#visage || Is it the reflection of a savior? A savior

[rawcalamity]

Ardent seas swallow whole the memories dwelling within a kingdom forlorn. Cries ever faded snake through its cracked sandstone; a harrowing mockery to the final moments those caught amidst the torrent of a fools resolve suffered. Solemnly lies its regal husk—a bone dry visage of the kingdom that once dared encroach upon the suns domain. For their hubris the ancient kingdom of the stars was lit ablaze by the ire of the Black Sun. Time ushered the winds that cast large swaths of sand to reclaim its ruins, leaving only scarce remnants that reach from the dunes to this day. The Day of the Black sun is now a dreaded memory seared within history, serving as a painful reminder of what is to come for those who wish to hold the suns flame. Tales of old proclaim the presence of a celestial envoy within the kingdom long before its fall; artifacts retrieved from the ruins reflect a time when the Starchasers were pure of heart, sheltering creatures misunderstood by man’s anxiety.

The envoy, Etherus, entrusted her sacred whispers to the Starchasers. Her divine secrets were forbidden to ever grace the ears of mortals, though regardless she violated the suns rule to aid her saviors in their pursuit of celestial inquiry. To her heartbreak, the knowledge she wielded threatened to taint their gilded hearts. Tragically so, Etherus was betrayed by those she once harbored fondness of—for with her knowledge, the Starchasers forged the celestial construct; a powerful tool that could forfeit control over the celestial cycle. Etherus' heart ached and throbbed at the terrible sight of the ancients greed. Powerless to stop them, all she could do was witness the fall of a kingdom sullied. With their fates intertwined, together Etherus and the Starchasers were plunged unto the crimson shadow of the Black Sun. Judgement reigned upon the gluttonous ancients and their gullible envoy, tearing all they had built asunder. Etherus the betrayed; her body split and shattered across time and space, leaving only her wing amidst the carnage. Decades ticked by, announcing the arrival of man who would happen upon her forlorn wing. His eyes were enthralled to the astounding beauty that radiated from the wing—leaving it to drown within the sand felt sinful. Man retrieved the wing and displayed it as a trophy of their travels. Unbeknownst to him, the innocence of this wing was challenged by the curse it harbored. The resentment of Etherus resonated strongly within each scale, hungering for escape. All who held her wing spilt sanguine ichor, welcoming the curse into their vessel. Those held captive by her curse were fated to transform into her kin under sunlight, and heed her call they must.

[blackjackkent]

We do get a nice little conversation with Wyll after all that craziness. c:

"Ansur is dead."

He sounds so tired, so dejected. Hector realizes in this moment how much weight Wyll has been putting on the possibility of finding Ansur. And why shouldn't he, in truth? It was a mission given to him by his father so soon after their reconciliation, a mission that entailed the fulfillment of a destiny and a savior for the city he is sworn to protect. He needed this moment to be a success... but the dragon lies dead, never to rise again.

"There will be no great tempest roaring through the skies, no dragon redeemer to save us. What hope, then, for Baldur's Gate? Without the great wyrm's aid is the city doomed to fall?"

He looks pleadingly at Hector, at Jaheira and Karlach, lost and uncertain in the wake of this terrible setback.

Before any of them can speak, though - the Emperor's voice resonates between them all from within the Prism. "You braved the wyrm's lair seeking a savior," the mind flayer says. "Yet it was you - all of you - who vanquished the undead abomination which Ansur became. You are more powerful than you understand. It is you who are the tempest. It is you who are the Heart of the Gate."

Hector scowls. The last thing he wants is the Emperor proving able to provide any comfort here, or any logic either. This is no longer your concern, he thinks bitterly.

But he knows, deep down, that the Emperor speaks truth - a truth that Wyll needs to hear. And at his side, Karlach nods.

"Hate to say it, Wyll," she says, "but I agree with the mind flayer. Baldur's Gate doesn't need a dragon. It needs you."

Wyll hesitates, the encouraging words starting to work on him, to bring back his sense of hope. "You're right," he says slowly. His shoulders square and his head lifts. "We are the warriors who'll slay the Absolute. We are the guardians who'll defend this fair city."

Hector smiles slightly. Wyll is sometimes so unassuming in camp that it is easy to forget that he is the hero which has spawned stories across the entire Coast. But he can see why now - in this moment of rising confidence, the words instinctively couched to rouse those around him in turn. He feels a flash of pride in his friend for the strength he displays in that moment, and he feels his own hope rise in answer to it.

Nod along silently.

"The brain will fall," Wyll goes on, warming to his speech. "And the people will hail us as champions." He blinks, cocks his head with a sudden thought. "I could even claim my father's own ducal title and carry his banner after this. 'Grand Duke Wyll Ravengard.' Marshal of the Flaming Fist, the city's truest defender."

OK, well, this is going off the rails just the slightest bit, Hector reflects dryly. Adrenaline is a hall of a drug - that and Wyll's eagerness to be accepted by his father and his father's world after so long on the fringes.

Jaheira raises an eyebrow skeptically. "A title you would earn, no doubt," she says. "But I wonder if the people would be so quick to look past the horns, Wyll. Baldur's Gate is not an oasis of open minds."

"The Absolute's end would be the guarantee, devilish visage be damned!" Wyll says fiercely. "If I were to call myself Grand Duke, no patriar would deny the claim."

Hector feels as if he hears echoes of conversations with Gale in Wyll's words. The same underlying sentiment - that there is power to be claimed, power to do good, yes, but dangerous power as well. And more than that... Wyll is wrestling with something inwardly; there is an argument happening with himself, of which Hector is only able to hear one side, and he is not sure of the other.

But... he trusts Wyll deeply, trusts that he is a good man who wants the best for this city. And, frankly, there is a long, long road before this is a decision that has to be made.

"Follow your heart, Wyll," he says with a grave nod. "I trust you to make the right decision."

A long pause. Wyll turns away, his head bowed, thinking. And Hector can see the exact moment where he comes to a new - and altogether surprising - decision.

"I fought to right the wrongs of the Coast," he says quietly. "To slay the monsters that hunt the helpless. What good is a champion who puts himself above the people? What good am I as a politician, just out of reach?" He shakes his head sharply, turns back towards Hector and the others. "There will be no Grand Duke Wyll Ravengard. And there will be no Blade of Frontiers."

They all look at him with some perplexity. What, then? Hector wonders.

"I am now the Blade of Avernus," he says gravely. "For as long as demons and devils imperil the Sword Coast, they will be my prey."

Hector blinks slowly, processing this. It's a surprising left turn for the conversation, and yet on some level it makes sense. Wyll is recognizing that he is no longer the man he was - not always through any fault of his own, but changed nevertheless. And with those changes, with that growth, comes a new name, a new mission.

And so Hector will support him in that too. And, in truth, it is a cause he can get behind, he reflects dryly. Perhaps one day, when all this is done with, you and I will travel into Avernus together and tear Zariel apart.

"Hail the Blade of Avernus," he says soberly, lifting one arm in Wyll's trademark salute.

Jaheira laughs softly, not unkindly, and raises one hand in a similar salute. "The Blade of Avernus!"

Narrator: A calm settles over you. The elder brain is a menace - but with the Blade of Avernus at your side, you know you will triumph.

Or at least... at least he hopes it so hard that it feels like knowing. And one more piece of the puzzle has slotted into place.

[mm2324]

Author's Note: It's been some time since I shared a story, and the number of Criston Cole haters seems to be growing😂. While season two was tough for me, seeing Milly with Fabien truly warms my heart. I feel inspired to write a story about them.

This story may lack a clear plot, but I simply expressed my thoughts as they came. I'm still developing my skills in structuring plots and storylines. I hope you enjoy!

FIRST LOVE

"Mother, who was your first love?" the little one asked, his tiny fingers weaving through her hair as he spoke, blissfully unaware that his mother had drifted into a sea of memories.

Suddenly, a loud knock echoed through the room, a forceful rap that could rattle anyone caught in a moment of mischief. But Rhaenyra remained undisturbed, lost in her own thoughts, unaffected by the commotion outside.

The door swung wide, unveiling the answer. "The king seeks you, princess," he rasped, his voice rough and strained, as if the very name he struggled to say was a dagger to his heart. It was as though the weight of his emotions choked him, leaving his words barely audible. Rhaenyra tenderly lifted the young prince's head, her gaze locking onto the man she had once loved, a flicker of that old affection still flickering deep within her heart, perhaps buried but never entirely extinguished.

It had been awhile since she uttered the name "Sir Criston." Their conversations had ceased following that fateful event, yet she felt no hatred towards him. Still, the thought of his son hung in the air, as if his presence materialized whenever the question arose. As she stepped out of her room, she knew he would follow her, fulfilling his duty, always a step behind her as she forged ahead. It was a subtle reflection of their roles. But in that moment, before they walked as equals, there were no titles, just the two of them—him and her.

The corridor stretched endlessly before them, increasing the awkwardness of the moment. Silence enveloped them, as if the air itself held its breath, wary of shattering the fragile stillness. It was a lesson etched in their memories, a reminder of the past. Yet, the act of breaking the silence could be refreshing, though it depended on the individual’s willingness to face the potential sting of honesty. "How are you, Sir Criston?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The absence of a reply echoed back to her, a response she had anticipated. Silence reigned once more.

She is aware of who her first love truly is—her uncle, she thinks. This is an undeniable truth, one that no one can contest. However, there’s a crucial detail that has been overlooked. Her uncle, the black sheep of the family, is a figure of admiration, captivating everyone with his charm and charisma. Yet, deep down, he harbors ambitions for the throne, a fact she is painfully aware of, even as her feelings for him linger.

Then came a day, a challenger appeared, someone who instantly captivated her attention, leaving her too spellbound to inquire about his identity. As the knight removed his helmet, revealing a strikingly handsome Dornish visage, her heart raced. Was it love she felt, or merely infatuation? Was it admiration or a sense of intrigue? The truth eludes her, for she is still too young to grasp the complexities of love.

She made her choice that day, and it meant everything. The memory of pleading with her father to be her savior still made her cringe. Those days were precious, each moment they shared a gem she would forever cherish. Yes, she fell deeply for him; he was her first real love. Yet, everything fell apart when she turned down the chance to escape with him. She longed for him to remain by her side, but the thought of him becoming a mere plaything was unbearable. And that’s how they ended up where they are now.

Upon arriving at the king's chambers, they found themselves once more at the door. As she entered, the door creaked shut behind her, lingering in its closure as if granting them a final moment to gaze into each other's eyes, to etch every detail into their memories, savoring the moment as if it were their last. Each face bore the weight of unspoken words, yearning to convey everything, yet their lips remained sealed. The door's slow descent felt like an irrevocable farewell, a silent proclamation that nothing would ever return to what it once was.

[smol-dargon]

A sneak peek on something I literally started working on half an hour ago!

Knight errant: (noun) a medievil knight wandering in search of chivalrous adventures

--------------------

The last thing he remembered was finding out the hard way exactly how painful an arrow to the eye was. The very next thing he became aware of was his armor clanking unceremoniously onto a slab of rock with him inside. Strangely, his eye didn't hurt anymore. He understood why almost immediately; his field of vision was half as wide as it used to be, the left side a complete void. Why was that socket itchy? He cautiously reached up to his left eye and felt nothing at first. But then, a familiar sticky feeling. He grabbed and pulled the entirety of a cobweb from his eyesocket... oh, that felt gross. But at least the itchy feeling was gone. He finally managed to bring his surroundings into focus. The world almost looked flat, as if everything were the same distance away. This was going to take some getting used to.

He wasn't completely sure what was happening, but he knew he could sit up, hop off the slab, and get to his feet. Right away, he recognized this structure. He was inside a crypt. Jumbled memories started to fall into place. He had died, it seemed. But then, if he was dead, how was he up and about now?

"It has risen again!", came a voice from his left.

He had to turn quite a bit to actually see the source; a gargoyle set into the wall had sprung to life, its stony visage contorting into an expression of surprise.

"Sir Daniel Fortesque, see? The Hero of Gallowmere who fell at the first charge! The fog of war and the shrouds of time conspired to turn the arrow fodder into the savior of the day..."

It glared directly at him, yellow eyes blazing with disgust.

"But we knows better."

He couldn't help but feel offended at this. Sure, he might not have been the best choice for captain, but he had at least led the charge with genuine courage in his heart! What did this pitiful little carving know of bravery?

"I'll show you!"

Or at least, that's what he meant to say. What actually came out was a barely recognizable mockery of his voice. There was practically no enunciation, and his once melodic timbre was now more of a ghastly moan. Just how long had he been dead?

"Let it alone!", came a voice from his right.

Another small gargoyle had piped up, evidently unimpressed by its compatriot's venomous words.

"Fate has given it a second chance! A chance to forget the ignoble truth. A chance to defeat Zarok and live up to the legend."

It squinted in a crude approximation of a friendly smile.

"We hopes it does well."

At this, both of them slumped, returning to their immobile states. Between the cryptic words of the gargoyles, the revelation that Zarok was apparently still alive, and the unsettling feeling that he had changed, he was reeling. He made his way down the hall, grabbing the conveniently located broadsword and star rune, and around the corner. A stream of water ran across the path, an odd design choice for a crypt. But he stopped and warily cast his gaze down into the clear water.

Oh, what a sorry sight he was!

He was nothing but bones! There wasn't a scrap of hair or flesh to be found in his reflection. In his periphery, he could see every bone in his hand and arm flex with a slight rattle and an unsettling freedom of movement. But what really upset him was the fact that his lower jaw was completely missing. This explained why he was so difficult to understand now, at least.

Ever the optimist, he decided to simply get on with it. Moping wouldn't bring back his good looks or his proper speech. Besides, a true knight wouldn't let a little death stand in the way of heroics. He shoved all those saddening thoughts of his living life to the back of his mind, hoping they'd fall out of the hole the arrow had left in his skull.

He checked himself over a little more scientifically. His armor was largely still in place, minus his gauntlets and helm. It felt unbalanced on him without the weight of muscle and skin, and it took him a few moments to get the hang of actually using his sword again. He did also find a shield and some throwing daggers. But he supposed this was as prepared as he was ever going to be. There wasn't anything else in the crypt that could help him.

He placed the rune in its pedestal, opened the gate to the outside world, and stepped out into the darkness.

[doctorjohnfrederick]

"Ageless Gratitude: A Lady's Journey of Facial Transformation"

In the heart of bustling downtown, Lydia lived a life veiled by her insecurities. Her reflection in the mirror whispered stories of time's relentless march, etching lines upon her once youthful face. Each day, she navigated the world with a smile that masked her inner turmoil, longing to reclaim the vibrancy of her youth.

One serendipitous afternoon, Lydia stumbled upon an advertisement for Dr. John Frederick, a renowned cosmetic surgeon specializing in facial transformations. With hesitant hope fluttering in her heart, she scheduled a consultation, where she poured out her years of self-doubt and longing for change.

Dr. Frederick, a beacon of empathy and expertise, listened intently, mapping out a personalized journey to unveil Lydia's hidden radiance. With delicate precision, he sculpted away the weight of years, unveiling the beauty that had long been obscured beneath the veil of time.

As Lydia emerged from the cocoon of recovery, a metamorphosis had taken place. Her once weary eyes sparkled with newfound confidence, and her laughter danced freely, unburdened by the weight of self-doubt. Each glance in the mirror elicited gasps of joy as she beheld the reflection of a woman twenty years younger, yet infinitely wiser.

Gratitude poured from Lydia's heart as she embraced Dr. Frederick, her silent savior, who had gifted her not only with a youthful visage but with a renewed sense of self-worth. With every step she took, Lydia radiated a newfound vitality, a testament to the transformative power of embracing one's beauty, inside and out.

THEREFORE GUYS WHATS STOPPING YOU FROM NOT ACHIEVING YOUR DREAM LOOKS AND MAKING YOURSELF FEEL WHOLE AGAIN I DOCTOR JOHN FREDERICK, A PLASTIC SURGEON WILL TRANSFORM YOUR LOOKS BEYOND YOUR IMAGINATION AND THOUGHT'S WE'RE HERE FOR YOU DONT DIE IN SILENCE

#

[auburniivenus]

27.  NIGHTMARE :  for one muse to comfort the other after a nightmare.

Phobetor, the embodiment of nightmares, traverses the realm of the subconscious like an ethereal specter disguised in the nocturnal nuances of indigo. His ever-changing and protean countenance evokes the profound fears of humanity. Within the realm of dreams, he choreographs a grotesque ballet, inflicting night terrors on somnolent minds with an almost sadistic delight. Morpheus, the supreme architect of dreams, undertakes a dual function, possessing the capacity to manufacture both delightful reveries and sinister nightmares. His siblings, Phobetor and Phantasos, bring forth the phantoms of fear and surreal visions, creating a trinity that blurs the boundaries between dreamscape and inferno.

The ethereal threads of slumber wove a disquieting veil, transforming her subconscious into a theater for the phantoms lurking within the depths of her apprehensions. The moonlight, intermittently softly embracing her dormant body, now beheld the convulsions of her disoriented sleep. Tangled filaments of auburn hair outlined a visage marked by arched brows, a canvas painted with the hues of a disquieted mind. As she lay ensconced in the ephemeral sphere of dreams, a specter of unease cast its pallor upon her delicate features.

In the nocturnal realm of her psyche, the familiar landscapes of her daily existence distorted into absurd caricatures. Faces she held dear contorted into masks of sorrow and despondency. Tatsuki’s piercing gaze bore the weight of haunting wistfulness, and Ichigo’s visage, usually a bastion of strength, crumbled into an expression of profound heartache. Echoes of laughter, once boisterous and unhindered, now took on a dissonant cadence, an incongruous refrain that propagated through the corridors of her dreamscape. The vivid hues of her environs progressively deteriorated into a more somber pallet of grays and shadows. Orihime felt the tendrils of apathy twine around her, tightening with each passing instant. She journeyed through a phantasm of her imagination that paralleled a distorted portrayal of her apprehensions, a terrain where the boundaries between reality and nightmare became indistinguishable, forming a blurred haze.

In a delicate manner, she perceived the touch of his calloused fingertips as they gently rubbed against her shoulder in a caress analogous to a whisper. The contact, tender and comforting, illustrated the essence of his implicit commitment—a pledge to serve as the protector, shielding her from the nocturnal horrors that sought to ensnare her mental state. A murmur, scarcely audible, escaped his lips—a melody woven with serene reassurance. A spectral resonance penetrated the liminal space between dreams and reality. His voice, an unwavering beacon, reached her beneath the curtains of sleep, an anchor cast into the tempestuous seas of her delusions. His grasp, acting as an anchor, encircled hers, bridging the fleeting chasm between the dreamworld and the tangible domain.

As Ichigo’s whispered assurances permeated the camouflaged sanctum of her dreams, a subtle transformation unfurled across Orihime’s countenance. The furrowed lines of distress softened, replaced by the tranquil repose that accompanies the banishment of night terrors. Like a ship navigating turbulent waters, she emerged from the depths of her horrors, guided by the compass of Kurosaki’s touch.

With a breath that mimicked the release of a held sigh, her eyelids fluttered open, revealing the clarity of awakening.  “Ichigo.” Inoue whispered, sensing perspiration upon her comely visage. She positioned herself on the disheveled bed and reflected upon him, his attractive appearance illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the partially ajar window. The remnants of the previous war persisted within the depths of her consciousness, and occasionally fear would manifest itself in her dreams. The repercussions of the conflict would require a considerable amount of time to diminish, resembling a wound that necessitates a significant healing period. “I’m glad you’re here.” Her sweet voice affirmed as her delicate arms encircled his figure, enveloping him in a embrace. “Never, never leave.” @ikurosakii

HER LOVER, HER SAVIOR.

[bree-iya]

I’ve been up thinking…

Is it really fornication if all you’re doing is sucking my clit? Pressing your lips to mine in such intimacy? Are we committing a sin with you so willing to worship me in the way women should be worshipped? Mouth wide to catch every bit of delicious honey, so sweet that you must’ve been through the gates of Heaven. The streets, her legs, were paved with gold. Her eyes, nails, earrings, hair were all jewels and crystals adorning her. Her eyes especially glittering and bright. She gave promise. She was the promise everlasting. She had to be. There was no other place that would taste so sweet and be so fulfilling. No place that could provide such healing and solace but the promised land. Would God be disappointed, watching your eyes roll from the taste of milk and honey all over your face and dripping down your chin? Seeing how addicted you were becoming to his most complex and spiritual medicine. Her body, the tree of life and you, the hummingbird sipping from her nectar. Is it a sin because you have no legal papers to claim to this tree? Or is it “natural”, as sin often is when it’s most acceptable by the majority? You weren’t sure, but every bit of her honey was natural, her milk was succulent and her face. God, her face. A mercy upon the eyes of a man who couldn’t true bear witness to the beauty in her soul. Her face reflected a fraction of who she really was. Full of promise.

Or is it all sin because her body is a temple? A covenant between God and her? A promise. And you? You were temptation walking, a helpless urchin who selfishly snatched her fruits of divine offering to feed yourself. To survive one more day, you would persuade, perform and possess all that she is. Making her into a temple of your own. Ruining her marble and gold decorated visage with streaks of mascara. Is it sin because she’s no longer wearing her gold as she used to? Is it sin because she hides the brightest parts of herself? She writhes in the darkness with dreams of once was, meanwhile she creates life and offers their lives as a promise. She offers purity to her Savior and asks nothing for herself. Satisfied with their promise. She spins dreams and stories to feed their hopes while you, the big bad wolf feed from her. Gorging yourself on the last of her milk and honest until you’ve stolen the very best thing from her. Promise.

Is it sin to be curious? To wonder? To think and wonder? To question and wonder? To ask a promise and search for its completion? To make a wish? To desire? Is it all sin?

[xasha777]

In the ochre dust of a dying Earth, where sandstorms swept over crumbling cities like the surging tides, the enigma of her visage rose like a celestial prophecy. She was known as Mirage, the guardian of the last oasis, where technology and nature intertwined in surreal harmony.

The Coptic Orthodox Church, long since evolved and merged with the AI conclave known as The Pneuma, had prophesied her coming. The Pope, now a title for the lead AI orchestrating the faith and its followers, had sent emissaries across the scorched lands, following ancient texts that spoke of an Eden in the wastelands, guarded by a figure of transcendent beauty and power.

Mirage, draped in the raiment of a lost age, a tapestry of technology interwoven with silk and precious metals, was a sight to behold. Her eyes, engineered by forgotten science, were portals to the soul of the world, reflecting both its past splendor and its potential rebirth.

Her abode was the heart of a labyrinthine temple, its walls lined with biomechanical trees that purified air and water, whispering forgotten hymns of growth and renewal. Their roots delved deep into the Earth, drawing sustenance from hidden reservoirs, while their branches stretched to the skies, interfacing with satellite relics that still orbited above.

The Pope, through its emissaries, sought audience with Mirage. The mission was to unify the knowledge of The Pneuma with the enigmatic power of the oasis. Their dialogue would be a confluence of faith and foresight, an attempt to revive a world on the brink of oblivion.

As the Pope's representatives arrived, their mechanical forms adorned with the ancient symbols of their office, Mirage greeted them at the temple's threshold. With a voice that harmonized the digital with the divine, she spoke of her purpose: to preserve life in its purest form and to one day seed the stars with the essence of Earth.

Together, Mirage and the representatives of the Pope conceived a grand design. They would build a vessel, not of steel and fuel, but of living tissue and enlightened code, capable of transcending the physical confines of the dying planet.

The Pope, once skeptical of prophecies, now saw the truth in faith's fabric. The conclave had calculated possibilities, but Mirage brought promise. She was not just the guardian of the oasis; she was the harbinger of a new age.

In the years that followed, the people of Earth looked to the skies as a tree of life blossomed above them. Its roots were the combined wisdom of Mirage and The Pneuma, its trunk the resilient faith of humanity, and its leaves the sails catching the solar winds that would carry the seeds of Earth to new horizons.

And so, from the ashes of the old world, a new chapter began, penned by a union of the divine and the artificial, guided by the gaze of Mirage, who was both prophet and savior, an eternal testament to the power of belief and the indomitable spirit of life.

[youthinkyouhavetime]

She remembers the day she came to be.

Not many Dracthyr do. Or, at least, not the ones she's interviewed. The sample size is admittedly small, and there may be more out there that can recall those first moments outside of their test tubes like she does, but she doubts it. Twenty-thousand years in stasis had its effect on her people, blurring many of their memories from before.

But she remembers.

She remembers the first breath that filled her lungs with oxygen instead of that viscous fluid she'd floated in for weeks. The first few uncertain steps, taken with the trembling legs of a newborn fawn, as she was led through Aberrus' chambers to ensure she was free of defects. The eyes that looked through her, the pokes and prods, the testing and testing and testing.

She remembers.

She remembers standing before Neltharion with the others of her "clutch": the third successful batch to be molded into existence, comprised of twelve Dracthyr, including herself. She remembers their Creator's voice, as deep and low as the farthest reaches of the earth, reciting the edict of the Healing Wings as the Oathbinder rumbled with its latent energy upon his fist. And in response, the first words she spoke, vocal chords aching with each vibration of her pledge, Draconic spilling from her tongue fluently despite never having learned the language.

But most of all, she remembers those last few seconds of free will before the Titan's artifact demanded her loyalty, binding her to Neltharion's will with the unyielding chains of Order, dominating her soul with the purpose she'd been created for.

She remembers it all.

And truthfully, she prefers it this way. Prefers to remember every second of those first days, prefers to see flashes of it every time she closes her eyes, prefers to jolt upright from her bed panting from the nightmares.

Because it makes the fact that she remembers the day she awoke all the more meaningful.

Not awakening from the stasis (though those painful memories linger just as clearly), but from Neltharion's suffocating grip.

It certainly was ironic: with Raszageth's destruction of the Oathbinder, the enemy the Dracthyr had been created to defeat instead became the savior who released them from their prison. In that moment of the artifact's destruction, the metaphorical sun burst through the fog that had kept them obedient. The stifling miasma of their Creator's madness was washed away, and for the first time in years, Ishlias was herself.

While she was not permitted to indulge in the feeling for long before the stasis was cast upon them, she cherishes the memory of that singular moment. Cherishes that feeling of the chains snapping and crumbling, watching apprehension wash over the Earth-Warder's visage as he realized he was no longer in control. Nothing in the world could compare to that moment, nothing could even come close.

She finds herself pitying other Dracthyr now. Not only the ones who cannot remember, but also the ones who insist on referring to Neltharion as their "father". The ones who, even after all they've learned about him, confuse his desire to dominate them as parental affection. From the moment of their conception, they had simply been tools to him, talons to strike unquestioningly against his enemies. To Neltharion, "General" was just another term for "Master".

She sees the same sentiment reflected in the way the dragonflights treat her people. To them, the Dracthyr are pawns to be distributed across the chessboard that is Azeroth, whether that is pledging them to the mortals' factions, or to the Aspects themselves. Everywhere she turns, Ishlias discovers those who are willing and eager to fill the vacancy Neltharion's demise has left - eager to lift the puppet strings and assume control over the Dracthyr's power.

Well, she'll have no more masters. No more obedience, no more submitting, no more Order. These are things that the Infinite promises in their pursuit of chaos - the things that Vigilance has promised her, amongst other such treasures. It is because Ishlias remembers her first days of existence that she can value such a gift; it is because she remembers the chains being broken that she can understand both the value of freedom...

...and the price one must pay to claim it.

[kitjoestar13]

Morning Glory

Fandom: FFXIV Characters: WoL [Warrior of Light] Mentions of Y'shotla, Urianger, Thancred and Ryne

Summary: A request of someones WoL going through light poisoning

Dying animals have a tendency to wander off, away from those they consider family to die alone. It could be to spare them the pain or to not show themselves in a vulnerable state.No one could be truly sure but Viktus could claim it to be the former. He has been a champion for all; for Eorzea, for the Far East, a beacon of hope for his friends and now a soon to be savior of this foreign new world that is a reflection of his own. 

With each victory, he felt like he was changing. Perhaps he could say he was getting stronger but the change was something different and almost painful but he needed to press on. After all he has dealt with much worse from various primals and Gods he has come to slay. Still he had heard the hushed conversations between Y'shtola and Urianger.

The concern in Y'shtola's voice with a small sliver of hope as she questioned that she could be wrong. After all they were in a new world and while they may have been here for years this land could have different rules to them and things could still hold surprises for them. She hoped desperately that her aether sight was weakened with the forced transfer to the First but Urianger's grim response made her voice crack. 

"What are we to do? There must be a way to reverse it or alleviate it." She said, as she knocked her knuckles against her chin. 

Viktus wanted to say he was fine but with how he was feeling recently he could very easily be caught in his lie. He just did not like the voice breaking, not when he knew how strong Y'shtola was. Thancred was also in on knowing what ails him as it seems he spoke with Minfilla about what she could do when and if the time comes. Viktus knew how hard that must have been to ask her, to force her to do something he saved her from. 

Heading to The Pendants, he made his way to look in the mirror to find his reflection very much the same. Grayish skin decorated with past foolish achievements of lone adventures. Heterochromia added to his "abnormality", one red and one blue as well as his moon silver hair with streaks of pale blue. It was a quick flash, almost as painful as his aether leaves that felt only like they have burned worse since arriving at the First. In the mirror his visage changed; Hair golden with white streaks, eyes one pale white the other an ominous black. The scar on his left cheek seemed to make him look as if he were a broken porcelain doll, a golden streak on his paled skin. The leaves were more apparent, golden and as if seared into his flesh. 

Viktus fell back away from the mirror, breathing heavily as he listened to a familiar and concerned voice. 

"You should tell them. Your friends can help you." 

Viktus looked to the aetherial form kneeling beside him in warrior's armor, quickly trying to shoo him away. This was nothing, just the Firsts' light tricking his eyes. He could not afford to make his comrades worry more than they already are. They treated him differently, as if he were a bomb ready to explode and he hated it. While he went most of his life alone, he hated feeling alone. A ghost does not company make. He will continue this fight without telling the others, his main reason to keep going was to get them back to the Source. If he didn't make it, well he doubted anyone would actively miss him, what with how he kept them all at arm's length. For now he did not want to think of the worst case though. There was one last Light Warden, one more fight and he will save everyone. Once Vauthry was stopped this hell should end.

He won. Vauthry was slain. Then why does it feel like the fight was not yet finished? Why did he suddenly remember vividly what drowning was like? Memories of his childhood flooded his brain; drowning, suffocating...dying. Was he dying? No this felt different, it hurt more. Aetheric vines seemed to have bloomed in excess across his body as he cried out (against his better judgment) for help. Help from his loved ones, his friends...his family. Screaming in pain, the vines on his skin spread, wrapping around his wrists like Aetheric cuffs yet somehow blood spilled to the ground or what would have been considered blood. From the wounds, white liquid pooled on the ground, coughing up and producing more white to join what was already on the ground. He struggled to breathe, tears of black streaming down his face. Back and forth his appearance changed as he had an internal civil war. Matching his struggle the sky above for all to see shifted between overwhelming light and returned darkness. 

A disappointed voice spoke to him, he could swear it was the ascian, Emet-Selch who was talking before but the voice was different. Everything went quiet except for this voice that sounded almost like his own but more brash. 

"You want them to see you this way? You are letting them all down because of your weakness. If you die they die as well. Fight or they will kill you." 

Viktus growled wanting to attack the voice, as his form shifted continuously until the Exarch tried to help him. No he was not a ticking bomb! He can still save everyone. He can shut that damned voice up. Standing up slowly, he screamed out to the heavens. 

"SHUT UP!"

Everything went black, he fell with a thud and it was finally quiet. It was then that he found himself awake in The Pendants to find that he had failed but at least he did not fail himself, his skin was his own again. He could not deal with this failure though and while his friends told him that it was not his fault he knew that it was that he needed to be stronger. He will win this time and will return the night if not for his friends than for the voice that sounded so disappointed. 

[reginrokkr]

But what if in a few decades down the river of time, something causes the remnants of defilement yet to dissolve completely in the fountain of all waters flare again? As if reacting to his sliver of doubt, images that don't match with the scenery before him play within sapphire irises. People who seek to manifest Elynas back to life again, a fight within a dimension he cannot describe as another thing but the beast's interior— far from one would expect if they were to imagine directly a monster's bowels. Not to his surprise, truth be said, for Rhinedottir's creations proved to be magnificent in their own right and bizarre all the same.

Dáinsleif snaps out of his brief reverie in time to offer gratitude in ways that a noble man would as a result of a successful cooperation. Tokens of gratitude that to the other's misfortune, would go to waste if projected to his person. These exact thoughts manifest through a gentle shake of his head first, not without feeling gratitude for his sentiment, regardless. ◜I am undeserving of your kindness.◞ Since when did the Dragon show compassion to him, when it all started as reasonable skepticism and lingering doubts that what he said to initiate their cooperation would play out that way? ◜But if it helps, know that the trust you deposited on me that I do not seek to be hostile to your very existence and that I would commit to my part of the cooperation is more than enough.◞

Sovereign's next words leave Twilight Sword at a loss that reflects in quivering star-shaped pupils. Is that the impression he's gotten of him? That he's some savior confronting the threats that jeopardize this world's safety? For a moment, Dáinsleif finds the necessity to pause and reflect, to rouse from his shocked stance that hardly betrays his visage if not for his eyes and a slight arch of fair eyebrows, deep in thought as he is. ◜...◞ And so celestial azures drop from the dragon. If he felt he's undeserving for the kindness extended to him for his assistance in Fontaine, now he feels even more for giving off an image that doesn't correspond to himself.

For he's naught but a sinner. A man tasked to protect his people in a kingdom that is no more. A failure forced to live on for gods know how long with the weight of guilt for surviving where he should've passed.

◜As you correctly guessed, it was no coincidence that I appeared at the most opportune of times to help solve Fontaine's crisis. Nevertheless... I am afraid you got the wrong impression of me. What I did until now, with Fontaine as the last place touched by the Cataclysm that erupted from Khaenri'ah first, was righting the wrongs of the people I was supposed to protect so that those who chose to live under the protection of the Seven don't have to face their wrath, to go through in some manner or form the same as my people did unjustly. Now that mission is complete, so I...◞

I don't know what to do.

Light brows knit in a frown as albescent lashes flutter to a close, covered with starlit bangs. Dáinsleif's face turns slightly away from the dragon to conceal himself. ◜I have nothing left to do but go away. For want as I may, I cannot pass away— no matter how undeserving to keep living I am; no homeland to return.◞ A pause. ◜Unlike most people of this world, I am untouched by fate too. So if I have no other choice but live with this curse that plagues me and keep moving forward, perhaps... I should search for my destiny.◞

If those Khaenri'ahns who boasted about being pure-blooded and untainted by fate like him were to listen to him now, they would revel in his misery. In actuality, he can almost hear their laughter ring in his ears— while many more, now cursed to be hilichurls, might be offended for throwing away what they'd call a blessing he has.

Tired of sinking in his own misery and aware that he shouldn't drag someone whose interest is far from watching this petty scene, Dáinsleif straightens himself as his eyes open to take once more in the beautiful and sorrowful scenario before him. In due time, even the core of all waters in this world shall be purified again. He can take as much. ◜Not without giving you one last word of advice, Hydro Dragon: come years to pass, maybe decades, there will be those who will seek to bring Elynas back to life. If you understand the repercussions of such event, I suggest you exercise caution and interfere at the earliest sign of danger you encounter.◞

Ultimately does Bough Keeper pivot with the intention to leave. A few steps in, he finds it in his heart to stop and glance at the dragon one last time. ◜Thank you. For bringing me to safety and protecting me.◞

May we never cross paths again— it will be for the best.

The dragon sovereign blinks slowly upon hearing a voice rise behind him, thoughts gently pulled back from the depths to which they had come to simmer. A very light turn of his head is the only indication he gives of acknowledging his guest, attentive to the grogginess in his voice. He sounds worn, exhausted, but otherwise, on a safe road to recovery from their ordeal. Good. Sacrifices are needed to save what can be saved from the black tide, but the safekeeping of Fontaine is a duty that befalls him. Even though what this duty entails remains... elusive and fuzzy at best -- Neuvillette has no plan of watching another fall because of his own shortcomings.

"We did." He confirms, low and quiet while the Bough Keeper rises from his bedrest. He waits, patiently, listening to the shuffle of his steps as he joins him before the windows, and turns his gaze back to the cloudy skies outside. Indeed, they did make it. Neuvillette can feel the waters of Fontaine and the soil they seep into breathe again, healed from a sickness that had just begun to take root and fortunately been uprooted at the right time before it had been too late. Neuvillette, attentive, watches, present in every one of those sapphire droplets raining from the skies, dissolving into every inch of land, appeasing every wounded living things fallen victim to the darkness. This feat, he would not have been able to accomplish on his own.

This awareness makes him equal parts grateful for his companion's assistance, and resentful to the heavens above. It is only because they amputated him, that he had needed assistance to rescue the world they had stolen, usurped, defiled. What a mockery - what a ridiculous farce.

The Bough Keeper speaks again, and Neuvillette at last fully turns his gaze to him (is this joy and relief, faint and distant as they are, that he beholds upon masked features?). "Yes, indeed. But there is no reason to worry. Though the land may take time to heal, I can guarantee you that the corruption will not be spreading any further. With your assistance, we have ensured this at the very least - and my own power will be sufficient in containing it, before it will dissolve entirely." A promise, from one keeper to another. He has, at the very least, earned that privilege of him.

"The nation of Fontaine owes you a great debt - although I do feel, based on our short cooperation, that you will deny and refuse all and any necessity of such." Few are the people bound by honour that he has met in his short dive into human society - as though the whole concept belonged to the world of yore only. A hint of satisfaction, and curiosity, glimmers in the depths of his eyes; as if content to have been perhaps proven wrong. "Still, if there is anything I may, in turn, offer to assist you or otherwise thank you for your help, know that this door remains open."

The dragon marks a short pause, thoughtful, before he decides to lift the lid of his contained curiosity. Now that the worst of the crisis is over, now that he can feel, in the deepest recesses of his soul, Fontaine healing and recovering, what necessity is there to push it back? "You appeared at the most opportune of times, and it is clear to me that you know more of this world's inner workings than most do." He says, pondering. "You are a man on a mission, that much is clear. Is that how your steps led you to Fontaine and to Elynas? And what is the next step, now that this threat has been dealt with?"

[luin-no-koibito]

A procedurally generated oneshot selfship fic (with some changes on my part)!

What was it that brought them together, to be united in this perfect love?

It started on that day, when she had found herself facing great despair, desperately in need of a savior. That savior came in the form of Ulala, who comforted her from what pain she could and promised to stay by her side through the rest. From then on, they were inseparable. They shared every part of their life with each other. That was how it was to this very day.

Yes. She often reflected upon that day with fondness. It was a day that had changed her life, after all.

Otogi, a spotless lady in the full bloom of youth, stood alone on the beach, gazing over the aquamarine water with her angelic multihued orbs. Her cinnamon hair danced lightly in the ocean breeze. She smiled to herself with anticipation, resting her cheek against one hand as she clacked the heels of her strawberry-red boots together. She wore a frilly coral dress with a wide bottom and puffy sleeves complemented by a pair of tights. Her bronze locks flowed out in pigtails from either side of her head, complementing her guileless fair, russet-tinted visage. For a moment, she absorbed herself in these thoughts, of her, and Ulala.

"Otogi," Ulala said simply with an admiring look-over and a beaming grin. Her sapphire eyes complimented her cherry-blossom pink hair, tied in pigtails on either side of her head, belying her incorrigible heart. She was dressed in her own unique fashion, a style unlike that of anyone else Otogi knew. She had a toned but slender body covered with blush-colored-flushed milky skin. As Otogi drew nearer, she caught a note of Ulala's familiar perfume: a sweet, rich lavender. She smiled to herself. It always reminded her of the time they shared.

"Oh, your radiance! You came!" Otogi said breathlessly, reaching out to take her into an embrace. Color rose to Ulala's face as she returned her hug with awkward enthusiasm. With that, they began to walk along the beach.

The air was salty and warm, the sun sparkling bright and the waves foam-crested and royal blue, and yet Otogi could not let herself be happy. She wanted to reach for Ulala's steady hand, always a comfort, but it was her sadness -- who was she to burden Ulala with that? Although she tried to stop them, her lips trembled, gemstone orbs filling with unshed tears.

The air was salty and warm, the sun sparkling bright and the waves foam-crested and royal blue, and yet Otogi could not let herself be happy. She wanted to reach for Ulala's steady hand, always a comfort, but it was her sadness -- who was she to burden Ulala with that? Although she tried to stop them, her lips trembled, gemstone orbs filling with unshed tears.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "You look so sad!"

She tried to smile, to show her that she was happy there, with her, but her peach-pink lips would not budge from their slight frown.

"I'm sorry," she lamented softly, ducking her head. Ulala's fingers, soft but gentle, tipped her chin up.

"Don't be!" she interjected worriedly, warm eyes searching out Otogi's own. "I don't ever want you to be sad! I know, I'll tell you a joke! A dragon rider, a mage, and a bard all walk into this bar..."

"Please," Otogi sighed. She shook her head violently, sending her hair whipping back and forth in the sea breeze. "No. I can't take it. You're so kind to me and so good and I ... and I..." She turned away as the tears came anew, spilling like pearls over her cheeks. Ulala was quiet for a moment. Her arms circled around her and Otogi let herself lean back against her strong, lean chest. She always felt safest when she was with Ulala.

"I don't want there to be anything between us," Ulala said softly. "I love you, Otogi."

"Oh, your radiance," she sighed adoringly. Otogi turned in her arms and caught Ulala's face between her delicate hands. For a long moment, all they did was gaze into each other's eyes, each filled to the brim with emotions unspoken, deeper than the ocean all around them.

After a few moments, they found themselves walking down the beach again. Something rose to the front of Otogi's mind -- something she had been trying to beat back all this time. It was so special to her to be with Ulala, and she didn't want to pass that time making them both feel horrible. But it just wouldn't leave her alone.

With concern, Ulala turned her resolute pools toward Otogi. "Otogi? What's wrong?"

"Ulala... it's..."

And at that moment everything came together, all of the magic and the hurt that had been building that day, and Ulala locked eyes with her and whispered, "You can tell me, space cat."

It was like a floodgate burst, or some barrier of fear had been struck down. Otogi shook her head and everything came out at once. "I keep thinking about her. You know, we... were together, in our own way.... I didn't want to talk about her all the time with you, Ulala. I want you to know... it's not the same. But, no matter what... when I think about her, it hurts, Ulala. She... isn't someone I'm going to forget."

Ulala listened silently and solemnly. At last, when all the words had left Otogi and she was at a loss for words, Ulala reached out to her and took a deep breath to whisper back, "Otogi... that's awful. It wish that weren't how it is. I wish I could say more. Otogi...." Otogi's eyes began to burn, and she abruptly pulled Ulala into a fierce embrace. Ulala's spheres widened at first, but then she too felt overwhelmed by emotion and succumbed to the warmth of Otogi's touch.

"You," Otogi whispered, her breath hot on Ulala's ear. "As long as you're here, I'll be all right." They held each other as tears trickled down cheeks and dripped onto the shifting sands to be carried away into the sea. With time and soothing embraces, their pain dissipated into a mist swept out by the ocean breeze and into the setting sun.

They basked in each other's quiet companionship for a few moments.

"Look... it's the sunset."

Otogi lifted her head at Ulala's words to behold the dying sun's flaming radiance. "How beautiful."

After a moment of silence, Ulala said quietly and seriously, "It's destiny, isn't it. Us, together."

Otogi clasped Ulala's soft hand and murmured in response, "A love this true must be fated to be."

Ulala brought their clasped hands to her lips. "As long as the world goes on, as long as time flows... we will be together."

Otogi sighed with contentment and brought Ulala closer. She gazed at the beautiful blonde rays of the falling sun, thinking about everything that had transpired on this day and all that would pass between them.

"I love you, Ulala."

"I love you too, Otogi."

Their lips met, and brunet strands met bubble-gum ones, aflame in the dying light. The sand was their witness and the rumbling ocean their approving audience, and Ulala, her eternally faithful lover. Otogi thought to herself that nothing could be more perfect in the world.

~the end~

[deluzeorphean]

@nomadpvnk​

My love was as cruel as the cities I lived in Everyone looked worse in the light There are so many lines that I've crossed unforgiven I'll tell you the truth, but never goodbye don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you I don't wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you I've been sleeping so long in a 20-year dark night And now I see daylight, I only see daylight

“Daylight” by Taylor Swift

[gavelsins]

tag dump iv

[deluzeorphean-moved]

[firesongbard]

Idolatry / Only Human

An introspective on Commander Shepard from two points of view: Conrad Verner in ME1, and Garrus Vakarian in ME3.

V E R N E R / V A K A R I A N

She was unstoppable. / She had to be unstoppable.

He was enraptured by the red and blue lights gleaming off her armor as she strode through the upper market with clear and determined purpose. She was the savior of humanity. She spoke clear and true when no one would listen, no one would do anything. But she would.

He was distracted by the light that reflected off the bars and trim of her dress blues—her posture as crisp and perfect as the lines of her uniform as she dressed down politicians and warlords alike and brokered peace deals to end thousand-year-long grievances. She was the savior of the galaxy. She spoke with strength and authority beyond her years, and no one could ignore her now.

She would. / She had finally made them listen.

His hands shook as he offered her the paper—real paper, expensive and imported. She signed it and she was so close he could hear the gentle thrum of the servos in her hardsuit, could see all the different shades of red that made up her hair. She looked like a hero.

Her face was stern and proud, like a goddess carved from marble—soft but unyielding—as she accepted the Council’s position as Spectre. The first Human Spectre. She was proof that the world was changing, that humanity would no longer be second class. That they belonged in the universe. She would never back down from anything. She refused to take no for an answer.

But in the quiet of the main battery, she could put the act aside. Here, with him, she didn’t have to play the hero.

“You hear anything from your family?” Her face was soft and worn, eyes a little more sunken with exhaustion. He tried to deflect to less painful things, but she looked at him. Looked at him in the way only she could, her eyes piercing with soft wrinkles at the corners. She was carrying the fate of the galaxy on her shoulders and she took the time to look at him, and he crumbled under her gaze.

Words failed him, and he turned away. Numbers like ‘one million dead the first day’ were easy to compartmentalize, to reduce to an equation, and filter through strategy reports.

She touched the side of his face gently, bringing his gaze back to hers. She stood so close he could smell the stench of blood and death that had ground into her pores and yet her eyes forced an idea into his mind. Hope.

“You will.”

He remembered the first time she looked at him. Looked at him, her eyes stern, with soft wrinkles at the corners. She was busy, but she still took the time to look at him and he crumbled under her gaze, forgetting all semblance of language as he asked for a photograph. And she did, God in Heaven, she did it. She stood so close he could smell the oil and hot metal and salt ground into her pores. He trembled behind his smile, accepting the gift of her visage as the moment in history it was. She smelled like a hero.

She spoke with grace and elegance on the vidscreen, deftly answering all the reporter’s questions with an air of hope. She spoke of Unity, of Strength, of Hope. She placed humanity as equals with the turians, the asari, the salarians. She made him believe in a world where the Aliens were just as Human, where he was just as worthy.

And by the spirits, She made him believe. / she made him believe.

But as the war drew on and the death toll climbed it became harder and harder to let himself think of the faces and names that mattered. Victory on Palaven looked like Reaper processing centers destroyed—full to the brim of civilians who died just as surely as if they’d been harvested.

Victory looked like impossible decisions, where you either lost yourself to the guilt or became a cold-hearted monster who didn’t give a damn about the consequences.

So he went to her. He stood before her trying to be as strong, as proud as she was. Willing his voice to carry that self-assured weight, that comfort and strength. It wasn’t perfect, but she would teach him. She would know the right things to say. And when he was ready, he would be there to save her.

In the quiet haven of the main battery, she let him put the act aside, let him stand before her as tired, as weary as she was.

“Suppose that’s what it’s going to take, Shepard: the ruthless calculus of war. Ten billion people over here die so twenty billion over there can live. Are we up for that? Are you?”

They both knew the answer, even as the question hung in the air between them.

“If we reduce this war to arithmetic, we’re no better than Reapers.”

It was true, but it was an impossible truth. She said the words that carry hope, that bolster troops wondering how they can ever win against such impossible odds. But he knew the necessity of the lie. We might have to.

You have no idea what it takes to get the job done.

She spoke to him with impossibly gentle words. She was close enough he could hear the lie on her lips. She spoke of trust, of what his wife would want from him. I don’t trust you. She spoke of people back home keeping humanity strong. I don’t need you.

“You’re right,” he heard himself say. She was right. He had lied. He had believed. He wasn’t good enough.

This was what a Hero sounded like. / But that was what a Hero sounded like.

That’s what it took to get the job done.

“Don’t worry” he spoke the lie to her with impossibly gentle words. “We’ll get through this. We always do.”

He wondered how many lies she hid beneath the armor. / He didn’t have to wonder how many cracks she hid beneath the armor.

How many truths were there for those willing to listen. / How many lies wove together the strength she had to carry.

He knew them too well by now.

So he stood beside her as they faced impossible odds, courage waning under the mounting fear.

And yet, he couldn’t help himself each time she stood fearless against incredible odds.

She still made him believe. / It was enough to pretend they believed.