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ehlnofay · 28 days ago

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One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

#posting these two one after another is. fun :)#I lovee characters that just slightly misunderstand each other. causing pain and suffering for ever and ever #martin goes this will be sad for them... but at least I can apologise before I go. and at least there will be people to care for them #and I will at last atone for my many horrid sins (mostly existing and bearing witness to the terrors)#meanwhile to pax. the only person that cares about them + figurehead for their entire sense of purpose and confidence has abandoned them.#the Big Dragon Statue is apt because when martin died he made himself a monster #both the only good thing in the world and the thing that took it away #pax hates him. hates herself for hating him. loves him. hates herself for loving him. cannot fathom anything she knows to be true #about their relationship #If He Cared About Me He Couldn't Have Done This. so he never cared #so the dragon with its head arched to the sky is insult to extremely literal injury #so I will NOT be comforted or looked after thanks. I will die at your feet cursing your name and failing that I will lash out as hard #as I can and then disappear from historical record #(to go break into a physician's office and stitch himself up. pax says to himself that he's had worse but Worse was also major abdominal #trauma that caused hypovolemic shock. the perspective is skewed)#and everything is so so sad forever THE END thanks for reading :D #oc tag #pax #martin septim #the elder scrolls #tesblr #tes #oblivion #fay writes #my writing #hero of kvatch

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simcardiac-arrested · 29 days ago

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IM SURE YOUVE ALREADY EXPLAINED IT SOMEWHERE but.. may i ask about the story in bitter choco decoration. I like those guys :)

you’d be surprised but i apparently have never talked about these particular ocs’ story in detail on this particular tumblr blog. so i shall do just that…. i tried to summarize but it got kind of long oops, as it always does when i talk about my mentally ill ass ocs

so! as u might already know the guys in the video are rikki and william, and the animatic happens from rikki’s pov. rikki is basically the golden child of the family—smart, well-behaved, always keeping her parents satisfied, etc etc. generally she is put under a lot of pressure a lot of the time. and then her family decides to get an insurance child so to speak—just in case rikki fails in life—but they don’t want to go through the trouble of raising another one, so they decide to adopt.

that’s where william comes in, baby! now he is decidedly Not the golden child. he is the problem child. parents thought they could reform him—well, not much to show for that. but him and rikki surprisingly get along, even though they’re opposites. william actually gets someone who cares about him for once and wants him to be okay, and rikki gets someone who wants her to be more bold, stand up to others and consider what she herself wants instead of people-pleasing. he even gets her to make snide jokes and cut her hair. they’re best friends, it’s nice. for a while.

but, none of it is perfect. you know how rikki always seems to be smiling even though she’s clearly not having a good time? and you know all those red eyes that appear pretty much everytime william’s on screen? rikki has so many layers of masks that william never really feels like he actually knows her. and william, even though he mostly wants rikki to do her own thing, can still kind of be selfish and controlling (because he’s a teenager, and traumatized, and scared of losing his best friend, but it doesn’t change the fact that rikki feels the same pressure from him as she feels from their parents).

so this all culminates when they’re in high school and rikki buries herself in work—she wants to secure a good education and a good job so that she can actually get them both out of this shitty abusive household. for the first time in her whole life, she has a Goal that she personally has chosen. she now has someone to work hard for. but she also ends up spending a lot less time with that someone because of her studying, and it eats at william and eats and eats until—it turns out rikki’s hard work has actually paid off. she’s gotten a scholarship, and she can leave for a good university and she’s finally achieved something that she herself has wanted to do and not anyone else. for both of them. for her brother.

except her brother doesn’t react with support, like usual. he’s not cheering her on now that she’s fulfilled her dream and beyond. he just looks betrayed. because they’re best friends. they promised to be there for each other, to get out of this hellhole house together. how could she leave him behind? how is he supposed to make it without her, who is he going to have on his side? william loves her and wants her to be happy but he doesn’t want her to leave.

so in turn—because rikki is a) an avoidant little bitch who would rather masterfully evade conflict than try to have an opinion and b) doesn’t want her brother to hate her forever and not speak to her ever again—in turn, rikki, as always, as second nature, lies. i mean, it’s her dream, it’s something she’s been working towards for years, but she’ll stay. she’ll leave it behind. it makes perfect logical sense to her—best of both worlds: she doesn’t spend the last summer at home with her brother resenting her, and she still gets to actually go to university. it is basically flawless.

all up until, you know, the day comes where she actually has to move out and go to university. and william inevitably finds out that she lied to him. and they fight. it’s not good. it’s not happy. they end up separating on really bad terms, and not talking for the next 7 years because william runs away from home pretty much soon after rikki leaves (it’s not shown in the animatic but he does go MIA, rikki visits home once on holiday to find that her brother is just Gone, no one knows where he is, her parents couldnt give less of a shit, not great all around!!!) then rikki ends up graduating and looking for an easy first job, just to kind of set her foot in Job World.

unfortunately, it is also the exact same easy, convenient job that her brother ends up picking. hoo, boy. long time no see.

#suffice to say. their current relationship. is. Um. strained to put it lightly #it does not spark joy #they both think the other didn’t care about them and abandoned them #even better than that rikki sort-of-tried-not-to-think-about-it-but-still-sort-of-thought that her brother might’ve been dead for years #so. that’s also fun #they have a really fun relationship and it makes them amazing coworkers #and their other coworkers do not feel like they are children of divorce witnessing another silent fight #when they have to deal with rikki and william #cramswering #amd yes the eyes in the animatic are a symbol of pressure. white ones are just general pressure + from rikki’s family #and the red ones are pressure from william in specific. u can see as the animatic goes on that the red eyes appear more and more #and yes as you can see i hve done it again and created fucked up siblings in the petri dish of my mind. but they came first before the #mentally ill robot siblings. and yes they were very much inspired by the stan twins. the first iteration for will’s and rikki’s backstory #was almost like a gravity falls rewrite. except they were just best friends. Then 2 years ago i was enlightened by holy visions and ever #since then they’ve become the world’s most insane codependent siblings to exist #but do not fret for one day they might talk it out maybe. and by that i mean fight it out and make everything even more awkward #you know how it is

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kebriones · 2 months ago

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A lesbian movie where they're all pathetic broke losers in their pathetic neighborhood and the lesbianism arises from "what does anything even mean anymore why don't we fuck on this terrace"

#not based on any real events I've personally witnessed #you'd be surprised what a bag of cheap chips and an abandoned little building can awaken in you #what the garages of random apartment buildings where you're hiding from the storm can awaken in you.#what having nothing going on and still chilling with the same girlfriends you had at 12 in the same exact spots can awaken in you

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eikichi-supremacy · 5 months ago

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and they were singin', bye-bye Miss American Pie // american oldie i think kuwabara unironically listens to

(low effort lyric edit im queueing here in May cos im probably gonna forget it exists otherwise)

#qeued post #for June cos hey pride #the idea of kuwa seeing his friends in a holy almost godly light namely yusuke #and having them all leave unexpectedly #cos before that night at Genkai's i feel like it was solidified in kuwa's brain DESPITE the sidekick complex #DESPITE the fact that he's human and the least powerful member they are still decidedly a team #A team he has a place on. But then all suddenly springing this... YUSUKE springing this departure on him. shatters that belief #yusuke says he'll be back and it seems to make things better but even so kuwabara's face still looks so solemn when he leaves #Likely cos he knows yusuke is just saying shit and doesn't even know if it's possible to come back #this wasn't supposed to be a kuwameshi post it's really not but there's always that undertone when i talk about them so #He just admires them all so much yusuke above all others only to be left behind and that's gotta fuckin hurt #The way we don't see the resolution to this feeling. The lack of belonging the abandonment #next time we see him he's just supposed to be over it but we don't really know if it actually happened #So I like to play with the idea of like . Did he really like healthily accept things or #did he just repress it and deal. Cos like eng dub he tells yusuke ''forget all that stuff I said'' immediately taking back #his harsh words bc it's either stay mad stay upset or quickly forgive and move on cos this could be the last time. or even the jdub #where he doesn't even allow the vulnerability to show enough to trail off he just spouts the normal shit bc it's what they DO he immediatel #tries to get back to the normal dynamic and push himself to being fine with it right now bc he doesn't have the luxury of being upset #when it doesn't matter cos yusuke's leaving. the last thing he hears from him shouldnt be reckless shit he was saying when he lashed out #aka i dont think kuwa's feelings get seriously addressed enough and this episode haunts me cos of that very fact #Im not making any sense. Nico as my witness I swear I was more eloquent yapping to him about it #kuwabara kazuma #yu yu hakusho #kuwameshi

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seaweedoverlord · 1 year ago

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The Monk and the Monkey

''What are you?'' The monk asks the animal- no, the creature before him. It stands on its hind legs without any trouble nor struggle. It does not hunch, it does not move. He watches it warily, and his eyes struggle to maintain eye contact, and not to stare at the way he has been carried away from. Where the carcass of the enormous tiger that stands fallen, in a pool of blood and the heavy smell of the metallic blood that he no longer can see or smell.

But to get distracted in the human’s case, would be a mistake if not the being was quite happy yet best not to risk it.

One second, it stares and the next, it stands before him with a bright grin and a tilted head. He startles, dropping his staff as it opens its dangerous jaw to answer his question.

''I am many things,'' It starts speaking, and the Monk thinks it can see the silhouette of a monster behind, watching, in smokes and another thing, another thing that smiles, amused while the human starts to sweat, his palms getting colder and colder.

‘’A wicked demon,’’ It states, grinning with a mouth far too wide, and a grin far too sharp, while the monk gulps with tense shoulders.

‘’A celestial being,’’ It states, as it smiles with gratitude, and a smile full of joy, and the monk relaxes, without being aware, for its genuine smile resembles that of a child a bit too much, tricking him into a false sense of security.

A false sense of security it is,

For a shark may be content, but it still has a mouth full of sharp teeth and a hunger for blood when you cut open your heart and lay it bare.

‘’But moreover, I am human.’’ It says, shrugging and standing back while the monk stares. He continues to stare as it stares up at him, with its tail lazily swaying behind it. He is well aware that he should probably try to find a way to leave, instead of interacting with it, but he blurts out without thinking before his mind can catch up with him.

‘’H-human? Y-you don’t look human!’’ He exclaims, and rightfully so as well, for the being standing before him is a tad bit too hairy, with hands instead of feet and of course, not to mention, the tail it has!

‘’...’’ It stares at him in silence, and it looks up and down while he nervously shuffles.

‘’Your close minded view, as much as it amazes me, is also disappointing.’’ It finally states after an awkward amount of silence and the monk can only drape his bamboo hat over his face, halfway to avoid eye contact since it unnerves him and says nothing to refute its claims more so because he is too meek to argue with a creature who can topple over a demon four times its size.

‘’Tell me what is a god, and what is a demon?’’ It asks, and the monk has no answer which seems to frustrate the creature before him as it invades his personal space once again, forcing him to stare right into its bloody eyes with the moon in them.

The monk stutters as it sighs, snapping its fingers and the human sees magic come to life before his eyes.

‘’A god represents the ‘kind’ side of humanity, while a demon represents the ‘foul’,’’ It says with a crescent smile but a condescending tone, and the monk steps back as his eyes jump back and forth between the mirrored version of the creature.

‘’Here’s a riddle for you,’’ It doesn't look at him as it becomes one, but he thinks it might see inside him anyway.

‘’If I am both, then what am I?’’

The silence scratches on, as tiny crickets pass, and the forest quiets down as if to listen to his answer.

It's a lot of pressure, he thinks when he sees it watching him like a hawk, like the rest of the world that holds its breath.

The human thinks as he lowers his head and thinks. He eventually comes to an answer as opens his mouth as the being before him stares at him nonchalantly, yet with a slightly wagging tail, clearly full of expectations about his answer.

‘’A monkey?’’

The monk, obviously, plays it safe for he feels like this is a trap.

The monkey’s nose scrunches up, and his eyes squint.

‘’Hmph,’’ It- He almost sneers at the human. His eyebrow twitch, irritated, and his tail thumps the ground once, twice and stops still. The monk, for a second, thinks he almost might see a pout.

‘’Typical mortals.’’

He says with distaste and the Monk, Tang Sanzang,can only stare at the tiny murder monkey and think:

What are the chances that if I beg, he’ll leave me alone?’

But the monk can only weep for it will be a long fourteen years.

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