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kazeofthemagun · 2 years

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Worth of Wolves

That's right. The monster never called itself a monster. That wretched title only fell from the lips of the mob, raising pitchforks and waving torches. That - was no name. It was an insult. An excuse, so that they may deem him an animal and feel better as they refuse, time and time again, to treat him like a person. By their definition, he was much better off dead.

[First meeting with Silver Storm. The very beginnings of the cursed one’s untold legend. Pre-series, expanded backstory drabble. 7.5k words.]

[cw: blood, war, death, child abuse, child death, trafficking, child slavery mention]

Day of the Ox. Fifth morning hour.

Windaria was waking to life. Like an animal in its own right, stirring with the earliest light. Having rested the previous day, it was time to set to work, let sleep-heavy blood flow faster, open eyes behold a new dawn. Much needed to be done before the first hour of the Sun rendered the cobblestone streets a scorching deathtrap, a forced halt in the bustle of the city. Then, when evening came, once again would the diligent animal of the city toil in blood and sweat.

He awakened along with the very first rays of morning. A boy, eleven or perhaps twelve cycles old. Ask him his exact age, and he would not answer.

In fact, the boy without a name seldom answered to anyone. The Land of the Winds was a harsh nation, prideful like the eternal golden sand. The Winds only ever danced across the heavens, paying little heed to those that dwelled in the dirt. The worm could only reach up, curiosity brought on by rain, rearing a mulch-soft head to gaze at what lay above.

Those who lived below quickly learned to keep their head down. And their hood up. A distant rustle of metal plates and the sound of kivani hooves beating against stone saw the boy's left rise instinctively to pull down the worn fabric that sheltered his features. In his right he held a small, rusted knife. All the polishing in the world would not absolve that wretched thing, reddish-umber patterns clinging closely to the place its handle met metal.

He was not alone here. Blue eyes swept slowly across the church hall, meeting a pair of orange staring back from the half-shade.

"Maru?"

Less a name, more a form of address by necessity. After over a year of living together, it became quite awkward to only call the nameless boy precisely that.

It was one of the rare moments the ever-sealed lips of his moved, stretching out into an almost shy smile, as though the smallest softness came difficult to a creature of sharp edges and hard shells. The persona of silence he had built - it protected him. The animal that made less noise was less likely to be hunted.

"Ïsta."

The foreign name rolled off his tongue in a hoarse voice - one as rusted as the knife he now carried. She smiled, and despite her sunken-in cheeks, it could well be the sweetest smile in the world.

Maruku - the boy branded wolf - lowered his gaze to stare wordlessly at the bandage wrapped over the girl's right hand. The rag was tattered from use, yellowed and reddened in places where friction had sheared skin. She noticed his attention, hiding the injury from sight.

"Hand. How?" There was worry in his tone as he spoke in somewhat broken Lahriktaarese. Granted, considering the Temple had conquered and enforced its ways upon most of the world, the language could well be simply called Windarian. "Does it bleed, again?"

"A little. But I'll be fine, I can still work." Ïsta replied. Despite their shared predicament, fiery amber eyes were as full of passion as ever. Even so, there was a sadness and worry behind them, a maturity so uncharacteristic of a ten cycle old child. "I worry, Maru. Worry that Yani..."

The other children had begun to stir as well, some cries erupting here and there as an old, overworked Priestess of Soil worked to soothe them. In total, there were about ten orphans between two and seven cycles of age. War raged on in the south, bringing refugees to the small merchant-ran city of Tonnavrel. The Wind Warriors of the capital reinforced the army on the front, hoping to secure yet more territory from the struggling nation that had for so long denied their religion. It was clear the Keep Beyond the River would not hold.

Most of the immigrants were either executed for heresy, sold into slavery or converted, still doomed to a life of poverty. Age hardly mattered. In the eyes of Lahriktaar, the people from Beyond the River may as well be animals; Only good for servitude.

Though officially of Lahriktaarese faith, some local temples still believed in the true path of Soil and goddess Alaeyra, the kind bringer of rain. Like rain, they worked to mend the land. All spirits were equal in the Soil - deserving of equal chances at life.

Ïsta was a name from Beyond the River. In the open, she went by another name, one more palatable to the Wind cult. Though she had lost both her father and her mother, her true name was a dearest keepsake. Maruku idly squeezed the wooden clan sigil he wore around his neck, and rose.

"Church is poor. No food, again." He sighed, moving to aid the priestess with the rest of the kids. Loving words and gentle touch could only help the starving so much.

They spent a few hours helping around, both with the refugee children and the building's upkeep. Through washing the tiles and preparing the main chamber for morning mass, they earned what little coin the poverty-stricken priests could spare. Most of it was spent on sustenance, leaving very little to replace the torn clothes they wore. Even that was in short supply with the Wind armies' march south, stripping Tonnavrel of both resources and manpower. The lifeblood of economy ran ill with the plagues carried by war.

Windaria was a land rotten to the very bedrock by ceaseless slaughter. The boy's young mind found it all hard to understand. Politics were a distant, hazy shadow he could hardly hope to grasp when he still sometimes struggled with forming correct sentences. Such was his unfortunate fate after being neglected throughout his earliest years, kept hidden by the Scribe. Only after his reluctant safekeeper’s death did the outside world crash down upon him with all the weight of total indifference.

It had still been better than being left for dead at one cycle old. In the end, he had survived, and met people who looked at him with more kindness than malice.

And for once, the nameless wolf's distant eyes learned to smile. Even when he and Ïsta held Yani's tiny hand as he passed on from illness. Not even half their age, a sickly forgotten son of yet another fallen warrior. It was the best someone like him could do. He could not heal him, for he was useless. Nobody could, when even Alaeyra herself failed. But he could sit there, and attempt to do what Ïsta did best. Comfort.

Even as their statues adorned the walls, chiseled stone bodies at an arm's reach, the gods were so awfully absent.

Ïsta was crying. Now that the others could not see her, emotions flowed freely past ever-strong eyes. He sat with her, unable to do the same. Was there something wrong with him? His heart wept yet his eyes could not. More than sorrow, he felt that strange gnaw again. An insidious gnawing sensation that made the bones itch, brows furrow and teeth grit, fangs on display. The feeling of someone exposed to injustice from his earliest days - to the point it was all he had ever known.

It made him angry. So, so angry.

"Maru..." She sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her dress. It was all she could say. Small hands dug into the dark fabric of the wolven boy's tattered poncho. It was alright. She could cry here, into his darkness, and he would hide her tears from the very world. A weak swallow. "When you finally get out of here, what will you do?"

Ïsta wanted to be a painter. She always said so. When she asked him, he never answered. But this time, he knew. He knew what he wanted to be.

He had seen it, that day. During the annual celebrations, when the military rolled through the city, adorned with ceremonial capes. The weapons they carried were meant to bring death, but in that moment, he was captivated by their gleam and the verses that carried on the Winds like a song of fire itself.

The creature they had called - it was named, "Phoenix." And it was magnificent.

If he were the Phoenix, so brazen and strong, he could eradicate the evil that poisoned the land. He could take flight on blazing wings and burn away the rot and corruption. He could stand against those foul beasts that enslaved children and render them all into ashes, melting accursed chains to usher the wronged towards new dawns. He could become the Sun and shine with kindness, not cruelty.

He wanted... above all, he wanted to be strong.

He was sick of being weak. Sick of being powerless.

"I'll become a warrior." Oceanic blue met amber orange. His right hand found and squeezed the hilt of the knife hidden beneath dark fabric. "I'll... fight. But now, I go." He pulled up his hood once again and walked towards the entryway. "I'll get food."

And like a passing shadow of a hawk, he was gone. A wide-eyed Ïsta wiped the last of her tears and yelled good luck.

The wounds on her hand had opened again, soaking dirtied rags.

---------

Seventh morning hour.

The thief had found himself a target.

Blue eyes observed an elderly Windarian as she opened the back door to the bakery, bringing in crates. There was a muffled hiss of pain as she attempted to lift one, and a wrinkled hand rested on the woman's spine. She remained bent for a little while, massaging her aching back. Everyone in town was simply trying to get by, small businesses hit especially hard by the nearby war. So, too, was he.

It was not personal, never was. A few pieces of pastry would help feed the starving children and the owner would not go hungry herself. Deep down, Maruku hated stealing, but he had little choice in the matter. It was best to desensitize himself.

Especially for things like him, it was a dog eat dog world. And today, the dog had its sights set on as much fresh bread as he could carry.

He waited for the woman to engage in a conversation outside before sneaking behind a barrel, then slipping inside. The smell hit him first, mouth watering in an instant as he practically sprinted towards a fresh batch laid out upon the closest shelf. Good, good - the boy snatched several large loaves, cramming them beneath his poncho, under an arm. He had what he came for - it was time to escape. Blue orbs scanned the room, weighting the pros and cons of using the back door again instead of the proper entrance.

The owner and the man she was talking to were still there, chatting idly about something. Maruku leaned against the wall, listening intently and gauging distance. Yes, they had moved closer. They were now standing close to the wall on the right side of the rear entrance, and the chances they could spot him were high. On the other hand, using the main door meant he would run right out into the crowd - someone was bound to notice his unlawfully-acquired cargo and Tonnavrel had little tolerance for criminals. Especially serial offenders. He swallowed, then decided to peek out the way he came. Just a little.

As his shit luck would have it, the man was looking directly at him. "HEY!"

All rhyme and reason to high hell. He bolted in the opposite direction.

He made it through the storage and leapt over the counter, scattering neatly stacked coin. The man was hot on his trail, fit of body and jumping the counter without much effort. Oh gods, gods - the wolf's small heart drummed loud as thunder as it thrashed wildly against ribs. The chase. In that moment, his insult of a nickname proved hardly accurate. He was no wolf. He was a rabbit, and the man behind him was the predator with gnashing teeth. The people gathered on the street gasped.

Run, rabbit, run. Your life could well depend on it.

He felt a hand clasp over and yank the back of his poncho - pulling down his hood and spilling the bread over pavement. Blue eyes went wide, feral. He had a knife in hand. A rusty shard of metal, the only claw to his name.

The man yelled something, snatching the fabric at his chest and lifting him into the air. Thin legs kicked hard at his captor's stomach, to no avail. He had a knife in hand.

He had a knife.

An ungodly sound, halfway between a hiss and a growl - and in a flash, the shabby blade found its way into the adult Windarian's eye.

The screaming was horrible. He was released in an instant, scrambling to collect at least two of the lost pastries before running like a mad wind, bloodied metal clutched in a vicelike grip of terror. He fucked up. He fucked up. This time, he fucked up. Oh gods, gods. Phoenix..! If only the Phoenix could save him now.

The shrill wail attracted the attention of a patrolling soldier. More yelling, and a set of armored footsteps followed. It was closing in, fast. Agile as the boy was, he was weak from hunger and his legs were still short. It was only a matter of time before his pursuer caught up, a-and then... No, don't think. Don't think. Be like you used to be.

Only silence. And instinct.

Like an animal.

He weaved inbetween passersbies, relying on his speed and others' shocked inaction to bring him closer to escape with each step. The civilians were too confused to stop him and deep down, most of them did not want to contribute to the apprehending - and subsequent punishment - of a thief that young.

Not when it was not their livelihood stolen. If it had been, he was positive they would be more than happy to see him bleed.

What he could not achieve with speed, he would with smarts. The redhead took a sharp turn left into a dark street, catching a glimpse of stacked boxes in the periphery of his sight. A quick assessment, and he leapt, making his way up and clambering onto a stone wall to then make for the roofs. More yelling, including that accursed word.

"The kiichimarichuril! Get him!"

His hood was down. No time to fix it, not with the food in one hand and reddened knife in another.

"He stabbed Vrynn! Medic!"

"Little fucking monster!"

"Hey! I know that one! Thief! Thief!"

His heart threatened to burst out his chest like a panicked bird. Flapping straining wings, pushing feathers like needles through ribs, searing pain surging in his lungs. He was just about to faint. But he couldn't.

No, no... He... Not only he... the others... needed...!

There was a sharp impact against his ankle. The dull sound of wood. Oceanic eyes widened, a pounding pulse skipped an entire beat.

His balance was -

A loud clatter signified his messy fall, small body slamming into an empty cart before rolling down onto the ground. Bread went flying everywhere, and so did his knife. His only defense. Maruku - Kiichimarimaruku - tried to force his body to stand, to do anything. Shaky limbs refused to move, a wheezing cough erupting from between dry lips and chipped teeth. His side...!

It hurt to breathe. Something warm pooled in his mouth, dripped onto the pavement.

The soldier approached slowly, smugly. In his hand - oh, the world was spinning - was a long, wooden object with a triangular shape at the tip. A spear. He had been got... swept off his feet by that spear.

A gloved hand reached down, and the boy could hardly fight back. By his hair he was lifted up, weak wide blues staring into the face of death itself. Such a striking visage, tempered by violence and unafraid to deliver it. He yelped, feeling his body dragged out onto the main street.

He wanted... saßu... he wanted to be strong. Stronger than this man. Never would he hurt children like so, even thieves. Surely there could be another way. If only... all that fighting stopped... everyone could live equal and never have to beg or steal.

Saßu...!

"Look what we have ourselves here." Another voice, one gruff as grinding stone. "A flea-ridden runt. Heard ya nearly killed that poor, innocent man." A kick delivered into his side. Another wheeze, and he spat warm blood. His tongue hurt like fire, he could not speak. "Oh, shit." The other soldier commented at the generous mouthful of red now splattered against cobblestone.

It was not the type of "oh shit" one would say when recognizing one's wrong. He learned that much when another kick drove a wedge of agony into his empty stomach; He let out a raspy screech. This time, he found the strength to bare his fangs, flashing wild eyes from beneath a curtain of disheveled crimson.

"Where's ya family, brat? Or are you an asiju?" Asiju. He recognized that word. Clanless. Yet another reason for them to look down on him. He replied not, panting heavily at the military man's feet.

That gnawing sensation... again. He could feel it. It dwelled deep within his bones.

"Weeell?" The warrior lifted him again, one bushy brow rising in mockery.

"Fuck... you." The wolven boy wheezed, and spat right in his captor's face.

The encroaching haze of deathly fear that suffocated him was gone. This was the growl of a living beast. He was alive. He would fight. Nothing else mattered, only the fury powered by his pain.

What blood and spit remained in his mouth all but turned to foam as he began to thrash, fingers outstretched as claws and digging into the exposed skin of the soldier's arm. Thick brows furrowed in a mixture of surprise and disgust, briefly letting go at the boy's display of madness. Maruku heaved, eyes wide those of some disease-stricken mutt. Garlands of thick, reddened saliva hung from an open mouth, teeth poised to strike.

What burst from the depths of his throat was the most inhuman scream he could muster, sending gathered onlookers jumping several feet back in alarm and confusion. It was almost as though he had caught the desert-death. Going insane with illness, striking at anyone in range before going down himself.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. If this was the end, he would go burning like a wildfire.

He could not see her with his sights set on the man before him - he could not see Ïsta as she came running to join the crowd, the old priestess in tow as they heard the infernal commotion. He could not hear their voices nor glimpse the girl's outstretched bandaged hand as she reached in vain for her friend.

Instead, all he could see was a rush of red painting his vision in a singular shade of wrath.

The dark-clad boy lunged with speed he hardly should have been able to muster, grabbing onto the man and digging his teeth into the fabric of his glove. There was a staggered yelp, a deep crease between furrowed brows that only spoke of violence in return.

"This brat is fucking insane!"

Another gloved hand buried into his hair, yanking him off his target and throwing his body ragdoll-like against the pavement. It knocked the wind out of his lungs, and with it, the mad spirit that seemed to possess him. Another cough, and the youth could only focus on the pain.

"Enough with this nonsense! You are guilty of theft as well as a violent attack with a sharp object. Now you're guilty of assault on a Lahriktaarese warrior as well." The last part was added with an ugly grin. This was it. The feeling sank in, a freezing sensation taking hold and stifling the flame that yet burned within his chest. This was it. He would be punished. He would have his hand taken off - perhaps his entire arm. And then he would die, because who would even help a wretch like him?

What fight remained inside would never save him from a grown warrior, let alone two of them. Even if by some miracle he slipped away, the crowd would surely stand wall and capture him again. The situation was hopeless and - oh, gods - he may have just killed a man over a few loaves of bread. What if he did? What if the knife went too deep and that man was dead?

Was this... justice? An innocent's life for one day of sustenance?!

He just wanted to help the church children. He just wanted... to help. For once, not be entirely selfish.

The remembrance of the Phoenix dominated his senses. The scent of soot, the warmth of fire. The brilliance of it all against the starlit sky, illuminating the night as if it were day. Summoners. They called them... summoners. Those who wielded power over those godly creatures. And the creatures were called... Espers. Each time they were invoked, it had to be done with the use of three souls.

A brief, second life before they returned to the earth with the breath of the Winds.

He remembered. He remembered the incantations well. A part of him wondered whether should he recite them, the great beast of fire would descend from the heavens to save him.

The verses... that summoner used.

The hold of the darkest earth, Mother Black.

The pyre of the gods, Fire Red.

The splendor of a living sun, Burning Gold.

The splendor of a living sun. He liked that. He would like to see it again so very, very much. But it seemed it was the darkness of the earth that would embrace him instead.

Once again he was dragged and thrown in front of the gathered crowd, a circle quickly forming. His captor’s boot found and dug into the side of his head, spilling a mess of crimson hair for all to see. He snarled like a beast as the city watched. A hunger for entertainment, eager eyes happy to witness another's agony. It was then that she registered to him.

Ïsta.

...He... had failed her. Had he? What foolish thinking. The notion that he could have even helped at all. What if they find out? That the church gave him shelter? Would they not pay for his idiocy as well? Kiichimarichuril. Little fucking monster. He mouthed her name, daring not speak it aloud.

The soldier’s boot pushed harder. He yelped, biting back tears as his arm was bent, cold steel touching his right wrist. The hand that had carried the knife - the tool of murder now abandoned somewhere in the dark alleyway. This is it. That sole thought raced through his mind, enveloping him in its entirety. He was shaking. His entire body was on fire and his battered side felt like it would split open at any moment. That damned soldier was saying something. Still quivering, with tears of pain welling up in those deep ocean eyes, he spat again.

Come on, get it over with. He fought not to beg. Do it. Spare me. He fought so hard. The metal felt frigid against tan skin.

"Hey! You there."

...Who?

A deep, grizzled male voice hollered from behind the circle of spectators, drawing the soldiers' attention. Maruku could only turn his gaze so much with the way his body was still forced against the ground.

There was a pair of... dark leather boots, the edges of a black cape. The way the newcomer stood was quite nonchalant, weight shifted to one side. "Let him go, I've seen enough. Taking this one."

There was a round of hushed, offended whispers. His captor let go of his arm, relieving the horrid pressure in his shoulder. "You what? Ohnzhejhar, you cannot possibly be serious."

"I am." The man - Ohnzhejhar, Silver Storm - affirmed, a hint of impatience in his voice. "By the law of the Wind Warriors, I choose to recruit this asiju. If he has what it takes. If not, I will return him here myself."

The whispers ceased, a stunned silence following in the wake of the strange Windarian's words. His tormentor saluted and stepped aside, side-glaring all the while but not daring to question a superior in rank. The wolven boy's body was beaten to hell and back and well on the verge of breaking in half - but he grit his teeth and rose, standing on wobbly legs to better see his savior.

The man was... monstrously tall, from this angle. Long silver hair adorned his head, eyes yellow like the Elder Moon staring unfathomable from overneath sharp cheekbones, the right of which was marked by a violet symbol of a crescent. Dark tan skin was painted with a long blue streak across the nose, seemingly sectioning his face into halves. His right arm bore some strange metal cuff - no, not cuff - a heavy engraved bracelet with what seemed to be a port of sorts.

"Done gawking? Then let's go." A gruff rumble, and the man began to walk.

...What? What did just... happen?

The man before him. His rescuer. He was more than a soldier. He was... a Wind Warrior. And what was that weapon upon his back? A gun as intimidating as its owner’s presence. Questions upon questions raced through a weary mind, but he could not help but search for her face in the crowd. Ïsta..!

There. There she was. In that moment, their gazes met.

Terror painted those orange eyes of one he had come to consider a friend. He wanted to reach out, to apologize. His lips moved, silently mouthing her name. The girl's eyes widened, and she stepped back. He glimpsed a brief flash of fear shadow over her features, and she slipped away into the crowd. She was afraid.

Afraid to be discovered; As a friend to the kiichimarichuril criminal.

No, no... he had to talk to her. Back at the church, he could go back and explain - that way, she would not have to be seen anywhere near him. No, he - saßu - he could not just leave them all like that. Even if he...!

I'll become a warrior.

His own words. His very own wish. And at some strange whim of destiny, or as a morbid joke from the gods, it came true.

I'll fight. But now I go.

He had to. Had to go. He had to catch up to that man, battered bones and lost blood be damned. His bit tongue still hurt, a dull throbbing pain seizing his entire form with each step he took. No, no - the chance he was given, he could not squander. The first real chance... in his entire life.

In those blue ocean eyes, the man named Silver Storm became as the very divine; An earthly god extending a helping hand to the wretched omen child.

Kindness, even laced with thorns, would become deified.

A single tear fell from the wolven boy's eyes; He blinked the moisture away, turning his back to the audience that had hoped to spectate his downfall. Turning his back to her.

"W...wait.." He called after the silver-haired warrior, half-running, half-stumbling after his savior. His chest felt heavy, but so long as he could yet breathe, he could walk.

The man seemed to ignore him, continuing to walk at a steady pace on those long legs that rendered his steps closer to a plains lion's leaps. For each of Storm's strides, he had to take four. Droplets of sweat rolled down a dirtied face painted with blood and grime alike. Saßu... what was up with that man? Did he change his mind? Had he already forgotten about the tiny shape following in his shadow? Perhaps he wanted nothing to do with him, after all. Saßu, he couldn't... keep up that pace.

He was going to lose him.

Or so he thought. With quite the massive delay, the warrior reacted to his request, slowing down until he eventually halted, half-turned head staring with a golden side-eye. The way he glared, it sent shivers down the young Maruku's spine. "Hmm..." That voice, powerful as a landslide. "Let me see."

He approached, and the redhead boy froze in place. His eyes sparkled with pure wonder, even as his body would much rather seize up in primal terror. Becoming stiff as a log, tense with anticipation, each and every one of his instincts trained to brace for danger.

The warrior knelt down, both hands enveloping the asiju's sides, forcibly rotating him once, then again. He could only stand there, allowing his body to be guided by that monstrous man's hands, a little inspection of his form he would endure until his rescuer was satisfied with what he saw. Moon-yellow eyes looked on with an utter absence of emotion, an all-encompassing boredom painting steeled features. Another hmm resounding, a guttural noise, as though excavated from the belly of a beast.

A hand left his side, reaching for a satchel hanging at the warrior's waist. A pinch of what seemed to be... shimmering emerald dust, set into motion by a circular movement of the Storm's wrist. "From life's ether... Evergreen."

A press of an enormous hand against his chest, startled gasp forcing its way past the wolf-child's lips as he watched the Soil itself glow and take hold of every ache in his body - snuffing them out like dying candlelight. Suddenly, his side no longer stung like so. He gawked.

The youth's awestruck expression must have prompted the mage to speak. "Close that mouth before a hornet flies in." Was that... a joke? Told in a deadpan dryer than the Sand Sea itself? "Here." A bottle of water was passed his way, snapping him out of his stupor as greedy hands immediately brought it to parched lips, chugging the clear liquid in large and messy gulps.

"Do you have a name, boy?" One silvered brow rode higher, the Storm's question hanging heavy in the air. The mage resumed walking, just a little slower than before.

A name...? A name.

The redhead lowered the bottle, staring with wide, shining eyes. The light within slowly dimmed as he finally looked down, burying his gaze into the dirt. "No... no name. They only call me Maru..ku." A pause, and the boy considered. He may as well give the full version - the brand he had carried since his earliest days. "Kiichi...mari...maruku."

The Red-Haired Wolf. The Windarian word for red was interchangeable with blood. The very blood that supposedly granted his hair that rich crimson hue, a mark of the calamity that followed in his wake.

The Wind Warrior walked in silence for a moment - weighting his words behind yellow eyes. "Kiichimarimaruku, huh? That is a curse you carry. One that runs deep in your veins. You cannot escape it. But you can fight it."

"Fight...?"

"You have iron in your eyes and fire in your heart, churil." Stated the silver warrior. "A blade is what you will make. With the Ladnajredvi as your crucible. If you want to survive in this land, that is."

Was that... the name of the Wind Warrior's clan? A word for the sea and another he did not yet recognize. Yes, it must have been. In a way, was the blue line across the soldier's face not like the calm surface of water? Perhaps, one day, he could venture out to see the sea with his own two eyes.

The lively main street eventually gave way to farmland; animals kept for milk, meat and hide alike mooing, cooing and yowling their way as they passed by. What little grassy fields clung to Tonnavrel's walls like a babe to its mother soon reclined into gravel, life-giving soil metamorphosing into rocky desert.

At the final city gate awaited the distinct shape of a wagon, a beast of burden standing in front and eating out of the basket attached to its muzzle. The kivani's long tail swayed to-and-fro as they approached, a low rumbling noise offered in greeting as Storm's left hand smoothed over its head, tracing overneath its ink-black eye and the ridged base of a horn. "Steel Shrike!" He called out. A warrior - painted similarly upon the face - turned to salute her elder. "Prepare the kivani. We're moving."

There was another quick salute and the Ladnajredvi soldier set to work; Dark eyes briefly falling on the boy in Storm's shadow. She did not question, attention focused entirely on her task; Removing the feeder, double-checking the harness. She, too, was tall. Maruku seemed to shrink further the more people drew near to greet their returning leader.

"Alihkar. Good to see ye. Who's this?" Another voice inquired, expression unreadable behind a helmet. The hefty warrior peeked around his chieftain's side - and the redhead simply walked out from behind Storm. Though uncomfortable he was, his eyes turned into a picture of conviction. Appearing pathetic in front of the people who offered him kindness was the very last thing he wanted to do. The man seemed pleased. "Oho! A brave lil young'un. What a crazy shade of hair you have there."

Maruku scowled, inciting the warrior into a bout of belly-laughter. Silver Storm let it go on for a while before raising a hand and prompting the man to stop. Hearty chuckling eventually calmed down. "Look at 'im face. What a threat display. I like 'im, Ohnzhejhar-vahree, I like 'im. Kinda bloody though, 'e aight?"

"Stabbed a man." The mage casually replied. Ah yes, knife violence. The absolute most normal thing in the world. "The hunter-zealots wrung out the kid's hide."

A head of crimson promptly whipped round, large blues staring dumbfounded at the man whose intervention prevented his own, rather untimely, slaughter. Yellow eyes looked down, quite unphased. "What’s the matter?" Storm seemed to know exactly what hid behind shocked silence. "I saw. The man will live, though short an eye."

The boy could only open his mouth like a fish, searching for words that never came. Instead, he closed it and sank lower into his tattered poncho, making a show of averting his gaze. Well, at least he had confirmation now. He was glad... he was no murderer, after all.

But.. did that mean Storm had seen everything?

The armored man whistled, head bobbing up and down before his gaze returned to his leader. "A criminal?"

The elder nodded. "Thief. Swift on his feet and not afraid to sting."

The boy's hand instinctively went to trace over his knife's handle only to find it missing. Though its condition was terrible, it was the only weapon he had ever owned. Thanks to it, he managed to peel back shells and kill small animals he would not be able to otherwise. With it gone, a part of him felt he had just lost a faithful companion. A fragment of himself. Now he truly was a wolf without its fang.

"You look proper hungry." The jovial warrior commented - reaching for a satchel to retrieve some dried meat. He knelt down and held the scraps out, a little offering of peace. It was then that Maruku's stomach growled loudly, only deepening the scowl already painting his features. The food was promptly snatched up, much to the man's amusement.

The warriors - including Silver Storm, there were four in total - quickly finished their preparations for departure. The supply cart began to move and so did armored feet, aiming to reach the nearest village before the height of the hours of the Sun. From there, they would continue westward as soon as the searing heat gave way to evening.

"You've been through a lot today. You can go sit on the wagon." It was an offer he had to accept, lest he faint from too much excitement. The wolven boy climbed up, positioning himself in the front of the vehicle, a sheet of dark green fabric stretching overneath to provide much-needed shade. From there, he simply stared on ahead, observing the slow change of the landscape and listening to the quiet crunching of gravel under hoof and wheel alike.

Before long, weary lids began to droop, and he laid upon his side, lulled to sleep by exhaustion.

---------

Day of the Rabbit. Ninth morning hour.

The journey to Keep Ladnajredvi lasted three days in total. They moved by early dawn and evening and rested by noon. The west of the province offered relatively safe passage, the only risk worth considering being wandering bandits but even they had long since moved further south to exploit the raging war. The trip was uneventful; Interrupted only briefly by a passing rock drake. Still, the beast knew better than to start a fight with four grown, armed Windarians - instead ignoring them as it dragged its scaly belly across the road and disappeared into a cave.

It was because of the long, boring hours on the march that the youth’s mind began to wander. From his earliest memories to the still-fresh scene of bloodied cobblestone and heavy boots and mocking gazes. And her. Disappointed, having learned of the violence that lived inside him. In the end, that gnawing anger shared its nest with guilt.

And from then on out, he would do his best not to dwell on the life - the lives - he left behind.

Rocky desert once again began to change; Almost as though Windaria herself was a dragon shedding scales. Sharp stone fell away to reveal a kinder, softer land, a stretch of plain peppered here and there with trees. In the distance loomed heavy, coiling spires, a special type of natural formation shaped by Soilwind.

The boy walked at Silver Storm's side, gazing in awe at the fortified Keep rising from the horizon. The longer they marched, the closer the city drew, a fortress built from chiseled stone dominated by a single circular tower.

"Welcome to Lir Hassan, churil!" Announced the heavily armored man - whom he now knew by the name Rurvakannu, Roaring Gale. "The Third Gate to the West, home to our people."

Strange-looking engines set to work on either side of the main entryway, extending a slab of metal over the dry moat that further protected the fortress-town. Storm's group rolled in, signalling for the passage to close. Stationed soldiers saluted, framing their little procession before returning to scheduled patrols. The metal drawbridge folded with the sound of turning machinery.

The town was not as big as Tonnavrel, but it could withstand an army. Ladnajredvi were a warrior clan - knowing just how to fortify their den to keep out unwanted visitors. From the very dawn of civilization, people had drawn teachings from nature. Like a rock drake piled sharp stones round its nest, so, too, did man raise walls and line moats with pikes. Lir Hassan was a city ready to meet violence with violence - it was made further evident by the various vehicles of war stationed inside the walls - rough and brutal looking hulls decorated in blue war paint.

The imagery of the sea. The boy's brows furrowed in confusion. He didn't recall seeing the Grand Blue anywhere near. Was it... a hidden sea, somehow? This made no sense. Why would the Ladnajredvi be named that if their Keep wasn't even beside water?

"Ohnzhejhar-vahree," He addressed the silver-haired mage. His broken Lahriktaarese had improved owing to his time in the church, but the phrasing could still be awkward at best. Particularly if he just blurted things out without thinking. "Why clan Sea-Risen if no sea?"

The Storm's head turned to allow a steeled gaze to fall on his pupil.

"This is not our original home. We were driven from our land, Malatuur, long ago." Unmoving moonlit eyes seemed to fill with a certain melancholy. "Ladnakutri Malatuur lies at the precipice of the Jewel of Windaria. Our ekkti and syajhiri, among other things, reflect the spirit of the waves."

"Ekkti... syajhiri?" Maruku asked, head tilting slightly to the side.

"The ekkti is the facial tattoo worn by warriors. If you do well in the eyes of Clan Elders and the Holy Beast himself, you too will bear your own." It was clear the man was not too keen on speaking this much a day - and yet, doing so was inevitable with a trainee such as the young Red Wolf. "A syajhir is a cape worn for ceremonies."

Indeed, this child was simultaneously the most ignorant and most curious one he had come to tutor. Even if something prevented him from speaking properly. A foreigner, perhaps? It mattered very little when he was already branded kiichimarichuril. "Come."

Maruku's time to awe at the city was short as the four warriors ascended up a stairway leading into the tower. The gate loomed tall, protected by twin stylized statues of mandible-bearing dragons. Their wings looked as though suns - propellers..? - had been fit into their wrists.

He could recognize the depiction of Lord Bahamut anywhere. He was the Ro Alihkar, after all. The Chieftain of the Gods, Lord of the Soil and Forge Patron of Firearms. It was this very dragon who lived within the Magun, locked in the central spire of the High Temple. Why would somebody imprison a deity? Even the God of Destruction was a part of nature.

They walked in silence. The only noise that accompanied their quiet ascent was the sound of reinforced boots meeting stone. The tower was not only tall, but wide. All around, the stairwell branched out into corridors, each leading to separate parts of the Keep. The stone walls, lit by what appeared to be veins of light carved parallel to the summit, displayed various scenes from history and mythology alike. Ancient figures and splendid creatures fought side-by-side, challenging a great darkness and its horned servants.

Eventually, however - the upwards spiral came to a stop, a singular opening remaining before the stairwell cut off with one final mural. The shape of a man holding a golden gun, with the same white dragon from before standing behind with claws perched protectively upon his shoulders. The hero's face was blurry, indistinct, and completely unremarkable. There was an ornate inscription below - not that he could read it.

Maruku's gaze was forcibly pried from the artwork when they walked out into the room sitting at the very top of the Keep.

The circular space they found themselves in was mostly overtaken by a long, wooden table of rather remarkable craftsmanship, seats lining both of its sides - some of which were already taken. The gathered Windarians' eyes fell on them in unbroken silence, awaiting for their alihkar to speak first. Silver Storm stepped in front, striking moongold gaze sweeping over his subjects, satisfied with what it was seeing.

"I greet you, warriors of Lir Hassan, my kindred. Today I return with the intention to acquaint you with the asiju I had recruited in the name of the Winds. May the Four Winds bless our Soil."

"May the Four Winds bless our Soil." Maruku caught on halfway through, reciting the greeting alongside the others. A greeting he already knew.

Once again did that same hum rumble in the Storm's throat. Before he knew it, yellow eyes fell on the gathered once again. "He is a warrior in spirit. A survivor. Henceforth, he will join the warband I mentor."

So... the man who had saved him would be the one to train him, after all. Blue eyes looked up, gazing at the warrior as though he were the Elder Moon. The wolf's very first guiding light.

He could feel Storm's hand rest upon his shoulder not unlike Bahamut’s claws did on the champion’s. A subtle, but clear enough, nudge to step forward.

So he did.

The other elders observed him with piqued interest, one that weighted heavy on the boy who had grown up always on the run. A long stare like that had only ever spelled trouble; His heart picked up the pace, adrenaline pumping to prepare the young wolf to bolt. He swallowed back instinctive alarm, remaining as unshakable as he could muster.

"What is your name?" An older, feminine voice eventually inquired, a grizzled veteran of war with a scarred eye leaning forward upon her elbows. Only one orb of green bore into his soul.

"I have none." He replied. There was no point thinking those words his name, anyway. Doing so was synonymous with granting his earliest tormentors the right to define him.

Ïsta, she... against the odds, chose to define herself. Even in the shadows, unheard by others; Diligently did she remember her true name.

But then, why had he never defined himself..? What was his true name? Did he ever have one?

There was a round of exchanged whispers, many pairs of eyes - ones both complete and incomplete - continuing to bear into his form. Like hawks, gazing on from above upon their newest meal. Don't think like that.

"Very well, nameless child. Soon, if your strength of will and the Lord of Espers allow, you shall have one."

A name... his true name.

The Ladnajredvi elders turned towards Storm and saluted. The alihkar responded with a slight bow of his head, an acknowledgement and a thank you. As feral as he appeared, the young wolf knew better than to leave without paying respects. For the first time in his life, he found himself lowering his head alongside the man who would become his mentor. Copying his movements, learning even now from the smallest motion. Even beasts could recognize authority and he was no beast.

He was ready to define his worth.

#[[Worth of Wolves #[[drabble #[[headcanon #final fantasy unlimited #ff:u #ffu #[[Windaria - Land of the Winds #[[Does the Blade Weep ║ Silver Storm #aka before we know how much of a PoS Storm is

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ct-multifandom · 3 years

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Minotaurox theory

So I’m sitting here, thinking about the heroes we haven’t seen yet in light of Gloob’s constant teasing, and the possible themes and inspirations for them. A lot of the heroes we’ve already seen have themes connected to or entirely based off various mythology, and I’ll make a post about as many of those references as I can think of after s4 is over. So I’m using this train of logic to try and figure out something about the rest of them. And I feel something familiar at the edge of my brain about Stompp...

I have a straight up brain blast. All the way back to good ol’ American public elementary school where they drilled this into us for some reason. The United States folktale of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. (The art below is by Angus McBride)

Paul Bunyan is a legendary lumberjack, superhuman in size and strength. His best friend is a blue ox named Babe that he rescued from a snowbank and raised on his own, growing from a sickly “babe” into a strong giant as well.

I always thought it was interesting that they chose to make Stompp blue, at first thinking that they and Roaar were just changed to unnatural bright colors to avoid having half the cast be boring shades of brown-ish and orange-ish since Kaalki, Xuppu, Orikko, and Barkk take up umber brown, yellow, orange, and sienna brown. I bet this is a part of it too, but the choice of blue specifically for the ox paired with Ivan and Stoneheart makes me think there’s more to it.

Stompp is easily one of THE cutest kwamis imo,,, Anyways, Stoneheart’s power is growing in size when he gets hit. I’ve seen people theorize that Minotaurox’s power will also have to do with growing in size. It would parallel the akuma as well as Polymouse’s power that allows her to shrink down and Horrificator’s power of growing and shrinking in response to others’ fear. Before, I stayed away from theories like this because I thought it was too similar to the akuma. Most of the hero powers are tangentially related to their respective akumas powers, but usually not in a way you could predict. But, when you take the parallels and the myth into account, it admittedly does make a lot of sense. If this is true, then I hope there’s more to it than just super size and strength, like how Polymouse can clone, not just shrink.

I made a half-joke in one of my previous theory-type posts that I hope one of the heroes has a giant axe. If anyone would have one, it would be Ivan since Paul Bunyan is a lumberjack. That being said, the good guys so far all have tools you can’t really do serious damage with, like toys, musical instruments, and defensive weapons. Also sometimes they’re really random. It’s near impossible to predict these correctly.

One last thing. The shapes around Minotaurox’s torso and arms in the silhouette remind me a bit of his Kitty Section stage costume. This isn’t anything serious, but I think it’d be neat if he took inspiration from Marinette’s design for his hero costume.

I can’t wait to see him appear in the show, and let me know which other new heroes you’d like to see a separate theory post about!

Edit: I just realized that I never mentioned my theory for his theme. My favorite one I’ve seen is fortification.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug theory #ml #ml theory #miraculous theory #minotaurox #ivan bruel #stompp #miraculous ladybug season 4 #ml predictions #miraculous predictions #paul bunyan

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allysartstuff · 4 years

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[Kofi] [Picarto] [Commission Info]

I initially only wanted Bramble to be the gay cousin of the Apple family but oops, turns out the twins are gay too! Welp, my hands are tied, I mean, it's not like I have any control over my own fictional characters!

In his many adventures, Chuck Lindsneigh would often find himself wound up in Manehatten and crashing at Orin's place. While the two were never really friends before as kids, they grew up knowing about the other one due to their mothers being friends and Orin being a friend/kind-of-cousin-in-law to Chuck's brother, Ace Dandy. Orin always found Chuck to be irritating and stupid so he was not happy the first time Chuck stumbled into his life and cheerfully made camp in Orin's tiny living room. Srsly, dude, would it hurt to knock? But as the visits became more frequent, Orin became used to days of coming home to Chuck drying his clothes on his heater or playing with his cat, Tiger. Whenever Chuck was faced with an awkward social situation (either he was aware of it or not), Orin rolled his eyes and stepped in to help him. Obviously to make him look less like an idiot, not because he felt sorry for the dumb ox. In every visit, Orin found himself hanging onto Chuck every word while boldly told the story of his latest daring do. Sweet Celestia, he’s a good storyteller. Not bad looking lips, either. And, yeah, it was nice to have the odd annoying question about Orin's crocheting work, it was as if he was interested in his work or something. And he definitely was not disappointed when Chuck usually left the next day after he arrived. Nope. Not at- ok, dang it! Orin was crushing hard on the big stupid oaf! Which made him really question himself when Chuck said or did something wildly incorrect, like, really? This is the guy I want to make love to on a pale, moonlight night? Really?!

Meanwhile, back on Sweet Apple Arches, Pale Umber also had a similar problem with a frequent uninvited guest. Jammie Dodger, having been raised by the Flim Flam brothers, is fully aware of who the Apple family are and intended to come to Ponyville to scam the whole town just to stick it to those goody two shoe farmers! What she wasn't told how much of a total dish Applejack's daughter was. So as if Jammie’s constant lies, cheats and thievery were a bother already, now Umber had to put up with this scoundrel's flirting! URGH! For the most part, it was harmless and besides, Umber was more focused on Jammie’s latest scheme than Jammie’s attempts at wooing her. When it did get annoying to the point where Umber couldn’t work, Umber simply did it back to her. Using the exact same technique and actions. Every single time, Jammie would turn into a sputtering, blushing mess and once fainted like a goat. She could serve it but couldn’t take it. It was perfect for shutting up the cute little twerp. Wait, cute?

The twins find themselves not exactly having smooth romances. Despite the attraction on both ends, Umber is always at odds with Jammie’s very different moral values while Orin and Chuck have been on an on-and-off no strings attached relationship due to many miscommunications and emotional issues. Maybe one day these two will find peace and happiness with their possible interests. Who knows? Certainly not me.

My Little Pony © Hasbro

Chuck Lindsneigh, Orin, Jammie Dodger and Pale Umber © me

#My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic #My Little Pony #my little pony next generation #Upsy Daisy Verse #pale umber #jammie dodger #orin #chuck lindsneigh #pale umber x jammie dodger #chuck lindsneigh x orin #OC #OCs #Fan Characters #mlp next generation #mlp next gen #digital art

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dwollsadventures · 6 years

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Daily D&D Monster: Remorhaz

Under the feeble arctic sun, the bull attempts to dislodge the monster from their territory, not knowing the price he'll pay later. From the same dimension as thri-kreen and purple worms, remorhaz are enormous arthropods that evolved into the dominant life forms on Earth. Seemingly they appeared in the same stretch of land that all their brethren did, but high-tailed it North as soon as possible. Remorhaz are suited to colder temperatures where they can sneak up on animals. But, as is shown above, they've had little time to figure out how to hunt their new quarry. Most of the time they bury themselves beneath layers of ice and ambush animals seeking refuge from the winds. So far, ox and mastodon appear to be their favorite food, odd coming from an animal where their main prey would be other arthropods, but will hunt smaller game as well, including humans. Like their closer relatives, the thri-kreen and umber hulk, their wings are useless for their former flight. But, whereas the other two lost their wings entirely, remorhaz have made them into sails, able to catch more of the weak sun's rays in order to better regulate body temperature. Remorhaz also dug burrows beneath the ice, full to the brim with hot, steamy air. Though they, like their relatives, evolved ways of coping with the changing atmosphere in their home world, it's shown they don't shun heat in large quantities like the arctic animals of our own world.

#d&d #pathfinder #daily dnd monster #remorhaz

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angelxiu · 6 years

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alphabet tag ver. 3

(a.k.a get to know me tag)

tagged by @smartseok ; @noliverse and @nctt-tt ! thank you~ 😚💖 and sorry this took so long to make skjdkks

( a )ge: 20!

( b )irthplace: indonesia!

( c )urrent time: 3:24 p.m.

( d )rink you had last: water

( e )asiest person to talk to: tbh, i talk to myself most of the time

( f )avourite song: rn you’re in the wind by lena park

( g )rossest memory: tw: insects we had this one project when i was in elementary school; bring a fish and just leave it there for it to rot and observe the maggots on it and uh. yeah.

( h )ogwarts house: slytherin

( i )n love: [side eyes minseok] it’s complicated

( j )ealous of people: i usually joke around with this question but honestly, i’ve had flashes of jealousy but i never really held it inside me? holding on to negative emotions towards other people is too much of a bother when i’m already busy dealing with myself lmao

( k )illed someone: in stories? many, many times. i am a sadist like that.

( l )ove at first sight: not towards people around me. but i really can’t forget the first time i laid eyes on minseok. it wasn’t quite love but it was one of the strangest thing i’ve ever felt; the intrigue and fascination towards someone else.

( m )iddle name: starts with a v

( n )umber of siblings: just one little sister

( o )ne wish: short term happiness would be to see exo; long term is my family’s well-being

( p )lace you want to live: it’s been a while since i mentioned japan so yeah

( r )easons to smile: this might be cheesy af, but minseok really brightens my day. so many times just watching him alone brings a smile to my face.

( s )ong you sang last: i......don’t sing..........so i don’t remember

( t )ime you woke up: sometime around 8 i think

( u )nderwear color: ...yellow

( v )acation destination: wanna go back home and do some snorkeling again

( w )orst habit: i gotta emphasize on procrastination.

( x )rays: yep. especially when i was younger.

( y )our favorite food: rice

( z )odiac: i am a libra and born in the year of the ox!

tagging: @abunny-l ; @ilovkji ; @viewgf ; @minseoked-my-life ; @minsok ; @crushxiu ; @ksoosluv ; @99minseok

please don’t feel obligated to do this~ and i tried to tag people i’ve never tagged before so if you don’t want to be tagged, please tell me ><

#this feels...half assed sdhkbdk #im running out on things to say bc its so repetitive djbfm #this might be the last im ever gonna do this tag game probably......#thank you for the tag though!!!#tagged

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eraniriel · 7 years

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Thought Eran died-died in the last post; had to read the intro twice. Can you post another of your choice under the "Angsty Romantic Cliches..." ?

(Yeh I forgot to put AU in that original one D: This is another AU situation to fit the prompt!)

It had happened months ago, when outside the dripping grapefruit-colored skies sank burning into night.

She had not seen the slithering shadow in the fibers of the gypsum as she passed through the gemstones of that deific cave, following the mournful crying of a dappled fawn. He had followed her like a snakebite; a Sin’dorei sleek in black, his fingers busy with the cat’s cradle of his garrote wire. Its line, they learned later, had been laced in a silithid venom uncommon enough to cause hysteria among even the most collected of her healers. When he’d bound the wire around her neck and pulled so hard it broke the skin, he’d left a month long bruise like a collar to remember him by; in the frenzy of his strangulation, he’d slammed her temple into the uneven teeth of eggshell geodes until they ran violet with plumes of blood.

If she’d fought at all, it had been for just the single space in time between the heartbeats of a fleeing hind, running from the arrow in its side. He’d dropped her, lifeless, to the calcite, and ripped a pick from the pack on his back, stabbing its barb with quick and cutting blows into the cavern where out of jasmine walls gold quartz streamed in a single, ghostly vein - barely enough to fill his palm. The rogue had hacked at the glittering crystal wall like a butcher cleaving meat and bone, thoughtless bites to pry the prize free.

High-style boots had nudged the girl aside when he was through picking free his quartz, and crunching for the mouth he’d stopped abruptly, having stepped into the shadow of his own death. Eyes of white fire with blades of blood goring down an ancient elvish face. Eraniriel had been there then, her bulk blocking his exit and her eyes like the hooks of ox horns, pinning him in place behind the mountain of her form. To read the fury in her form was like memorizing one’s first word, it was instinctual, and expansive, and all consuming in its singularity. There was nothing in that cave but Eran - Eran and a man she -wanted- to kill.

That had been months ago.

A cloudy grey-heather sunset flamed in smoky crimson beneath hollow pelts of witchy umber clouds, and beneath that high-sprung hazy sky a chilly cloth of breeze tumbled down the open curtains of the druid’s resting chambers, puddling across the floor. She would not wake, couched in the syrup of a painless slumber from which neither shout nor serum could rouse her.

Clouds of spiders clung to the corners of the room in gauzy webs, and though Eran knew that in nature there was balance and in balance there was peace, she hated every fiber of their webs and every sifting spindle of their innumerous legs; what darker omen than the cobwebbed corner of a recovery room - the beginnings of a cocoon coffin wrapping in around them. Every few days she would stand in a sobbing rage, leaving the bedside after a quick look back to the pillows -just to double check-, and rake the fingers of a broom through the whispered promise of those silken nets and tiny weavers, dashing their work into ruin in the leafless gold of the trees beneath the window’s sill. She’d fight off that eternal end forever, regardless of how doomed the effort was.

Gagging on her own grieving heart, she moved to the bedside again, going to a knee to reach across the cashmere and take the druidess’ slender fingers in her own, pressing those cold soft knuckles to her quivering mouth. Eran pressed her breaking heart against the back of that hand, a hard kiss and a wrenching moan, a swallowed wail thrumming in the bowl of her throat, while that autumnal and exquisite melancholy hung over that room, dreaming of a willow tree.

She had spent countless nights in that room, standing guard within the silence broken only by the sounds of the druidess’ breathing, or kneeling by the bed to hold the woman’s hand in hers, to stroke the soft bare knuckles and stare into the long and wild lashes laying heavy upon high, pale cheekbones. Sometimes she read, the low croak of her voice almost offensive in the quiet as she swam from word to word, creating a picture that every time, every time, reminded her in some way of her sleeping charge. A glance from beneath the boughs of starlight, the mention of a nervous laugh shivering through golden leaves, a tender ache between her ribs, a gushing wound torn from the fiber of her chest. Rarer were the nights she’d move to kneel beside the headboard and rest her fingers in the tangle of curls fanned out across the pillows, pulled back from the healing wound at the druidess’ temple, and sing low and quiet. She only knew lullabies, and the irony was never lost on her. Each melancholic chord was like a lash, and by the end of two songs -maybe three, on her better days- the notes would tremble off into the husky growl of a groan of sorrow, followed by her burrowing her face into those soft and curling waves.

With moonlight pouring in through open windows, Eraniriel would forget her pride and reservation and kneel in broken surrender, yielding every last inch of her reverent soul to the mercy of the Moon, bathing her wrists in rose water as the blood-glaives on her cheekbones shone with tears like falling starlight.

#Eraniriel Snowfall #Eran writing

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slugmanslime · 7 years

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Coming Undone (Ch. 1)

As previously mentioned, this is a re-write of Cant Get Enough, all leading up to the final chapter, soon to be posted!

You can also find all the chapters of this story and more on my AO3 and FF.net accounts ^~^

Chapter One: Lose Control

Pairings: past!Son Goku/ChiChi, Piccolo/ChiChi Warnings: Mentions of MC Death, Male/Female Violence, Blood Mention Fic Type: Multi-Chapter 1 /4 Word Count: 2,116

It was the third time this week that he had shown up in her front yard in the dead of night. If Gohan, and now her youngest, Goten, hadn’t been so fond of him, the Namekian would have already met the business end of a shotgun long ago. And yet… ChiChi couldn’t quite bring herself to take it from the mantle above her bed, let alone load it. The weapon had been a housewarming gift from her overprotective father, and not surprisingly, it had sat above the mantle all these years collecting dust. The only time it had been close to seeing battle was when she found out this same stoic alien had kidnapped her baby boy all those years ago—but that all turned out for the best, didn’t it? The spitfire woman sighed, passing a hand over her tired eyes.

The moon was three-quarters full, semi-blocked by puffy gray clouds, and the breeze was stronger than usual; it was the end of spring, and summer was right around the corner. The wind rustled the hem of Piccolo’s cape, stirring it around the green strip of his ankles peeking from under his pants. Cast halfway in shadows, and partially in the weak moonlight, he appeared as a waif of his villainous youth, lurking and ominous.

This was the straw that broke ChiChi’s back.

Who was he, thinking he could skulk around her property and scare the pants off her whenever he felt like it? He must assume that she forgave him for his previous theft of her son like some kind of fairytale villian—he would be sorely mistaken! Gohan, the sweet boy he’d grown into, may have convinced her to allow Piccolo’s continued presence around the home, to continue training him and his baby brother… and he did help out with the fields when the season started… not to mention those pesky aphids hadn’t come around since he cleared them out last spring… Argh! But what other choice did she have? Her sons needed a strong figure to help teach them right from wrong now that—

Oh. Damn it, Goku. It was times like this when ChiChi missed her husband so dearly; tonight marked a fortnight from the four-year anniversary of his death while fighting Cell, and she was sure of at least one thing: no matter how much she might miss him, if she could ever forgive him for not coming back was becoming less and less certain with every passing day. She had never been a bitter woman, someone who was so filled with anger and longing and such intense sadness, but being the wife of a fighter could weigh on you. Years, it had been; years of the come and go, the fading intimacy, the struggle to raise to children essentially on your own with dwindling funds. It had never been about the money, no, Ox King made sure his own were looked after.

It was the fact that Goku could never quite figure out who his own was. There were too many people; friends, loved ones, old acquaintances. The family he had made seemed too expansive, too widespread in the adventure that was his life; where could she draw the line? In their forgotten home, high in the mountains, that was the lonely reality that ChiChi lived.

Standing in the front doorway, warm golden light surrounding ChiChi in a hazy golden halo, frying pan in hand, an outsider wouldn’t be able to tell any of this. Standing proud and unafraid was a woman who seemed to radiate strength, balance, and humility. The night hid her weary knees, and her chest rising and falling with shallow, frustrated breaths. She had never, and would never back down from a threat (if a threat this was). That was something Goku had once confided that he loved about her, and she prided herself on; Piccolo would not become an exception to this.

“If you ain’t gonna start talkin’, I suggest you find yer way home, mister.” Her fingers flexed, tightening and relaxing on the slick, solid wood of the pan’s handle, resigned to attempting to control her emotions.

Of course, he didn’t respond at first. Piccolo took his time, a quality of his that she held a certain respect for but at the same time despised. The clouds thinned momentarily, revealing what appeared to be a thoughtful expression etched into his jade features. Irritation and mild confusion spiked in her mind; now, what about what she just said would invoke such a thing?

‘No backing down’, she thought. Her legs carried her forwards, down the worn cedar steps of her front porch and a few feet into the darkness that bled into where the light faded. “Piccolo! Now, I have had just about enough o’ this foolishness. If yer lookin’ for the boys, they’re at Bulma’s for the weekend. From what I heard, I reckon they’re going camping tomorrow, and since I know you can track them, there is absolutely no reason fer you tah be lurkin’ around here.” ChiChi planted her feet firmly, cocking her hip and placing her free fist on it while gesturing with the frying pan avidly.

Of course, without warning, Piccolo stepped from the shadows. His quiet approach startled her internally, making her heart stutter softly. It wasn’t that he advanced upon her quickly at all, no, what was more alarming was the precision he took with every footstep, arms locked across his chest stubbornly. Piccolo didn’t enter her personal space, halting just outside the reach of the flickering porch light, but it was close enough for ChiChi to sense the turmoil brewing beneath his collected façade.

“I’m not here for them. Not this time. I’m here for you.”

The words, coming from anyone else that she knew, would have been comforting, maybe even welcomed given the stress she had been under recently. But how he spoke them, the baritone in his voice making her bones reverberate, put her on the sharpest edge. Hackles raised and eyes narrowed, ChiChi grit her teeth, spine straightening to give her a wee bit of extra height.

“And what business do yah have with me, Piccolo? I ain’t yer pupil, and for the last time, I don’t need yer damned money!” The handle of the frying pan squeaked in protest as she gripped it, twisting it in her sweating palm; subconsciously, her feet slid into an opposing stance, defensive and unreceptive.

She swore for a split second there was a flash of mirth in his eyes, the corners drawing up in a crinkle… or it was a trick of the light. Either way, ChiChi did not appreciate being the butt of some private joke.

“You refuse to let me speak. If you had, you’d know I’m not here about that, this time. It’s about what happened to Goku, and how you’re…” An extended pause, as if he were chewing on a mouthful of words and he couldn’t decide the best one to spit out. “Well, how you’re faring. I know it’s been a long time now but…” He sounded unused to speaking of such trivial matters, as if it were a foreign concept; a strange notion for an alien being, how fitting. Regardless of the humor imbuing the situation, ChiChi absolutely refused to see it, her temper rising to a boil. So it was her feelings that were funny to him, then?

“I wouldn’t say anything if Goten hadn’t brought it up to me first. Your business isn’t my concern but those kids… Regardless. He tells me he doesn’t want you to be ‘sad’ anymore.” Piccolo cleared his throat after a moment, looking over her head at the way she left the front door ajar. “Gohan mentioned how much stricter you are with Goten as he grows. Your fear, or apprehension, whatever it is—you aren’t doing a good job of hiding it from them. Why don’t you ever consider asking for help?”

If Piccolo had been looking at her in that moment, he could have seen the exact moment when ChiChi’s expression leapt from shocked to distressed, to disbelieving, to downright appalled. She couldn’t decide what was more disconcerting: the fact that her sons didn’t feel as though they could speak to her about their concerns, or that Piccolo was actually berating her. The silence between them after Piccolo’s question became almost awkward until the confounded woman could work her mouth again.

It took all ChiChi had to bring them face-to-face, but one moment her frying pan was drooping in her hands, and the next she was three inches apart from him, rearing on her tippy-toes to shout in his face.

“Because I don’t need help, especially not from you! Not from the person who almost tore my family apart before it could begin! I’m raisin’ my boys how I they oughta be, and that’s the end of it! I am their mother, and you—” Panting, ChiChi shoved a stocky finger into his chest. “You are not their father!” Angry tears pricked at her eyes, blurring Piccolo’s face as she glared up at him. It was quite embarrassing, the fact that she only cried when her temper reached its peak, but that was irrelevant in the moment.

The way his eyes stretched was nearly comical, but for Piccolo to stand there and stare the quivering woman before him was the only thing he could do. He took note of how her umber eyes shimmered, the way she bared her teeth at him with insulted fury, how she ground her nail into his gi as if she could dig straight through to puncture his heart. After a solid minute of deliberation, he wrapped his fingers around the wrist responsible for the offending finger, grasping it resolutely a few inches from ChiChi’s face. Piccolo knew when to swallow his pride, and he cared about the Sons… oddly enough, ChiChi included. But he was not going to be bullied by her the way her late husband had been.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, ChiChi. I’m not the reason Gohan and Goten don’t feel comfortable talking to you. Goku has been dead for four years now, so why don’t you suck it up and stop taking out your insecurities on the boys who need you?”

It was absolutely safe to say that Piccolo wasn’t prepared for a frying pan to the side of the head, but he took it like a champ, releasing ChiChi’s empty hand to clutch at his face instead. Violet blood was smearing onto his palms, his ear throbbing and ringing as he gawked down at the furious and somehow equally surprised little woman before him. His shock faded quickly however, replaced almost immediately with anger.

They locked eyes, neither submitting in the battle for control over the situation. Surprise prickled the air like electricity, dancing on the stiff, warm breeze that blew through the clearing, swaying the short grass beneath their feet and fluttering black bangs with warm flecks of blood smeared in them. ChiChi’s hand, cramping from her grip on the handle and the weight she put behind the blow, relinquished the frying pan, allowing it to fall to the dirt with a muffled clang. “You… you need tah leave. Now. You won’t be seein’ the boys any time soon.” Eyes wide and clouded, ChiChi turned on her heel and scuttled towards the door, ultimately submitting in their fight; surprisingly, she made no attempt to retrieve the pan.

A millennium seemed to pass before she made it to the door, stumbling in the house nearly blind from the frightened, shameful tears that finally made their way free. Breathing erratically, she clung to the door handle for dear life, using her body weight to start pushing it closed as she leaned against it for support. ChiChi’s chest was burning, images of Goku laughing swirling in her mind mixed with the sharp smell of alien blood, but all of that was drowned out by Gohan and Goten. Laughing babies with crazy hair, the watery smiles she would get after bandaging up their boo-boos and healing them with kisses, the way their faces lit up coming home to dinner after a day of training. When did all of that begin to fade?

A dirt-caked frying pan was abruptly shoved into the doorway, clanking loudly against the hardwood as the door slammed into it. ChiChi’s yelp resounded through the empty house, the sound startling her more than the sudden appearance of her abandoned cookware. Frozen against the cool wood, she swallowed thickly as Piccolo’s voice floating through the crack, thinly veiled vehemence bleeding into his rumbling tones.

“Open the door, ChiChi. We aren’t done here.”

#Coming Undone #Cant Get Enough #fanfiction #DBZ #Chiccolo #rewrite #ChiChi #Piccolo

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filbertbrush · 5 years

Photo

Making my paint, I fill my pallets every 6 months. I grind the dry pigment and mix it with him arabic, honey, ox gall and a little water. I'm holding my stay at home palette and my ground Burnt Umber. https://www.instagram.com/p/B1uDtfnnFYw/?igshid=rfoo5vi36wpm

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doodlewash · 7 years

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Today is opening day of World Watercolor Month™ in North America! Friends in other locations around the world have already started- yay! To spread some festive watercolor cheer I’m here with this post on the new custom curated Schmincke Horadam watercolor set from Wet Paint. Square palette boxes are not always available. This was like finding a palette unicorn, so I ordered it. There is also a little show & tell about the 35 new colors that Schmincke released in 2017 for their 125th anniversary.

I’ve written before about the store Wet Paint, located in St Paul, MN. Every experience I’ve had with them has been wonderful. They have a large and diverse selection, and carry interesting papers, sketchbooks and journals- including ones that seem hard to find, unique, or uncommon in the US. They carry those nice Hahnemühle Nostalgie & Watercolour sketchbooks. Their staff has always been genuinely helpful and friendly. I especially want to thank Kate, who helped me when I goofed up my order. They have free shipping for orders over $99 in the continental US. I’ve always received my order within a few days of placing it, and I’m nowhere close to MN. My experience with some larger online art supply retailers, is that it takes much longer to receive an order. If you want something quick, I would definitely give WetPaintart.com a try.

Normally I go on and write about the companies or makers, but in the interest of keeping this short(er)- you can read all about the “125 Years of Schmincke Horadam Watercolours” in this Jackson’s Art blog post here. It’s short and interesting, and goes on to tell about family, paints, war, their use of ox gall, and how their owl logo has changed over the years since 1881.

Since 2011, Wet Paint has been releasing custom Schmincke sets. All that info can be found here. This year’s set contains five of the new colors released in 2017.

The 2017 botanical set was curated by Marilyn A. Garber, founder of the Minnesota School of Botanical Art at Longfellow House in Minneapolis, MN. It came with one of her small botanical prints.

Although there are stickers on the bottom of each half pan with a number, there are no color names on the pans. I usually write those on with a Sharpie. In my experience, the stickers fall off. There is a ring on the bottom of the palette and the inside tray is removable.

215 – Lemon Yellow 220 – Indian Yellow 483 – Cobalt Azure- NEW 493 – French Ultramarine Blue- NEW 482 – Delft Blue 940 – Brilliant Red Violet 910 – Brilliant Blue Violet 524 – May Green 784 – Perylene Green- NEW 349 – Cadmium Red Light 343 – Quinacridone Red Light- NEW 346 – Ruby Red Deep- NEW

Since this is a botanical set, it didn’t have any earth tones. I ordered three individual half pans of the new colors. Those were going for around $10 and up- Rutile Yellow, Green Umber, Transparent Sienna. I ordered an empty Schmincke half pan- $0.90, and added in Cadmium Orange from a tube that I already had. Empty Schmincke anything- pans, tins, are expensive, but I wanted it to look consistent- matchy matchy. Swatch done on Arches 90lb cold press.

There were two duplicates in this set from a previous set that I have- Lemon Yellow & Cadmium Red Light. I still ordered it because of the box, and the pans are cheaper per pan price in a set. $69.95 for the 12 half pan set, that works out to be less than $6 a pan. An empty Schmincke tin, not including empty half pans, starts at over $40, so if that price is deducted then the watercolor pans drop down to less than $2.50 a half pan. I don’t know if I’m writing this bit to be informative, or justify this purchase to myself, or to help you justify a purchase- perhaps it’s all three.

$40+ for an empty metal palette does not seem reasonable to me. Here is a link to a post that goes over some different options, and more reasonably priced empty rectangle watercolor tins/boxes. There seems to be lots of options out there these days.

A simple and quick little example on Fabriano Artistico 140lb paper using- Lemon Yellow, French Ultramarine, Delft Blue, Brilliant Red & Blue Violets, May & Perylene Greens, Cadmium Orange, and Green Umber. I love these colors!

One more small example, it’s on Arches 140lb cold press. The Rutile Yellow in the foreground- love it! World Watercolor Month- one down! 30 more to go 🙂

If you want this set- order it now. They go fast! Happy Independence Day- this weekend they have a shipping promo- “WEEKEND SHIPPING PROMO: Free standard shipping on orders of $17.76 or more! Valid 6/30 thru 7/4, 2017.” Yes!

The palette fits in one of these nylon MochiThings Better Together Note Pouch V3– outer dimensions in inches: width: 5.3″, height: 8.9″, depth: 0.8″, inner dimensions: 4.9×8.3 inches. I like this zipper pouch for a small travel set-up, but it is way overpriced- about $31. I bought it when MochiThings had a sale. Similar things can be found on Amazon and other places for way less, it just takes a bit of sleuthing. Often pouches/cases that fit Kindles or iPad minis will work. I was able to fit a couple of travel brushes inside the palette (click to enlarge).

Jackson’s Art in the UK, came out with this special edition “Schmincke: Horadam Watercolour: Porcelain Palette Metal Set: 12 Half Pans” set for £58.

A post on another Schmincke set can be found here, along with extra colors added in.

Kate at Wet Paint sent a Dot Card of the 35 new Schmincke colors for 2017 to present for this post. Thanks again Kate! 32 of the colors are single pigment. Brilliant Opera Rose is a fugitive pigment- across all brands. Click the photo to enlarge, zoom in and eyeball.

This is a link to the color chart of the 35 new Schmincke Horadam Watercolours, which includes lightfast, transparency, and staining qualities.

Doodlewash Guest Artist Jane Blundell wrote this post on her blog with all of the new 2017 colors swatched, along with her insights and pigment info. If you are into pigment info, Jane is a great resource.

Creative expression is important, it helps us to know ourselves better. I write art supply posts with the intention that they will be helpful to other artists and creative folks. And for those that have that inkling that they are creative, that they are artists- you so are! Go ahead, let it out! Grab hold of that artistic inkling, that wave, and ride it for all it’s worth- it’s showing up because it wants to be expressed through you! You know that expression- dance like no one’s watching? Paint, sketch, and create like no one’s watching- do it for you. Do it for the joy it creates in your heart and watch that spread to others! When I was first figuring out watercolor, I relied on the generosity of others sharing what they were using and discovering, and I still do. I’m figuring this stuff out for myself anyway, so I figured I may as well share the information love, and pay it forward. Occasionally a company will send along a product for review, and I present those too. Otherwise I’m presenting from my own exploration- because I am riding that artistic wave that showed up for all it’s worth. Truly- it was like it just showed up one day and said “paint me,” and it would not be ignored. Then it said “write me,” and here we are. There are many other art supply reviews available on Doodlewash. Click on “Reviews” at the top of the site or click here.

Thank you for taking the time to read this review.

As you can see from the desk photo above, I’ve been busy- I’ll be back next week with another one!

Join in and celebrate World Watercolor Month with us in July! Click here for more info.

DOODLEWASH REVIEW: Schmincke 2017 Custom Set & New Colors Today is opening day of World Watercolor Month™ in North America! Friends in other locations around the world have already started- yay!

#featured #Schmincke #Wet Paint

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sensitivefern · 8 years

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STOVER: Dried stalks of corn or sorghum from which the seed or grain has been removed.

STUMP REMOVAL: ...Cut the stump at the ground level, cover it with soil and keep the soil moist. To hasten decay, bore several vertical holes in the stump before covering it with soil.

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oxlip | Primula elatior cowslip | Primula veris

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viper’s bugloss, blue-weed, wild borage, Our Lord’s Flannel | Echium vulgare The flowers in the flower spike engage in ‘protandry’, ‘a common mechanism that hinders self-pollination’... reproduction by seed only... the word ‘bugloss’ has nothing to do with bugs or ‘their sheen’ – it is derived from the Greek ‘bouglossus’, meaning that the leaves somehow resemble the tongues of oxes...

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Thus there came into being another unique phenomenon: the famous architect who did little or no building.

The first of these had been the Futurist Sant’Elia, with his visionary buildings for the Milan of the future... But Sant’Elia... was nothing compared to the Swiss-born star of the Paris art world, Le Corbusier. Le Corbusier was the sort of relentlessly rational intellectual that only France love wholeheartedly, the logician who flies higher and higher in ever-decreasing concentric circles until, with one last, utterly inevitable induction, he disappears up his own fundamental aperture and emerges in the fourth dimension as a needle-thin umber bird.

Le Corbusier’s instincts for the compound era were flawless. Early on, he seemed to comprehend what became an axiom of artistic competition in the twentieth century. Namely, that the ambitious young artist must join a ‘movement’, a ‘school’, an ism – which is to say, a compound. He is either willing to join a clerisy and subscribe to its codes and theories or he gives up all hope of prestige.

[From Bauhaus to Our House]

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The Cape and Martha’s Vineyard Wellfleet. A gigantic finned white whale was washed up on the beach of the Wellfleet harbor – over sixty feet long. It was still alive when we went to see it, and a ghastly and tragic sight. It was still breathing, with exhalations at intervals that sounded like bellows. Its brown eyes looked like the eyes of a wounded horse. Its flippers twitched. Its outer skin was torn off in places and its belly had been scratched and was bleeding... It was beautifully ‘streamlined’ and had almost the look of some man-made plane or boat – the white underpart with its curving gray lines. The children annoyed it and tore off the loose skin. When one saw the people around it from a distance, they looked like Lilliputians around Gulliver, and made the human race look monkeylike and petty. – The next morning when the tide came in, the poor thing was dead, and they towed it around to Peaked Hill.

[Edmund Wilson]

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❚Theodore Crawford "Ted" Cassidy (July 31, 1932 – January 16, 1979) was an American actor. Noted for his tall stature at 6 ft 9 in., and his deep bass voice. He tended to play unusual characters in offbeat or science-fiction series such as Star Trek and I Dream of Jeannie, and is best known for the role of Lurch on The Ad...

Mary Tyler Moore Show S01E23 Smokey The Bear Wants You

Stephen King WEINER: Fascinating doc about a bright but troubled man. The underlying question is why the shit stuck to him... but not to Trump.

Michael Moore Thank you, So-Called President Trump! I've been struggling for 2 weeks over what to call you, and your tweet here gave us the answer. Donald J. Trump The opinion of this so-called judge, which essentially takes law-enforcement away from our country, is ridiculous and will be overturned!

Mediterranean diet linked to a lower risk of at...

Pervert John Charles Mitchell convicted of trying to take photo up skirt of eight-year-old girl in Waitrose

TIL Billy Nye has a restraining order on his ex wife because she sprayed herbicide on the plants in his garden.

Melissa McCarthy steals the show as Sean Spicer on Saturday Night Live After a brief absence, Alec Baldwin returned to Saturday Night Live this weekend with his now infamous Donald Trump impression, but it was Melissa McCarthy’s unexpected arrival as the White House press secretary Sean Spicer that was the show’s finest and most necessary satire this week.

Kristen Stewart started her Saturday Night Live hosting spot with a bang this week, addressing Donald Trump’s bizarre Twitter obsession with her (and Robert Pattinson) before treating East coast viewers to an unbleeped “fuck.”

"This is Walmart. We don't take kindly to diaper thieves around here." *BANG*

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mellonmarsh042-blog · 8 years

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ManOU, MinOs, Mises, MOses

JOseph, JesUs,

“O” Words: GOd, LOrd, gOds, gOdesses, Old, JehOvah, CristO, ChOsen, GOne, One, ALOne, LOnely, Only, WOn, WOrLd, WOrd, SwOrd, VOice, COntainer, COntained, SpOken, ChOke, TOday, SwOrn, WOrn, MissiOnary, MissiON, PermissiOn, SOrry, SOft, CeremOny, COntact, PrOvidence, PrOphecy, JOan Of Arc, PrOphet, TraditiOnal, AdditiOnal, SOn, HOspital, BOrn, LOck, VOw, SwOre, COvenant, RainbOw, Ordained, Order, ChaOs, Organize, COmmitment, COmmit, COmment, CO-(ed), Ordinary, ExtraOrdinary, PrescriptiOn, WOman, BrOad, ROyalty, POwer, POwerful, BOdy, BOne, BOLd, PersOn, PeOple, BOard, WhOre, HOe, ShOvel, HOse, BrOthel, HerO, HerOin, NOn, cannOn, IrOn, IrOny, FOrward, TOward, DirectiOn, COntrast, ZerO, HOLe, HOLy, CrOss, ArrOw, VisiOn, HOrn, HOrny, HOrdes, HOLLy, DOnkey, GOlden, LOve, ErOs, ROse, ArOse, TOast, MemOry, COde, COdex, SOlved, ResOlved, COt, COtTen, COrn, COrner, HOme, HOtel, POrtal, POrt, POrtland, Oxygen, HydrOgen, FOrth, COmmand, MOrtal, ImmOrtal, AtOmic, AtOm, BOmb, BOmbsheLL, BOmbard, ArmeggedOn, AnnihiLatiOn, WOw, Ow, LOst, LOsing, MOney, COst, DOLLars, COins, StOne, DiamOnd, COincide, FreedOm, MacrO, MicrO, MicrOw, MicrOwave, TheOry, COven, Oven, StOve, COLLege, COver, COrrect, HOney, POwer, PLOw, Owned, CrOwned, SLOwer, ShOw, ShOwer, FLOw, Over, COver, HOver, ON, Off, NO, NOrth, NOt, KnOt, NOte, SOng, WrOng, LOng, LOnging, LOdge, TrOt, TerrOr, TerrOrism, StatiOn, WOOd, LOg, ALLOw, ALLOwed, HaLLOwed, ShaLLOw, LOw, BeLOw, BeyOnd, CLOthes, Origin, Original, POcket, ConstellatiOn, NatiOn, CivilizatiOn, ExpressiOn, SLOw, Oh!, BOise, IdahO, JerOme, New YOrk, CalifOrnia, CalifOrnicatiOn, ChicagO, MexicO, AppOintment, CancellatiOn, SOda, DOS, Operating, OS, TaO, COme, GO, StOp, GO, HOt, COld, FrOzen, DOwn, DrOwn, Own, FrOnt, TOp. AtOp, TOtal, FOrever, FOnt, DOes, SOng, ROck and ROLL, ROLL, ROLe, TOne, ALLegrO, ChOir, ChOrd, Orchestra, TempO, TOnal, AtOnal, TenOr, SaxaphOne, PianO, KeybOard, BanjO, CellO, ObOe, TOm TOm, NOva, MOre, LOcate, FOrce, COpe, HOpe, NOpe, COre, MiLLiOn, BiLLiOn, ZiLLiOn, SpOt, PrO, COn, COngress, COck, Ostrich, MOnkey, FOx, GOat, WOLf, CrOw, COLLie, WOLverine, WerewOLf, ALLigatOr, LiOn, DOg, HOrse, POny, FOx, DOve, OwL, FOwL, COw, LivestOck, POrk, HOg, BacOn, HOwl, FLOwer, Oats, COward, MOnday, NOvember, TObber, COp, POlice, DemOn, DaemOn, DemOnstrates, FOretell, Oath, MarjOrie, FLOat, MOtel, MOnster, MOre, MOvie, ShOw, RadiO, StereO, IgnOre, IgnOrance, SnOr, SnOt, COmbat, PrObLem, PrOgrammed, PrOgrammer, LOse, VenOm, FOrty, BOx, BLOck, BOxing, SpOrt, TOLd, StOry, HistOry, BOnd, BLOnd, StrOng, LOng, HOld, MOld, BOld, RatiO, RatiOnal, ALmOst, AwesOme, MOst, MOist, POpe, POp, VOwel, IOn, RadiatiOn, ThOr, ROme, ROam, ROman, MegaphOne, TOmb, MOlest, SOviet, Over, TOss, POssess, Obsess, Observe, MOve, RemOve, DrOve, TOe, PrOverb, PrOverbial, COat, COte, COLt, ROcket, SOlve, AbsOlve, Olive, WrOng, SnOw, FrOst, NOw, NOel, ExpeditiOn, ROad, SchOlar, POrtal, Open, CLOse, CLOth, CLOthes, SOcks, COmpact, NOse, NOstril, ThrOat, IvOry, ThOse, TOes, DO, DOn’t, DOes, DOesn’t, DOing, SO, TO, Or, GrOss, DepOsit, RepositOry, ROck, ROLL, COntext, BLOw, BLOwn, BOw, BOwel, BOwl, BrOwn, CrimsOn, ViOLet, ViOLence, CinnamOn, Orange, Ox, AffOrd, FOr, FOrty, FeLon, FeLOny, ELabOrate, Orate, Ornate, IncantatiOn, WOrk, JOb, SOrcerer, SOrcery, SOre, SOar, Oar, WOre, LeprOsy, Odd, Odyssey, WhOle, Odin, Osiris, DragOn, COmb, COmbine, ChOice, TOgether, TOad, SOme, SOnnet, SOnic, SOnar, WOrry, SOap, Opera, NOah, MOses, JOhn, JOe, BOb, Obese, JOin, GhOst, HOst, HOstile, MeLOn, LOnely, LOan, Ocean, IcOn, IdOL, DOLL, AndrOid, DrOne, CLOne, CybOrg, AndrOmeda, CLock, CLOak, JOke, JOker, VOLt, RevOLt, ByrOn, AmbrOsia, BrOther, Other, AnOther, Offering, MatrimOny, MOther, POke, NOne, NOise, POint, AppOint, AnnOinted, HarmOny, FrOm, FOrm, InfOrm, POverty, Overt, DOpleganger, Orgy, Ogre, DOck, ROt, MaggOt, FaggOt, BOat, MOat, ROmance, InnOcent, HirOshima, GOdziLLa, WOrst, ShOrt, LOng, PerfectiOn, SOciety, SOcial, POrt, POrtland, KnOw, KnOwledge, WhO, HOw, AnatOmy, CLOset, FLOck, LOcket, LOcker, Object, Okay, OK, PrOmise, PrOcreate, FOrnicate, MethadOne, NarcOtic, SOmething, NOthing, GnOme, LOt, WeapOns, EOn, NeOn, TOnight, BOy, SaLvatiOn, ELation, RedemptiOn, AttentiOn, Omen, MirrOr, DeceptiOn, COexist, TOrn, LessOn, StOrm, NeOphyte, DefinitiOn, ScOre, PrisOn, POise, POse, POser, PastOr, COttage, CathOLic, MethOdist, EpiscOpalian, TelepOrt, InvasiOn, EvOLve, InvOLve, COLLar, InvestigatiOn, ImaginatiOn, NOrth America, ApOstle, ImpOssible, POssible, PrOtein, CarrOt, LOad, ReLOad, AmmO, DeveLOpe, ELOpe, WrOte, ROte, WindOw, WidOw, NegrO, Oriental, Orient, AdOre, AmOre, BeLOved, SmOke, TOke, DOpe, WOrthLess, TwO, HedOnistic, MOnastic, POLygamy, Once, SecOnd, DestrOyer, WeapOn, StOmach, ReligiOn, GOvernment, DemOcracy, POLOtics, DemOcrat, PLatO, AristOtle, GenOcide, Official, POLand, NOrway, HOLLand, FOreign, SeasOn, ReasOn, TreasOn, InvasiOn, HarbOr, MOnths, POst, Offensive, ShadOw, VictOry, BOth, BOther, COmplex, RecOrder, RepOrter, BrOken, TOy, COma, COmma, PeriOd, COmply, FOrnicate, SymbOL, ErectiOn, StOckings, TOLe, TOLL, Oak, YeLLOw, RibbOn, HeLLO, COncave, CONvex, MOtive, SeniOr, FictiOn, MOment, VOmit, VibratiOn, ElatiOn, DistOrt, TelevisiOn, DimensiOns, ReceptiOn, DeceptiOn, MOde, MOLe, AcceleratOr, AcceleratiOn, NOwhere, SOmewhere, VapOr, VapOrize, PrOper, ExOrcist, RadiOactive, SeniOr, MOrning, WOrms, POd, SelectiOn, DetectiOn, GrOw, GrOans, MOans, AbandOn, MeditatiOn, DevOte, ApparitiOn, WOnder, WeLcOme, FOrmat, PrOgress, AttentiOn, Offspring, AnalOgy, MOdify, MOdified, ExpLOde, ImpLOde, Ode, ManifestatiOn, WisdOm, IntentiOns, FissiOn, ReactOr, ReactiOn, DetOnate, BOast, NOde, CLOnazepam, MethadOne, TOwn, EscOrt, TestimOny, WhOa!, LiberatiOn, CannOt, PerfOrm, InfectiOn, COmic, COmedian, COmely, HOmely, BOnd, Oil, PrOfit, COmpetative, POverty, PrisOn, BigOtry, Offensive, SOciety, PrOject, JOy, ArrOgant, CherOkee,

“OO” Words: GOOd, COOL, FOOL, VOODOO, BOOst, SchOOL, BLOOd, COUpLe, COntrOL, COOk, MOOn, HOrrOr, POisOned, COnsOlidatiOn, OperatiOn, DOctOr, DetOnatiOn, RObOt, EcOnOmics, OvercOme, FOretOLd, CartOOn, BOOb, COOperate, COrrespOndence, COrpOratiOn, NeighbOrhOOd, EpisOde, MicrOscOpe, COrpOreality, SpOOf, OctOber, DOgsbOdy, OverLOrd, GOOgle, POOr, POOp, OriOn, OniOn, CrOOk, CrOOked, HOLLOw, EmOtiOn, HOLOgraphic, LOOk, LOOse, ZOOm, BOOm, SOmehOw, BLOOm, CacOOn, FOLLOw, PrOOf, POOL, SnOOp, FOOt, TOOth, FOOd, TOmatO, POtatO, NOOn, MicrOphOne, BOOk, PhOnOgraph, PhOtOgraph, COmpOser, MOnO, POrnO, ShOshOne, NOOdle, POOdle, HydrOcOdOne, KLOnOpin, MOOr, SOOthsayer, PrOtO, LOOp, LOOphOLe, SOrrOw, TOmOrrOw, COnsOnant, COmmOn, COmmOnplace, COOrdinate, COOrdinates, CrOssbOw, OverdOse, COLLabOrate, TOO, ChOOse, POsitiOn, POtiOn, MOtiOn, LOtiOn, POseidOn, MOnOgamy, AlcOhOl, KangarOO, MOOse, GOOse, MOOd, MOOdy, SpOOn, ApOstrOphe, COnsideratiOn, HOrizOn, InfOrmatiOn, PrOtOtype, PrOtectiOn, PrOtectOr, PrOmOtiOn, AstrOnOmy, AncestOrs, AstrOLOgy, PrOcreatiOn, PsychOLOgy, TelepOrtatiOn, COLLabOratiOn, APOLLO, ApOLOgy, POLiO, BOttOm, OdOr, TOOL, ROOt, RebOOt, SpOOf, ALOOF, ROOf, FLOOr, DOOr, BrOOm, ROOm, GLOOm, DOOm, SOOn, SOOner, ZOO, TOrsO, AnglO-SaxOn, MOngOLOid, MOngOlia, StOOd, COLLabOratiOn, EcOnOmy, TrOOps, OppOsite, BOOth, COLOr, FOrnicatiOn, OverLOad, NOn-fictiOn, DistOrtiOn, POrtiOn, MOLestatiOn, VapOrizatiOn, PrOcreatiOn, PrOpOse, DevOtiOn, COmfOrt, DiscOmfOrt, KLOnOpin, COmpetitiOn, TechnOLOgy, COnditiOns, LOOt, LOOting, BOngOs,

“U” Words: QUeen, ZeUs, PerseUs, DaUghter, SUn, TrUth, TrUe, GUard, GUardians, GUide, RULer, ILLUminate, LUnar, JerUsalem, MUslim, MUst, ReqUired, PersUade, EqUaLity, QUality, CUp, RetUrn, TUrn, SUpernatUral, SUperhUman, Unimaginable, BULL, AssUmed, HOcUs-POcUs, NatUre, NatUral, HaUnt, RegULar ThUnder, TUnnel, SatUrated, FUnnel, CUnt, ShUt, HUt, SLUt, JUnk, TrUnk, JUgs, FUck, SUck, SpUrt, ActUal, MinUte, ErUpt, ErUpted, CrUsh, CrUelty, HUnk, DUke, AbUndance, FUnk, ULtimate, NUn, PUre, PUrity, DUst, BUry, BUrial, AttitUde, StUff, ApplaUse, FigUre, PaUse, HUnt, HUnter, BUnk, BUnker, PUssy, BUrn, BLUrred, BUrned, BUrns, BUrnt, AdjUst, Church, RepUblican, RepUblic, UntiL, HUrt, Umber, Um, Uh, DUmp, DUmpster, MUm, NUmb, NUmber, QUarter, MUrder, Unarmed, CUrse, CUrtain, CUrtail, CUre, VersUs, BUs, StUpid, DUmb, SUccUbUs, IncUbUs, SUrge, SUrgical, LUggage, TrUck, HUb, HUh, HUge, TrUst, AnnOUnce, CULtUre, TrOUnce, TrUmp, VacUUm, GUy, CrUd, ThUd, FUzz, AbsUrd, AUnt, Uncle, IssUed, AssUaged, PLUg, BUd, NUts, BUy, SecUrity, CPU, CirUit, BULb, InpUt, RUin, JanUary, FebrUary, JUne, JULy, AUgUst, PaUL, FrUit, HUmingbird, BUt, FUtUre, BrUsh, InsinUate, InsULate, EmascUlate, FUn, FUnny, HUmor, HUman, HUmane, VaLUes, VirtUes, EvaLUate, DrUid, BeaUtiful, BeaUty, MaUdLin, Uber, Use, Used, FUse, FLUsh, PUnch, NaUght, NaUghty, LaUnch, LUnch, AUdience, AdventUre, Under, BUddha, JesUs, JUdas, U.S., Us, United, Unity, PUblic, Pubic, University, StUdent, StUdy, PUberty, DUal, DUality, DUet, DUel, DUdes, DUds, SpUd, SpUtnic, SUds, DUes, HUndred, BUcks, TUb, GUt, LUng, BUtt, SUicide, SUpper, CrUst, MUmmy, SecUre, InstrUment, MUse, MUsic, SUng, ALbUm, BLUes, BLUegrass, TUne, TUba, TrUmpet, GUitar, FLUte, LUte, DrUm, TUrn, PUt, RaptUre, RUptUre, Fur, DrUgs, PUnk, PUke, SUit, SUite, NUit, MUg, MUgger, SkULL, Underling, LangUage, CaUse, Fury, NUisance, BUg, RUg, PLUme, SUbmarine, SUbway, FLUke, LUcky, TUna, SaUce, BUrger, PLUm, LettUce, SaUcer, CUt, Up, AUdible, FUn, FUnny, LaUgh, UnpLUg, LUcid, SUcculent, MUtiny, MUck, CUte, VUlgar, PLUck, CUm, Urine, Urinate, Urinal, TUrd, DUng, FraUd, PLUck, DUck, JUice, DUke, DrUnk, PUrple, BLUe, TUmble, RUmble, StUmble, AssUme, ResUme, SUb, StUb, SnUb, SnUg, NUtrients, SUpply, Universe, MUlti-Verse, JUpiter, SatUrn, MercUry, VenUs, UranUs, TUesday, SUnday, ThUrsday, SatUrday, BUiLd, RebUiLd, BUiLt, Dupe, MULe, PlagUe, FLU, VirUs, StatUe, EnUciate, ExecUte, ExecUtive, AccUmULate, UraniUm, NUclear, ExcUsed, SULLen, MUndane, SUpra-mUndane, CULtUre, GUest, GUess, QUest, ReqUest, QUeer, MarijUana, AUthentic, SUper, SUper NOva, SUpreme, SUrprise, LiqUid, SqUid, SqUirt, UniqUE, BUsted, BUst, AUstralia, QUiet, QUit, QUiLt, Unitary, AqUariUm, AquariUs, PlanetariUm, SanitariUm, HaLLUcinate, PLeasUre, SUre, AssUre, Um, Urn, SUpplant, SUrvey, SUrreal, SUbmit, SUmmit, SUmmer, MUtants, VULgar, QUe, TUmble, Uber, JUstice, JUst, UnJUst, JUdge, HUng, JUry, SUrrender, CaptUred, DUty, DULL, FULL, PUsh, PULL, PULse, FUeL, CULL, CaUght, SpiritUal, RitUal, Bi-LingUal, AngUish, DistUrbing, Unthinkable, GradUate, GradUaLLy, GUiLty, QUakers, JUvenile, PUnish, ArgUe, GUiLe, BegUiLe, GeniUs, GUns, HUrry, RUn, AbUndance, StrUctUre, PrejUdice, HUnger, SUffering,

“OU” Words: SOUL, YOU, YOUr, YOU’re, COnsciOUs, UncOnsciOUs, SUbcOnsciOUs, ResUrrectiOn, SUbAtomic, YOUng, YOUth, IntUitiOn, QUestiOn, SUrvivOr, TOUch, COUntry, PrOstitUte, AssUmptiOn, COUntry MUsic, COUnty, COmpUter, COmpUtatiOn, MUtatiOn, ExpLOsiOn, COmmUtatiOn, EnOrmOUs, InnOcUOUs, AmmUnitiOn, JUniOr, PrOdUced, PrOcedUre, COmmUne, COmmUter, ResOUrce, InstrUctiOn, MiracULOUs, COmmUnicate, COmmUnicatiOn, COM, StUbbOrn, BrUtaL, ShOtgUn, MOnUment, COmply, COnstrUctiOn, OUtward, SitUatiOn, HOrUs, VirtUOUs, COmpUtation, ROUte, SOUth, SOUthern Baptist, UnknOwn, AUthOR, AUthOrize, POUr, SOUnd, ArrOUnd, FOUnd, PrOfound, JOUrnalism, OUt, WOUnd, SOUnd, FOUL, MOUth, SnOUt, LOUd, DUngeOn, PrOUd, HOUse, BOUnce, BOUnd, AbOUnd, WOnderOUs, JOUst, WOUld, COUld, ShOUld, OUch, POUch, SOLUtiOn, ThOUsand, AUtObiOgraphy, AUtOmObiLe, AUtOmatic, SOUr, SOUp, HOUr, cOntrOLLed SUbstance, MeasUre, DevOUr, POpULatiOn, ViciOUs, VenOmOUs, FUriOUs, DeleriOUS, InnOccUlate, OccUpy, ReligiOUs, COmpOUNd, FOUr, FOUrth, PrOnOUNce, PronOUn, PrOnUnciatiOn, RenUnciatiOn, EnUnciatiOn, RUmOrs, TUmOrs, RenOUnce, COUrt, COUrting, NOUn, RebOUnd, CaUtiOn, MOUse, LOUse, BLOUse, UndO, UndOne, FLOUnder, NauseOUs, SUbcUtaneOUs, AUdiO, FamOUs, MOUse, IbUprOfen, MOUnt, MOUntain, FOUntain, POUnd, OUnce, BOgUs, TrOUbLe, BOUght, ThOUght, ThOUgh, ALthOUgh, BrOUght, COncLUsiOn, ILLUsiOn, POdiUm, ShOULder, BOUlder, HUmOr, HUmOrOUs, AmOrphOUs, ArOUse, PLUtO, COnstrUct, COnstrUctiOn, SUrrOUnd, ArOUnd, ArOUse, PerniciOUs, DrOUght, FOUght, OUgt, SOdiUm, PLUtOniUm, OUtbreak, MOULd, HOUnd, MOUnd, FOUnd, VariOUs, NefariOUs, HilariOUs, ROUtine, SOviet UniOn, RUssia, POLygamOUs, MOnOgamOUs, DangerOUs, COUnt, COUnter, AccOUntant, ObLiviOUs, LasciviOUs, POUt, GOUt, OUtpUt, PUrpOse, PUrpOsed, GhOUL, MysteriOUs, DeliriOUs, DeliciOUs, PreciOUs, NOUrish, FLOUrish, RidicULOUs, BUttOn, OdiOUs, ROsebUd, HarmOniOUs, GlOriOUs, SagitariOUs, COmmUniOn, UniOn, RighteOUs, COmmUne, FOUnder, InstitUtiOn, COmmUnists, InvOLUntary, PsychOLOgy, BiOLOgy, NeurOLOgy, PhiLOsOphy, FLOUnder, OminOUs, COntinUes, UnLOck, SeriOUs, WarLOck, SpOUt, RevOLUtiOn, EvOLUtiOn, MiracULOUs, UnifOrm, CUneifOrm, EUrO, EUrOpe, AstrOnaUt, COstUme, ROUgh, PrOcUre, PrOdUce, PrOdUctiOn, ObscUre, MOUrn, TOUgh, OccULt, AstOUnding, NUmerOLOgy, EdUcatiOn, ALOUd, UFO, PetrOLeUm, HippOpOtamUs, ManipUlatiOn, COrrUptiOn, SUperstitiOns, ResOUrces, COmmUnity, POmpOUs, ManitOU,

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