out of the cell.

Yin Zhong followed, asking in a low voice:

Yin Zhong: General, do you really think the Second Prince took the "Yaoguang Records"?

Han You: Hundreds of people searched his residence for three days, practically digging three feet deep. They found nothing.

Yin Zhong: Then... it's still in the underground palace?

As if something occurred to him, a cold smile appeared on Han You's lips.

Han You: Hmph, even if Li Rui doesn't talk, our princess will help us get it.

Yin Zhong paused, the flickering firelight outlining half of his tall, ambiguous silhouette. He watched Han You's retreating figure, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes.

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Chapter 6-3

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

[danieyells]

I think some of them are? For example it's always like nordic winter in Frostheim all year round(short days, long nights, always cold, snow and ice), it's always raining or foggy in Hotarubi, it's always nighttime in Obscuary(zero sun ever, even in summer), Sinostra is a desert(not always hot though?), Jabberwock is much bigger inside and the environment is seemingly dependent on Towa's presence and mood(may be a coincidence that the water started drying up after he'd been gone for a day though). . .we know most of them have completely independent climates and such, if they're not essentially in their own dimensions. Basically the island is an anomaly and there are anomalous spaces on the island that constitute the dorms themselves. . .but i assume not all dorms seem to be anomalous(the Cathedral is clearly just a building sitting around out there?)

A colosseum would be cool! And with your breakdown of Clementia and Ultio the roman gods, a colosseum of vengeance in contrast to the tolerance and mercy makes sense. Although I'm still imagining them as authoritarian and having a harsher contrast to the image of Clementia's cathedral with the whole thing being like a fortress of sorts--walled off or crammed into a mountain so you'd never see it but they can see you or something. But maybe I'm taking their position as the jailers too seriously haha.

If they started it and both are gone now(and all of their ghouls are either dead or transferred out or imprisoned) that'd make sense, them having had been fighting for the longest. . . . On the other hand, it seems like there are other interpersonal issues between the houses that could have ultimately caused them to start fighting? Because the idea of pro/anti-anomaly doesn't really fit a lot of them, at least that we've seen so far, so for them to join in on their fighting surely there'd have to be some other reason? So the question is how did it escalate between two houses to include everyone? For Hotarubi to join in it makes sense but unless everyone's just toned down their pro/anti-anomaly sentiments???? It doesn't seem like most of them have strong positive or negative feelings regarding anomalies--the ones that do it's individual. Just feels like there's gotta be more to it that everybody got so involved.

on the other hand, the wickhive comment's use of "dissidents" definitely make it sound like the clash was about being pro or anti anomaly. Or at least that that's public perception. But "dissidents" also makes it sound like Hotarubi was against Darkwick or the Institute--and that made them seem to be anti-anomaly? Maybe that's just how i'm reading it though? Maybe Hotarubi's previous captain had totally differing views to Subaru? Also when they say "there's no way that guy's gonna let this slide" do they mean Haku, since he seems to be trusted by DW(enough so to, presumably, act as inspector for Taiga's mission and be given a skeleton key--although i'm not unconvinced he got it from Tohma) so they assume he's on their side? Or Cornelius? Or someone else?

On the other hand, how trustworthy are the comments supposed to be? ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

@sondering-thoughts

Oh, you're absolutely right! The Vagastrom students mentioned they'd normally go to Clementia to get things exorcised! That completely slipped my mind!! Good memory!

So Clementia likely specially dealt with spirits kind of like how Hotarubi specially deals with Japanese anomalies and Mortkraken specially deals with anomalous illness?

Also I'm kind of assuming that they lived in the Cathedral, not Dionysia or Ultio. But people who work with spirits and possessions living in a Cathedral makes even more sense--I mean most of the dorms and their surrounding locations kind of reflect on the nature of the house and its students, and the traditional house is Hotarubi so they couldn't live in like a Japanese temple or there'd be thematic overlap lolol

[mystic-mutation-archive]

tag drop, gotta do one of those to keep myself consistent-

[pyrrhiccomedy]

Hello ☺️, I’ve heard from your lovely lady companion Emily that you’re a very seasoned DM! I was wondering if you had any advice for beginners to DMing when it comes to things like improvising and making sure your first session has an impact on the players as their introduction to the world. Any advice at all would be a lifesaver! Thank you ☺️✌🏻

holy shit, a question about DMing. you have freed me, stranger. I can stop blogging about Troy (2004). 

First of all, I’m really excited to hear that you’re going to be DMing for the first time! DMing is understandably intimidating, but it’s also incredibly creatively fulfilling, and it’s something you’ll still be learning how to do better after 25 years. 

Okay, so let’s talk about session 1.

Your first session has a lot of lifting to do. You want to make an emotional impact, you want your players to learn about the world, you want to convey tone and genre, and you want your PCs to have a chance to band together and form quick connections.

I really can’t say enough good things about session 1 being about An Escape, because an escape scenario immediately poses a whole bunch of really valuable questions.

What is a crime in this world?

Who are your natural adversaries?

Why should you trust & rely upon your new party members?

What is violence like in this game? This says a lot about your game’s tone.

What will the next few sessions be about?

Literally, in 3 of the last 4 campaigns I’ve run, session one was An Escape. I’ll walk you through the set-ups for 2 of them (the third is a one-on-one campaign, so maybe not as useful to you).

In Vampire: the Masquerade, the party (all vampires) woke up staked to the ground in the basement of an abandoned school, captives of the fanatical inquisitorial group, the Society of Leopold. None of them had met each other before, all of them were confused, angry, scared, and low on blood.

What is a crime in this world?

Just being a vampire is a crime. You can be brutally attacked, captured, and murdered for being what you are. Your only recourse is to fight for your life.

Who are your natural adversaries?

Vampire hunters. They are not as strong or as fast as you, but they have dirty tricks up their sleeves and fanatical conviction on their side, and they do not see you as human.

Why should you trust & rely upon your new party members?

Without them, you will not escape your predicament. You know you can trust them because you have a common enemy. Each of them will have a chance to solve a problem with a unique skill that you do not possess, driving home that you can solve dangerous problems together that you could not overcome on your own. 

What is violence like in this game? This says a lot about your game’s tone.

Fast, flashy, bloody, and dark. Descriptions of injuries are savage; heads get torn off, chests get ripped open, shadows pinwheel wildly as the sole hanging light in the ceiling gets knocked around amidst the violence. But there’s a slick cool to all of it. You are in real danger, but you are also capable of dealing out grievous and acrobatic harm.

What will the next few sessions be about?

Upon your escape, the Prince of the city charged you all with seeking out the leaders of the hunters. Best not to disappoint him.

In my Call of Cthulhu campaign, the characters were all prisoners on a bus to the gulag, in Russia in 1938.

What is a crime in this world?

Literally anything, if you have displeased the wrong people. One of you received a letter you shouldn’t have seen. Another one wrote seditious poetry. Another was rude to a secret police officer during an investigation. Another literally has no idea why he’s here. There is a cold, kafkaesque indifference to the notion of fairness in this world. You have been disenfranchised and shipped off to do hard labor for almost nothing at all. Do not bother to look for reason in the machinations of the state.

Who are your natural adversaries?

The NKVD. They are all-powerful, all-seeing, and brutal. They could kill every last one of you right here in the snow, and so long as they filed the correct paperwork afterwards, there will be no follow up investigation. They have the key to the vehicles, they have warm clothes, they have all of the guns, they have the radio that is your only way of contacting the outside world. You don’t even have coats that will keep out the freezing wind. If you want what you need to escape this place, you will have to take it from them.

Why should you trust & rely upon your new party members?

You will be shot, if you try to escape alone. The tundra is vast and the NKVD are always watching. Your only hope is to cause confusion and hope that your numbers count for more than your jailers’ guns. And once you’re out, into Siberia? conditions are so hostile you have no choice but to band together for survival.

What is violence like in this game? This says a lot about your game’s tone.

Almost instantly fatal. You are shown fellow prisoners (NPCs) get headshot by the NKVD captain and drop to the ground, dead. Another NPC has a broken leg, and cannot participate in combat at all. If you get hurt, that’s it. There are no health potions or magic spells that will mitigate the effects of bullets and the biting wind.

What will the next few sessions be about?

As you escaped, you saw strange apparitions across the snow, which caused the radio to malfunction. You are fleeing in your stolen truck from the NKVD, but where are you going? Where can you go, except towards the mystery?

Escapes are great, too, because as a DM, your list of things you need to prepare is pretty concrete. You need:

- Mooks

- A boss for the mooks

- a map of the immediate area, so your players know what avenues of potential escape they have

- a couple of NPC fellow prisoners for them to talk to & for you to kill along the way (alternately, this can be a great way to link the party up with future quest-givers straight from the jump).

- A list of possible resources to aid in their escape that they might be able to get their hands on (a fire axe? a radio? a car?)

- A couple of ideas for spanners to throw in the works (if things are too easy/going too quickly, maybe this NPC fellow prisoner turns on them, hoping to curry favor with the NKVD; maybe one of the hunters has a flamethrower to force the vampires to double back; maybe it starts to snow with white-out conditions, maybe something is being filmed right outside and the vampires can’t bust through the steel doors without potentially breaking the Masquerade).

Another great thing about escapes is that they’re geographically isolated. So you don’t need to have The Entire Starting Zone figured out from session 1: you just need to know about this one truck stop in Siberia, or this abandoned school in Queens. When they gain access to the wider world, the session ends, and you should have an idea of where they want to go next.

And if any of their captors survive, you may have an act 1 villain on your hands. Don’t get too attached to the idea that any of them WILL survive; but if they do, and the party bears them a grudge, find them a place in the story, flesh them out as an adversary. Your Big Bad means nothing to them yet, but Captain Volkov, the NKVD captain who pursued them across the ice like a relentless automaton, scares them.

Another thing I like about escapes is that they feel very natural. There is no quest giver; they have an obvious goal they can all agree on, and the obstacles to achieving it are built into the situation. It’s a solid framework for an adventure that you can pack a lot of worldbuilding detail into along the way.

Good luck!

[go-hux-yourself]

Synchronicity

This is Day 4′s FebuWhump prompt fill for impaling :D I swear the past three fics I wrote have all taken place in a jail cell HAHA :) This fic titled Synchronicity, and I went with gingerpilot for the pairing ;D YAAAAS

See also on my ao3 here. My masterlist archive of bullshit i write can be found linked at the top of the blog or here.

--

“Hey! Hey! Listen to me, he’s gonna die if you don’t let me stop that bleeding... Hey!” Poe was trying to get the attention of their jailer; a reptilian humanoid similar in form to a Trandoshan, though where they had two arms, this one had four.

He didn’t know where he was-- he’d only seen the planet from orbit before some sort of anomaly was recorded, and then he was crashing- and then he’d woken up here in this weird cell on an oddly-warm stone block. He thought he’d been hallucinating when he realized there was someone in the cell next to him- the last person he ever expected to see.

He’d thought at first that he must’ve died in the crash landing-- that he was seeing a ghost in some kind of limbo of his own. He’d had reports that Armitage Hux-- the Starkiller, their spy, villain and antihero in his own right- was killed in action. Apparently the force had other plans for the general, because Hux was definitely lying there and that was definitely the blood of a living man dripping down the side of the slab.

There was no way this could just be a simple coincidence. More like divine providence. Or maybe Poe had hit his head really hard in the crash, because there could be no way that he was getting a second chance to act where he hadn’t before; to save Hux like any of them wanted to be saved.

He’d regretted leaving the man behind ever since he’d done it, and Hux’s death weighed on him with everyone else he felt he’d used as pieces in a battle.

To get a second chance to make things right, though….

Poe had checked his head further for injury just in case, still not uncertain that he wasn’t just hallucinating. But then, he didn’t think he’d hallucinate the ex-First Order general in such mundane clothing… or hallucinate a slow-bleeding wound on an unfamiliar world.

Hux’s chest moved up and down in shallow breath, so he was still alive, but he wouldn’t rouse no matter how loud Poe was in trying to get his attention. He wouldn’t be alive for much longer if his wounds weren’t seen to soon. Hux wasn’t even fully on the wide rectangle of stone, his body at an angle and legs over the side as if he’d been hastily dropped there. Poe didn’t know how badly Hux was injured, or even how long the other man had been there before Poe was brought here too, but it was clear that he needed help.

Poe stuck his whole arm out between the bars that made up their cells, now waving madly. His attention was split between desperately trying to appeal to the guard, and looking at the thin line of red down the side of the stone Hux lay on. “I’m telling you, he needs help! Come on!”

His appeals either hit their mark, or Poe had annoyed the non-human enough to peak his curiosity, because he came down to their cells to peer into Hux’s with scrutiny. The guard’s voice was apathetic. “He’ll regenerate. He’s already hibernating.”

Poe’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He didn’t know anything about this species, but clearly they didn’t receive many human visitors. Or at least, not injured ones.

“Humans don’t work like that,” Poe said with an urgent shake of his head. The guard scoffed. “Look at the blood, man. Bleeding usually stops after so long for any species, right?” Poe was taking a guess as to how long they’d been there, but it had to be a couple of hours at least. Moreover, if the guard thought that Hux should be ‘regenerating’, then the fact that he was actively bleeding should’ve brought that line into question. “He’s hurt really bad if he’s still bleeding. You gotta let me take a look at him. Please.”

The jailer looked between them, scratching the back of his head with one hand, another on his waist, and still another toying with keys at his belt. He pointed at Poe with his last hand, staring him down with ice-blue eyes. “If he dies, you’ll be blamed for it, mammal.”

Poe gave a blink for what he was pretty sure was an insult, but didn’t care. “I don’t want him to die. I want to help. Please.”

There was a long look over Poe, taking him and his strange anatomy into clear consideration of the request. He must’ve decided that a human would be best treating another human, because Poe got his wish.

Poe was made to stand with his back to the four-armed guard, facing the wall with arms on the back of his head while the doors were unlocked and secured. The width of the doors when fully opened spanned the hall, subsequently blocking it off in sections to contain various cells. He then gave Poe instructions to turn, walk directly out, and move directly into the neighboring cell to take up the same stance in Hux’s.

Escape crossed his mind for only a moment, but Hux’s unknown injury, the large, curved-blade on the humanoid’s back, and all four of those arms to take on by himself was enough of a deterrent. He couldn’t escape without the other man either-- Hux was the whole reason the war was won, and he didn’t deserve to die here. Regardless of what anyone else might think.

Poe wouldn’t just leave him to his own chances again.

With the turning of the key in the lock, Poe looked over his shoulder, but he was left in Hux’s cell without much more regard. The guard left in much the same mood of apparent apathy as he’d arrived. Poe didn’t waste time gawking, instead turning to the man the entire galaxy thought was dead.

Hux was wearing some sort of brown robes over long trousers and shirt-- a shock for how utterly normal he looked out of uniform. But there beneath the robe Poe saw it-- a piece of something sharp sticking out of the man’s side staining his shirt and puddling blood beneath him.

Poe could only guess how deep it was in there. It looked like a piece of broken metal-- part of a ship’s console, maybe? Something else?- and it stuck right through the material of his shirt and into his torso. There might not be much Poe could do if he couldn’t remove that. And he shouldn’t-- not without bandages and something to stick in the hole- but without supplies, basic first aid would only go so far.

Poe just about jumped out of his skin as he’d been so focused on being careful with triaging Hux that he didn’t notice that the four-armed guard was back. A small, simple cloth satchel was tossed into the cell behind Poe-- mammal’s medicines, the guard specified- and he was told he better not be lying about medical intent, and to fix him if the man wouldn’t regenerate on his own.

Poe wasn’t going to question his good luck and the surprising decency. Maybe things would work out. He dug into the bag and found the components of a ship’s medkit. There was bacta, bandages, and some other ointments and creams for burns. A trauma kit as well which actually looked like exactly what he needed, but no tools or tweezers of any kind to pull the thing out of him.

He’d have to do this with his hands, then.

Poe opened an alcohol wipe that was graciously present, cleaning his hands and going over his plan once more in his head.

It passed a lot faster in reality than it felt to Poe. Removing the piece of metal impaling Hux’s side, the man twitching in some form of awareness while Poe literally patched him up. Quickly staunching the wound, applying the bacta, waiting.

...Scared it might be too little too late as Hux went further pale from the pain.

Hux’s lashes fluttered several times before he opened them enough to frown with disbelief up into Poe’s face. Poe couldn’t help smiling as he held his hands over Hux’s bacta-laden injury, having followed the instructions on the packet. The wound-sealing medical bio-foam was doing its job, and he stopped counting in his head, certain the seal would now hold on the wound. He just hoped nothing important had suffered too greatly beyond the quick fix that would buy them some time. If any of his organs had been pierced, Hux would still need medical attention.

“You’re not hallucinating. I’m really here,” Poe as their eyes met, thinking Hux was probably wondering the same thing he had upon setting eyes on him. “You’re the last person I expected to see, either, but that’s okay. You’re hurt pretty bad, and I just bandaged the wound. I think you might’ve crashed landed here like I did... ”

Hux bodily shuddered and grimaced as pain flashed through him, eyes shut and skin ashen. “....Dameron…”

“Yeah,” Poe said, worry shooting through him as Hux looked-- frankly- like absolute hell. “Hey, you’ve got a friend here, okay? I’m just trying to help. You hang in there for me, Hugs.”

Hux made a face at the nickname. “...Dameron.” There was a sort of recognition to his tone, as if to say ‘Oh. You.’

Poe just smiled.

If Hux had the energy to be annoyed at him, then he was optimistic that he wasn’t on death’s doorstep. Or at least, he hoped so. Really, Hux needed to be seen by someone with more than just battlefield patches and first-aid kits. It got Poe thinking.

The jailer had cared enough not to let Hux die. Maybe he could get him to help him again.

Hux shivered despite the warmth of the rock slab he was laying on, and Poe removed his jacket to throw over the other man’s chest to try and make him comfortable.

He was going to need real medical attention, and sooner rather than later. Poe had no idea if there were other complications from the metal that had impaled the other man, but Hux was going to live if it was the last thing Poe did.

He wasn’t going to let him down. Not when the universe was clearly giving him another chance to make things right.

Poe stuck his arm through the bars to frantically wave and holler for their four-armed jailer again.

He felt a sprig of hope as the guard once again gave him his attention.

–

my kofi | ao3 main

[riftofthestars]

This one was fun to converse with and figure out. Unbeknownst to him, they were both very attentive to each other, having taken note of her mannerism when speaking of those who decide to stay in an unfavourable situation. There were no chains - that he could see - that gave him any sort of hint as to who she could have been talking about. But that was not important now

Putting his hands together, he tilted to the side. "You assume that I choose to terrify people actively - and possibly at all times. While I do have to make my presence and threat known, all it takes is one good scare to be remembered the same way you remembered the ground underneath your feet when it is not there anymore; when you have to take conscious stepts to avoid a whole in the pavement possibly."

"However, I have no interest in abusing animals - or people for that matter - but to impose my power upon them. Afrer that, there is no reason for me to leave those who know no better in a hellish situation. Those who choose to stay there, even when knowing better and being able to change that, are fools in my opinion however." He was genuinely disgusted to some extent by those who chose to do nothing despite having the power to change their situation and it reflected in his tone. He considered he could evaluate a person good enough to understand where they stood in such circumstances.

"There is a certain ammount of control I seek to give everyone, enough so they are able to know better, be better. After that, whoever still chooses to remain behind shall be left in the dust. I would say that is fair, would you not?"

riftofthestars​:

He did, in fact, believe himself to be worthy of those specifics. Anyone with decency was, he thought.

“I will argue that is not true. It is not people who create their own hell, but their circumstances and outside influences.” He has been through it enough already to understand that well. “They choose how to approach a situation, emotion or philosophy based on the information they have been given and the experiences they have lived through.”

“Only when having the privilege of different perspectives and the ability to understand them, yet they still choose to torment themselves while being fully aware is when they truly create their own hell. Otherwise, they are simply under the illusion of control while they suffer from events outside their power.” Throughout his whole explanation, possibly for the first time on this blog, he was just as polite and calm, not looking to be above someone else in any way, shape or form.

The agent’s head quirked to one side. Quiet a moment, sincerely taking in his words and pondering over them as she sought to process what he had said before simply speaking in agreement or disagreement. As her tone may have suggested about her mannerisms, Nestor walked around to face the Jailer at a conversational distance. Not wishing to be rude now that they were conversing. His words weren’t false, her mentor (at least, the one of the two that was deceased) would have said similarly. But there was an exception.

“I don’t find myself in disagreement but I think there’s another thing to consider, sir. People who merely live in their circumstantial hell know no other alternative until they learn. As you said, they are under the illusion their experiences have crafted for them. And even some that have chosen their hell are under similar illusions due to their experiences. Not all - some people certainly… decide to exist unfavorably.” Amber eyes flickered off to the side momentarily, clearly able to think of some specific individuals.

With a thoughtful hum Nestor then looked back to him, “Besides the latter, would terrifying the prior not be any different than tormenting an animal that knows no better? If they are bound to their limitations, their nature and unable to see a way beyond presently?”

[riftofthestars]

"Let's be~gin."

"I'm gonna make you wish that I stayed gone~ When I'm done your satus-quo will know its race is done."

"Oh This will be fun."

[riftofthestars]

The reporter was a strange one. The way her actions fluctuated were indicative of something going on behind the scenes, but he couldn't put his finger on what. And she was right. He knew much less than he would have liked to let on.

He could not help but respect how she stared danger in the eyes, even if it was just a mask that had dropped soon after. Even if only in short bursts, such courage was rare.

His back straightened completely with a few more cracks and his head turned completely around to look at his two guards. "Schedule a background check once we get back to the manor." He ordered before turning his gaze back to Marie.

"It is indeed a very sturdy chain." He tugged at the chains again, pulling her closer by a step. He could at least get the final word in. "Very hard to break and even harder to get out of."

The jaw of his mask opened so very slightly next to Marie's ear. "You will be seeing a lot more of it." then the jaw clamped back down in the air before the chain began to unslither from around her waist painfully slow.

riftofthestars​:

It wasn’t effortless, but he did manage to tug her closer. Eye to eye without bending over as much this time.

His hands remained firmly on the chains - he had no intent to actually touch her. He caught her movements and figured the chains really scared her, but he had no intent in doing anything physical beyond that.

“This went past my complaints and past what I want already.”

“I may do this for selfish reasons, but you cannot deny it is a fault of yours” he became calmer and steadier as he spoke, rather than the frustration he showed before. It was an odd habbit of his, giving advice when unsolicited when he thought it would help, even to those that he was against and those that annoyed him. “you acknowledge your mistakes, but use them to put yourself down rather than improve.”

“Deflecting my insults back at me will not hide that.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“You’re not around me enough to judge what I do. You don’t know the mess I used to be and how I’ve improved from her. Friends and enemies only get to comment on these things, because only friends and enemies are around me enough to actually know.” One hand uncurled from her chest to grab hold of the taut chain around her middle.

Willingly the reporter stepped closer as she maintained eye contact, “You’re neither. You can talk all you want but it just makes it all the more obvious you don’t know as much as you think.” Marie’s tongue clicked audibly as she harshly relinquished the chain.

After a second of her hardened stare she melted a little, trying to wriggle out of the chain around her middle.

“Let me go now, okay?” She began trying to loosen the chain, twisting around in it, giving a little hop. As if her own mask never dropped. A little slap was given to the chain, “Aha, wow... sturdy.” Aha... Yes... Wow... Chain... Ahem.

[acornrising]

I feel like if any flight has the most potential for really weird cults and alternative religious styles it’s gotta be ice because Icewarden is just. So needlessly and almost negligently... antagonistic is a bit to strong for the sentiment I wish to invoke, but antagonistic toward his ‘children’. Is he proud of any of them? 

Like. I’ve always low-key wanted another ice breed to be the overachieving golden child to stand over the tundras because I love throwing rocks at my favorite breeds, but like. There’s also something really poetic an enticing about the Concept of a god who is never content with what He makes. Never happy, never satisfied, except for maybe a few fleeting instances until he realizes that, unlike the things he keeps frozen in his vaults, what he creates is destined to change without his input, they will make their own decisions, and they will be disappointing in their own way. 

Icewarden’s whole shtick strikes me as someone obsessed with preserving a single moment in time that maybe never existed. He’s the historian god, the museum god, the preserving god, but that comes with a resistance to change that only leaves him surly in his own powerlessness against it. 

And the ways in which a people can respond to that frustration and disappointment on a cultural level is myriad. I’ve spoken before (Long long ago...) about the potential for a cultural divide between Tundra who strive to become A Race God Can Be Proud Of by frantically attempting to achieve ideals they were poorly built for, and the Tundra who have essentially disowned any responsibility felt toward Icewarden and either sought out more compassionate gods or gone antitheistic in their practices. But there’s gotta be a wide stretch of ways those pan out as well. Puritan ice dragons living suspicious and rigid lives in fear of God and his forgotten jailers. Hedonistic ice dragons with their endless bonfires spitting in the face of the God who rejected them. Dragons who just live simple lives knowing there’s a God up on the mountain, and also knowing that he doesn’t care enough to intervene in their day to day.

idk part of me really wants to dig into the potential cultures of the Southern Icefields because that’s the same part of me that gets really into Man v God conflicts. 

[hearteyes-candyskies]

bitter blooms (yandere aizawa x reader)

a/n; retelling of hades and persephone

1.8k words

-------

The sun glints in your hair the first time he sees you, casting a halo of light on your otherworldly face. It blinds him. 

You’re playing in the field with your attendants, nymphs that could never hope to be as lovely as you. Flowers bloom beneath your feet- literally, white rosebuds and zinnias and little daisies that stand proud.

He watches for hours, until the whole field is covered in fragrant blooms and the sun has started its slow descent down. He didn’t think you could get anymore beautiful, but as you stop to watch the blood-red sky, ruby light illuminating youthful features, his heart stops. 

He decides that he cannot live without you.

On the other side of the field, unaware of your secret admirer, you decide you cannot live without the sun.

In both of your fierce desires; one selfish, one innocent, the ground in which your love will bloom is salted, condemned to death.

-------

He watches you for six moons, watches as the warm spring sun brings pure joy to your face and leaves sweetpeas in your footsteps, views the soft white of Eucharis lilies trail after as you revel in the never-ending heat of summer. 

Below, the world of the dead slow to a halt as their king spends his days yearning after a goddess with a warmth so unlike his own, wondering if they might be able to bring warmth to his cold, dead realm. 

Hades decides he has to find out. 

------

The bright yellow blooms of Narcissi are the bringer of your doom. You cannot help but reach for them- so lovely and unlike any other flower in your arms, but with the first brush of velvet petals against soft skin, the earth rumbles and a chasm forms. 

An abyss of darkness chases after your nimble feet, but even graceful leaps are unable to save you, soft soles unused to running, unused to danger. As you fall into the never-ending void, you wonder if this will be your end. 

Gods can’t die, you know that much, but to endure an eternal descent in pitch-black would be close enough. 

Your lids flutter closed, assured that the soft rain of bright petals above you will be the last thing you ever see. There is a warmth to this darkness, almost like the brush of robes- 

Strong arms catch you, and the darkness takes the form of a man, solemn and somber with eyes like Chaos itself. The antithesis to your world of light, and yet you cannot help but think that he is more beautiful than any flower the sun could give you.

That does not mean you stop loving its warmth.

-------

You cling to your light robes for a week, until they are tattered and worn, gossamer fabric dirty with your own sorrow and fear. The marble palace is not cold, per se, and yet you find yourself shivering every time its lord leaves you. 

The hatred you feel at the warmth he gives you is only eclipsed by the cold fury of being separated from your home. Picked flowers die, stems growing soft, petals withering; you know that much intimately and from experience. 

He has not dug you carefully out of the ground, roots intact, and transferred you to another home; no, he has snapped your stem in blind ignorance, caging you in glass for his own admiration, both knowing and unknowing of your slow demise. 

Petals fall, colours fade, and yet he still cannot see that it is he who kills you. 

‘Shouta’, is all he has said when you had gotten to your knees and begged the lord of the Underworld to set you free. 

‘For you, my name will never be Hades, only Shouta.’ He holds you as he says this, salty tears seeping into the cool black fabric of his robes. Your skin burns where he touches you, but it is not like the anger of the sun. When mortals die of cold, they begin to feel feverish, overheat, and in their final moments all they can do is strip to escape the oppressive, imagined heat before the ice takes over.

You are in your final moments, stripping away parts of yourself as the incandescence of Shouta’s love burns you alive and freezes your heart. Orange lilies turn to candy tufts, and the world above has a taste of its first winter. 

-------

When you tire of locking yourself away in cold marble rooms, you begin to wander your new home. Sometimes you sit on the small black throne next to Hades himself, listening as souls petition the cold king for mercy, for another chance, another life.

You want to shout at them to go, to stop wasting their never-ending breath and eternal time, because you know better. Shouta will never let you go, not until the end of your long, immortal life. He has tried his best to give you a poor approximation of one, but it means nothing when he has stripped your former life away himself. 

Still, time goes on, and it becomes tiresome to carry such rage. It grows weary, when there is no sun to measure the days and years mean nothing to a god. Sometimes, you sit on his lap, wrap your arms around him and tuck your face into his neck. 

Flowers are beautiful, and you are grateful for your ability to create them, but they do not lend themselves easily to power. Hades makes you feel unstoppable.

‘Shouta’, you whisper into his ear, eyes half lidded and body languid against his. ‘My lord.’ The shudder that runs through the god of the Underworld at your words is as sweet and heady as any ambrosia, and brings a warmth so different than that of the sun.

Petunias bloom in your wake, strange and lifeless in this cold, unfeeling world. Your anger and anguish at being torn from youthful innocence is a raw wound, and though it is Hades who caused it, it is Shouta who soothes like a cool balm against fevered skin. 

Your imagined heat drives you mad with thirst, and Shouta is cool water, a fresh stream trickling through the snow. 

-------

His flesh is cool against yours the first time you let him into your bed. Warm hands trail up the hard plains of muscles carved from marble, and when your touch lingers for too long, it is as if he steals your warmth for his own. Selfish even in his most basic of functions.

It’s been who knows how long, and though you are not mortal, you fall prey to human cravings. Pleasure can be found in the most undesirable of places, and as soft praise spills from hated lips, your heart wrenches. 

Hades, no, Shouta, is your jailer. He is your lord, your king, your husband by decree of Zeus and he is the one that holds the keys to your prison, who lets you rage and sob and bury your face in his robes all the while looking with eyes of immeasurable sadness.

He kisses sweet apologies up the flesh of your thighs, devours you like Tantalus seeing food, drinks you in like you are nectar from Ganymede’s cup. Surely someone who brings you to such heights of pleasure cannot be as bad as you think?

You think of Hera, condemned to a loveless marriage to an unfaithful husband, love turning rancid to hatred like sweet wine to vinegar. At least your husband will never leave you; has sworn on the river Styx that his love for you will never run dry, that he will never let you go and your snare of his heart will never end.

That is more than most can ask for, you know. Love does not come easy to ever-living beings, when hundreds of years pass in the blink of an eye and personalities remain unchanged. No room for growth, no roots for love to bloom. 

The earth of your love has been salted, but it is earth nonetheless. Hades’ soft, mournful love nurtures the delicate petals, and you do not forget your love of the light.

You cannot live without the sun, but Shouta is your sun now. 

Shouta cannot live without you, so you will never leave.

-------

When the spirits that crowd into the throne room become more and more skeletal, eyes gaunt not just from lack of life, you know something is wrong. Your mother’s name falls from restless lips, angry and resentful, and you know. 

The land above you is dead, as barren as your mother’s heart without you. Shouta cannot live without you, you cannot live without the sun, and your mother cannot live without her daughter. 

She is playing her last, desperate card; an eternal winter as cold as Zeus’ refusal, as empty as his mind when he promised a child to his brother. Soon, the dead outnumber the living, gods starving as sacrifices stop while Demeter roams barren fields lamenting the loss of her love. 

Unbalance is rife within the world, and Hades is no fool. On the fifth year anniversary of your disappearance, Shouta takes you by the hand, guilt written clear across his face, eyes filled with such bleak despair that your heart aches for the man who kidnapped you. Your heart aches for your husband.

When you reach the destination, tears well in your eyes, tears of joy and tears of sorrow. You know not to eat the food of the Underworld; lest you bind yourself eternally to the land of the dead. Yet, perfect and whole, a small pomegranate tree stands proud, flesh as red as the rubies which litter your husband’s kingdom. 

‘I- I am sorry. A choice, for when you had none.’ You’ve heard the whispers; Hermes will come on behalf of Zeus to negotiate for your freedom, for the survival of the gods. Your freedom is on the tip of your tongue, close enough to taste, and yet all you can dream of are the tart burst of blood red arils. 

With shaking hands, you split the crimson fruit, taking six perfect seeds in the palm of your hand. Your choice- six months in the sun, reveling in the memory of lost innocence and childhood, and six months here, ruling the dark land of the dead at the right hand of your husband. 

You look into the eyes of the man who stole you from your life, who gave you power when you had none, who looks at you like you are more precious than all the gold and gems the Underworld has to offer, who offers you the keys to your prison five years too late. 

There is sweetness to be found in sour moments, you think. You strip away the final piece of clothing, expose yourself to the cold, core burning bright, and embrace the cool kiss of death. 

Shouta’s lips are warm against yours, and you wonder when you began to steal the warmth back from him. It does not matter- your white rosebuds are long gone, petals dried and dead, and there are only tulips now, yellow as the flower that first pulled you in. 

Salted land still bears fruit.

[vindiraysa]

Prisoners.

Snow has a scent. If asked to describe it Vindi would be at a loss for words that made up a physical description. To her it was a distinct scent that brought about a calming effect upon her. Much like the dampened sounds of forest and fields, hushed winds, and gentle illumination it gave the night; it soothed her thoughts, slowed their thousand yalms pace, quieted the incessant background chatter of her mind, and gave her a sense of comfort. Not tonight. Here she sat, legs crossed and hands on a box in her lap, snow seen beyond the edges of what her vision could reach and bundles of trees spread in-between all around her. The moon hung high and the snow fell in fat, slow, flakes around her, trees clacking or cracking from the expanding frozen water within their branches. While Coerthas was a discomfort to many, to Vindi it was beginning to feel like home. While away from those she loved it felt safe. The dim glow of her indigo eyes fell upon the box in her lap. With the soft white and midnight hue of her surroundings the red-draconic scaled box looked more purple. Bare fingers smoothed over it and fell towards the lock and paused. There was no key for this, only a short, sharp needle that stuck out. Blood magic; only she could open this small chest.  "Startin' to wonder, y'know.  If I's was ever meant to be free." Certo's words from the prior night echoed her mind and her chest tightened. Freedom. Her heart lurched and ached at the word. What resided in that little box used to be her jailer but now it was little more than a horrifying memento. The plague of suffering it delivered now weakened and dulled when she brought  it with her to this new home. It was still there, the potential to all come back, a seed in her blood and mind that now lay dormant, sleeping. It slept. It gave her freedom as it did and yet... Something warm and damp slipped down her cheeks only to slow and freeze before it could fall away. Gingerly she reached to touch the tear and sighed; crying when alone was becoming an unwelcome habit of late. There was never any sobs or relief that came from it, just a wet, frozen face and a sense of frustration. This sadness wasn't for herself. This heart ache, anger, and lust for violence wasn't because of her own problems. It was for theirs. It made her envy the days when the only person she gave two shits about was herself. She could possibly keep her magic in check if she still felt that way. She wouldn't have ended up in a situation where control over her magic was an issue to start with. Where ice and frost were both her enemy and her friend. Bare fingers drummed atop the box, claw tips looking more like sharpened icicles than cartilage. It should have alarmed her but at this point she saw no point to feeling concern for herself. It's not like she was going to last much longer anyway. That's what her gut kept telling her, at least. Lifting her gaze toward the moon she hummed a soft tune as she thought; what form of comfort could she leave them? How could she help give them each their own freedoms back? Their jailers were each unique in form; some emotional, some magical, some deeply seeded in their blood like her own. She had witnessed some of them escape of one 'prison' only to be shackled to another. She thought back to Certo's words once more and let her body fall back into the blanket of snow. "Perhaps his line of thinkin’ is right.. " Vindi mumbled, searching the stars for a sliver of something, anything. Once upon a time she would have remained stubborn, hopeful, demanding of her friends and loved ones freedom. 'No one is meant to be a prisoner!' Her voice would have rung out angrily, stoking the flames of determination. Those feelings had run numb and out of reach. It was all she could do to muster a smile and laugh as if nothing were wrong anymore. What if he was right? Freedom was never meant to be for them, for any of them. A new jailer would always be waiting.. No matter how hard fought it would always end the same. A plague. A curse. A book. How do you fight for the ones you love when all you're doing is setting them up for a new battle that will hurt more than the last? A void. A needle. A portal. A spirit. A thought. The list would never cease from changing. It would never end.