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starswornoaths · 3 years ago

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Our Noble Legacy - Commission!

A commission for the delightful @faerflowerkid, featuring her oc: Faer wir Galvus, Warrior of Light, great-granddaughter to Solus zos Galvus.

Emet-Selch knew he would have to confront the Warrior of Light directly, at some point. It was as inevitable as the tide. That she was his family would not, could not, matter.

5.0 spoilers, canon divergent!

Word count: 10,752

~*~

Seeing the shattered little fragments of souls congregating, collaborating in tandem to achieve the impossible was…almost inspiring. Granted, very little in these fragmented worlds made Emet-Selch feel anything but tired indifference, so mayhap he was just surprised that he felt aught positive at all, watching the Warrior of Light rally them to a hopeless cause. Watching her inspire people who had, only hours before, been content to sit in their own misery, idle under the ever burning light, and wait to die, well…it was hard not to be roused in some way.

Even knowing it was impractical, Emet-Selch still often found himself studying the Warrior of Light that he was now in an uneasy alliance with, searching for some sign that he could cling to that could possibly cast doubt on her lineage.

His lineage, for that matter, and really, that was the crux of the issue.

It was harder not to see a bit of himself in Faer than it had ever been, in that moment. There had been, of course, the obvious signs of their relation, from the shock of silver-grey bangs against deep chestnut (in another shorter hairstyle she had begun growing out again, he noticed,) to the golden, hawkish eyes that mirrored his own, but if there had been any doubt before that she was of his blood, her cleverness, and her knack for rousing people in common cause made it undeniable to him. From the instant he realized that she was his great granddaughter, one he had held as a babe, in the twilight years of Solus’ life, he couldn’t help but notice, more and more, that Faer seemed a shining example of what his lineage would have been, perhaps, had fate been different.

Whatever pride he may have felt was inevitably tarnished by her status as his enemy—his greatest yet, certainly, of all the fool heroes that had dashed themselves against his might. The greatest of his enemies in both the threat she posed to their designs on the world, and in that even at this juncture, even knowing that she could yet prove him wrong and show him the error of his ways…this would be the hardest one for him to kill.

Should it come to that, Dark Lord guide me, he thought grimly.

Mayhap Zodiark had always known better than to trust that Emet-Selch wouldn’t care, and had intended to see if he would be willing to slay his kin in the name of their most noble designs. A waste, if that were the case; whatever blood he may have passed down in this life, in this body, that was not the family that he fought so hard for. The Galvus family was not the one that he mourned—mostly.

He tried not to think of his son. Always, did he try not to think of his son. And always, did he fail.

Zodiark was ever present, a persistent, low murmur in the back of his mind. As familiar to him as his own heartbeat, after so many eons, but ever since he’d laid eyes on the Warrior of Light herself and realized that it was his great-granddaughter, it had felt as though he could hear the Dark Lord laughing at his expense. What an apt reward, for toiling in the shadow of his God: a test of faith, at a critical crossroads.

Such maudlin thoughts, while commonplace under the ever burning sun, felt ill-fitting such an occasion as this, watching people mill about with good cheer and throw their entire, frail beings into the work before them. When he refocused and realized that Faer couldn’t be found among the workers anymore, he scanned the immediate vicinity. For a blessing, he wasn’t searching far: taking yet another page from his book, she stood out of the way of those using their tools, those inherited, hawkish eyes surveying the work before her.

He was walking toward her before he had even consciously chosen to do so. Even through the constant reminders that she was his enemy, that he should keep barriers between them, it seemed the pride he felt for her accomplishment, even knowing that their deal could— and in all likelihood, would— end in failure. Perhaps it was those very reminders that made his words drip with sarcasm, once he had moved close enough to his great granddaughter to speak.

“Would you look at that? The citizens of Eulmore engaging in what can only be described as “manual labor.” Who would have thought it possible?” He mused aloud.

Though they were still some distance away from one another in the entryway to the ladder, his voice carried enough that Faer still turned her head to face him. Even knowing that he had gotten her attention, Emet-Selch made no effort to quicken his pace to her; he was old, and weary, and she had good ears.

“Do you know the most reliable way to deal with those who stubbornly refuse to see reason?” He asked without losing his stride, eyes never moving from hers.

Faer was ever an intuitive soul: sensing the weight of the conversation, if not necessarily the mood of it quite yet, she turned her body fully to face him.

It was only a few more steps until they were within reaching distance of one another, but they seemed to take an age longer than all the rest. It was less that he particularly cared whether or not they were overheard, but it would make his already strained relationship with the other Scions all the more so, if they heard his answer, and the indifference in his tone as he spoke,

“You conquer them— crush them under heel.”

He might have put more effort into sounding less cavalier about that if he had anticipated the faint wince she couldn’t quite hold back. Of course she would somehow feel responsible for all the steps of the great plan that he had overseen. Of course she would.

Hero types, really.

“Such was the trusted method of the Allag, and one still favored by Garlemald,” he continued in that same tone, and pretended that he hadn’t noticed her reaction in the first place.

With a wave of his hand, he shifted into a lesson— a windup to an admittedly fumbled compliment he was still half forming. Zodiark was getting in the way of all the words, and it was hard to form them. Exposition was always an easy fallback in theatre, and it saved him now as he explained, “But conquest is the easy part. The true challenge begins once the dust has settled— quenching the glowing embers of animosity and maintaining a semblance of peace. This requires the conqueror to treat the conquered with dignity, and the conquered to let bygones be bygones. A difficult feat to achieve.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say you were trying to train me to be your successor,” Faer bristled. “You sound like my old tutors back home.”

It was Emet-Selch’s turn to wince, even through his smile. It was always hard not to think of the life that could have been— in particular, how things could have been, had he been allowed to love his first son, and all the family that might have come after. All the things that might have been accomplished.

“In another life, I might well have.” He admitted.

That thought seemed to settle differently on the both of them. Where Emet-Selch, already susceptible to dreaming of what was lost and what could have been, could readily see a brighter, happier world for him where he had been allowed to learn to love the Galvus family, Faer looked as though the thought of her participating further in the machinations of the empire would cost her sleep.

Not that he could blame her, really. Hero type, and all.

“But you have achieved just that...to my considerable surprise.” He added when she continued to say nothing.

At the way she narrowed her eyes at him, he couldn’t help but roll his. “It’s a compliment.” He sighed sardonically. “Take it.”

Faer blinked owlishly up at him.

“Oh, I— thank you.” She murmured, and even if her tone was sheepish, he could tell it was sincere. “I guess I just wasn’t necessarily expecting it to be a compliment that wasn’t backhanded.”

Another wince, this time from both of them— he supposed she had a point. She hadn’t even necessarily done anything to him, to earn that. Apart from the death of his kin, though he couldn’t put the fault of their centuries old struggle solely on her; he’d been through this dance a thousand times before. Doubtless, he would continue to do so long after her, too.

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, and watched some few dozen paces off, as Urianger and Y’Shtola maneuvered around toward the idle Talos, cheered on and guided by Dulia and Chai Nuzz respectively. With outstretched hands, they filled the machinery with the thrumming, brilliant blue of their aether, powering the cores within. The sight inspired in Emet-Selch thoughts of the Bureau of Concepts, back when time hardly mattered, where death and tragedy were naught but bad dreams and the punishments of villains in all the stories.

“Ahh, the vibrant energy that fills the air when like-minded souls gather. To think back on that time before time fair brings a tear to my eye.”

She seemed mildly surprised he was capable of it at all. Something in him bristled at that.

“What? You thought ancient beings like us incapable of crying?”

Even he could concede that he sounded defensive. He could stand to leave himself less open, blast it all.

“N-no, it’s just—” She cut herself off, chewing on her bottom lip. “I never could picture you being happy, but I also just...couldn’t fathom you crying, when I was a child.”

She seemed to catch herself in the moment, and gave him an apologetic smile as she said, “Sorry, I shouldn’t keep comparing you to my great-grandfather. You were playing a role back then.”

“It was—” He tamped down on the words, frowning as they tangled on his tongue. Swallowing, he tried again, “While I might have been...doing my part, in our noble work, it would be almost impossible, to not live an entire lifetime and not feel something other than boredom, from time to time.”

Not entirely an admission of affection that most certainly did not exist, though an acknowledgement of his humanity. It seemed a diplomatic enough response.

“I...hadn’t thought of it that way before.” Faer admitted slowly.

Emet-Selch harrumphed. “Well, rest assured that if your heart can be broken, then so can mine!”

“...You’re right.” Faer said, surprising him. “For all our disagreements, I shouldn’t deny the humanity that Ascians possess. Certainly not my own great grandfather’s.”

As painfully formal as it sounded, her apology was a balm on a sore nerve. Enough to let his thoughts wander, as were their wont. Before he could think better of it, he started to give voice to them, and let the dead be among him for a little while through his words.

“Back when the world was whole, we had family, friends, loves…” He began hesitantly.

When she didn’t interrupt him, he turned his gaze toward the ever burning heavens, contemplative, as he continued, “Men knew peace and contentment, and with our adamant souls, we could live for an age. There was no conflict born of want or disparity. Our differences paled into insignificance next to all we had in common.”

The ladder itself was still in his periphery, even when looking at the sky. So, it was only natural that, when he finally looked at the structure proper, that he compared it to the towering landmarks he was so accustomed to back when all he had known was happiness.

“And then, there was Amaurot...never was a city more magnificent. From the humblest streets to the highest spires, she fairly gleamed…”

When at last he brought himself— and his focus— back to the earth, he spared his great-granddaughter a plain look from the corner of his eye. “Not that you would remember any of this,” he said, infinitely and eternally bitter.

“Remember…?” Faer asked, understandably, with a ponderous frown and a tilt of her head.

He had already said too much. Frankly, he was shocked Zodiark permitted him to say as much as he had. Shaking his head, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Never mind.”

Faer pressed her lips together thinly, hands faintly fidgeting in front of her. After a few long moments of silence, Emet-Selch cleared his throat.

“You are staring.” He noted when he could see her start to lose herself to thoughts. “Dare I ask why?”

Her eyes refocused with a blink. “Sorry, you were talking about families, and I was just...thinking back on home. I know you held me as a babe, but the only clear picture I had in my mind of you was when you were older than you look now. I wouldn’t have even recognized you when you showed up if it weren’t for all the murals and the history books, I don’t think.”

He hadn’t even thought of that, when he had first taken up residence in the first clone that Varis had made— or when he had kept the form when he had taken a body for his own in this world, for that matter.

“Would it have been a comfort to you, had I been the elderly and frail grandfather you knew?” He asked, only able to muster half of his usual snark. Something about the thought upset him in a way he couldn’t describe.

“I don’t honestly believe so. The shock was what kept me from killing you outright, when you showed up.” Faer admitted with a shrug. “I had yet to have a pleasant run-in with an Ascian, I’ll remind you.” When he didn’t have a response to her comment, she shifted on her feet, awkward that her comment had not landed with him. She crinkled her nose, and admitted hesitantly,“I didn’t think the paintings were right, if I’m being honest.”

Paintings. And she had mentioned murals before—

“Ah, the royal gallery.” Emet-Selch nodded at the recollection, ample excuse to avert his eyes from her. “I’d nearly forgotten; I had to pose for so many portraits, even before I was crowned Emperor, I learned how to nap with my eyes open to make it even a little bearable.”

She let out a little snort on the inhale of her chuckle, and promptly smothered it behind her hand. It seemed Garlean etiquette had not been entirely beaten out of her. He remembered the tutors that had been in the employ of the royal family: to be frank, the thing that impressed him the most was how little her knuckles had scarred from their yalmsticks. They were likely responsible for her resilience in the face of constant sneering; her good cheer would have run out malms ago otherwise, the same as her newly reunited companions.

In spite of their uncertain alliance, he joined her in laughter when she looked up at him again, face faintly flushed from holding in her giggling. In truth, his comment wasn’t necessarily funny, but it was just human enough to startle the both of them into unexpected chuckling.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again— and really, she did it far too often, in his opinion. “I interrupted you. What were you saying?”

The lingering smirk on his lips from laughing faded. It was a bit of a shame, to have their mood shift so suddenly as he knew it would.

Nevertheless. She did ask.

“The point is: the world of old was a far better place than what we have now. I believe you would like it, having witnessed the things you have.”

Would that he could give it all to her. Her true inheritance: a world without conflict, a world where no one suffered and all were equal in the eyes of one another. A world where jobs like hers were absolutely redundant but for the sake of exploration and learning.

A world fitting for his great-granddaughter.

Capitalizing on her surprise at his comment, he pressed, “Remember, you are of the Source. Unlike the halfmen here, you stand only to gain. Should you survive the remaining calamities, you will become our equal. A complete existence in a complete world.”

Pressed too far, it seemed: a look of pain flashed over Faer’s face. Of guilt. Was that what she wanted, too, he wondered. A chance to put her weapon down and simply be. Surely that was not too awful a thought for her to have? Too soon, he reasoned. She isn’t ready to stop playing the hero.

So he could be supportive, in his own, twisted way. Could nudge her, as a villain, could inspire her to the greatness he knew, in his heart of hearts, that she could achieve.

With another shrug, he chided, “But such talk is a pleasure for later. Back to work, hero.”

He turned to leave when a thought occurred to him. Pausing mid step, he angled his head back toward her and said over his shoulder, “Ah, there was one thing I had meant to ask: how well do you know the Exarch? Has he ever deigned to show you what hides beneath that cowl?”

In part to play his role as the villain, in part to service his role in the grand plan, he played both to perfection, just to see what would happen. Even still, Faer shaking her head “no” came as a surprise; he didn’t get the sense that she was lying.

“What, never? Not even to you? How very interesting…I shall enjoy working out what it means. Until next time.”

Faer called after him when he began to leave in earnest. Much as he might have found another reason to linger, he would rather be with his thoughts. With a dismissive wave, he pressed on, and hoped the distance he put between them was well beyond any chance of her words reaching him.

Despite everything, they still had.

It had been a point of pride, how much Emet-Selch had kept his distance from watching Faer in action, for more than had been a necessity. For a blessing, such occurrences had been infrequent; before now, it had largely fallen to the more...hands on of his peers. He was among the last, now— most ironically of all, the most hands on of the surviving Unsundered.

But those words he had been running from had caught up to him, sunk their teeth into him, and bled him of his will to stay away. He was too old to run from such things, these days. He had been for a very long time, he supposed. To save himself from being drained of all he had scraped together the last eon, rather than try to thrash and tighten the vice of those fangs, he relaxed, and let go.

And so, Emet-Selch did what he did best: he clung to the shadows, and watched. He bore witness to his great-granddaughter’s struggles, in the moment, far more closely— in attentiveness and distance both— than he ever had before. If living in the dark was a comfort, then he could still peer into the light, that he might try to see.

What he saw should have terrified him— and, in a distant sort of way, he supposed that it did. It should have angered him, nauseated him, to see the ferocity with which Faer took down her foes. Meek and mild though she may be in those interpersonal moments, this was him truly beholding the Warrior of Light, in her element, and all her glory, both.

It was a peculiar thing: to look at her directly was almost too much, as if she took after her namesake too well. Mayhap, that was the Light that she had absorbed, burning beneath her skin, and naught more. He hadn’t looked closely enough before now to know for certain.

He might have been too old to run from the things that he couldn’t face, but as he worked to keep up with the pace that Faer had set for her crew, every one of those years fell away. In the moment, as he darted from shadow to shadow, and peered through every portal he popped out of when his current, dark roost could no longer track her movements, he felt young again, in a way he had forgotten.

There was so much of himself that Emet-Selch saw in her, even before witnessing what she was capable of on the battlefield. He had been far from a spry youth, then he began to build the Garlean Empire, but he recalled the years before he took the crown, how he had unleashed Hell itself unto his enemies, to ensure that he achieved the accolades that would make him a fitting Emperor, and couldn’t help but see much of the same tenacity, ferocity, and unrelenting strength that he had once employed, now passed down to his great-granddaughter.

Faer was hardly the first hero that he had ever witnessed in combat. In truth, she wasn’t even the first hero that he had been moved by.

But she was the first hero that he had such a direct connection to. A connection that forced him to look, with both eyes open, upon the path that she walked— and, by proxy, that he walked.

Maybe it was the Light, radiating off of her, but Zodiark’s veil felt unusually thin, as they climbed, higher and higher, from towering Talos to the perilous peak of Mt. Gulg. Thin enough that he could see, for the first time, that Faer was his equal in fervor, in dedication to her goal. Equal also, in the belief that hers was the just cause.

Perhaps that was why, when Vauthry descended upon Faer with twofold forms and fury alike, Emet-Selch celebrated her victory over the last of the Lightwardens.

He’d often been told that the air itself felt heavier, on the precipice of great change. Even before the Sundering, such a philosophical discussion had been brought to the Forum of Debate. It had been something he had understood only in the most joyous of occasions— death was such a rarity, outside of accidents, he had practically only known the air to grow saturated with satisfaction, or heady with happiness.

The air here, at the summit of Mt. Gulg, already scorching, stale, and still for the eternal Light, shifted around him as he emerged from the shadows, one last time. It was noticeably harder to breathe, for the lingering particulates of Vauthry’s remains hung in that unnatural stasis, glimmering in the gilded light.

Haunting, had he cared enough to look anywhere, save for his great-granddaughter.

The lingering, shimmering ashes of the Lightwarden had a faintly dusty, saccharine scent. Cloying, much like the makeup powders that Emet-Selch so enjoyed to dabble with. However, it was several heartbeats before he realized that, as he held his breath, watching Faer absorb the Light.

The eternal, beaming rays above split, and tore open as a gaping wound, through which the night itself bled. It was a gasp of air amongst the drowning stillness, a breach in the surface, but it was fleeting— it sewed itself back up, just as the Warrior of Darkness collapsed to her knees.

There were voices, not far from him, but they sounded as distant as rolling thunder. There was a blue ring of light— contrasting to the all encompassing luminescence above. It was enough to distract him, though only enough for Zodiark to remind him of his task.

Emet-Selch breathed in that heavier air of change, as he craned his neck to look up again. The momentary glimpse of the night sky was long gone, and any trace it had ever been there taken with it. She failed, she failed, just as we knew she would, Zodiark urged him.

The gun he’d kept on his person as Solus zos Galvus was in his hand before he realized he had summoned it. There was someone opposite his descendant, speaking with her kindly— ah, the Exarch—

The secretive man’s hood fell away with another pulse of that blue, blinding light. Emet-Selch didn’t know the man— he didn’t need to. He didn’t care.

He recognized those red eyes anywhere.

So, it was just as he suspected, then. Somehow, that didn’t surprise him; he had never been able to truly stamp out the Allagan Empire in its entirety without over meddling. It should almost be expected, that its echoes would dog him all the way here.

The bullet Zodiark had loaded in the chamber for Faer was instead lodged into the scarlet sorcerer. It struck him in the abdomen— nothing fatal, he did need the man alive for his Allagan eye, after all.

Well. That, and his great-granddaughter had failed to keep her end of the bargain. It was only meet that he take his consolation prize, and be on his way.

At least, that was what he told himself, staring down at the barely conscious form of the man that had tried to spare Faer her fate. A strange sort of anger welled up in his chest at that; here this, this Exarch was, posturing as the secretive, scheming villain, all to spare Faer her precious little feelings, so no one would miss him as he went to make a star of himself.

Emet-Selch couldn’t bite back a cruel quirk of his lips. The Exarch wanted to play a villain? He could watch the Architect put on a real show.

“Only those who possess the Royal Eye of the Allagan imperial line are capable of controlling the Crystal Tower.” He raised his voice loud enough to be heard. “Such individuals do not exist in the First.”

He lowered his gun as he spoke, unperturbed by the veneer of civility being shorn so thoroughly in Faer’s presence; she was barely keeping herself kneeling, her entire body quivering with the effort of holding in every onze of light that she had absorbed.

“Therefore, in all likelihood, the Exarch arrived here with the tower. This much I had surmised, yet I could not discern his grand scheme. To think, he went through all this trouble for the sake of a single hero. It’s almost admirable in its absurdity.”

He stepped up to the crumpled sorcerer, peering down at him. There was a strange sense of pitiable understanding that welled up in him, thinking on his own words; in a sense, they were not so different. After all, he, too, had gone to great lengths to make an exception to the rule, all for the sake of a single hero.

“Alas, it is not your grand scheme that will succeed, but ours.”

One of the little mortals was squabbling at him again. Really, he had thought they had learned by now.

When that same mortal— Thancred, he distantly recalled the name— reached for his gunblade, Emet-Selch warned, “Stay put. Your friend is still alive, but whether he remains so depends on you.”

Though the brute bared his teeth, he did not make another advance. Once it was clear that he would not be attacked, Emet-Selch turned his attention to his great-granddaughter.

It didn’t matter what he felt, watching her writhe in agony so. They had an agreement, and now...now, he had his part to play. And she, hers.

His final test of faith.

“What a disappointment you turned out to be.” Said the Architect— softly, as if to himself. As if his remorse was genuine.

Perhaps it was. It couldn’t matter regardless.

That anger that the Exarch had sparked swelled in his chest, the longer he looked down upon Faer. To think that for a fleeting instant, she had dared to chase away the shadows from his eyes. To think, he had dared to see.

“I placed my faith in you. Let myself believe that you could contain the Light.” He spat accusingly.

His temples throbbed in time with his heart for how hot the anger in his breast ran. The longer he stared down at her, pale and trembling and bleached out for the Light inside her, the brighter his fury blazed. To think, he had dared, once again, like the fool that he was, to hope. And once more, he was reminded of why such notions are folly.

“But look at you now,” He sneered, “halfway to becoming a monster. You are unworthy of my patronage.”

For some reason, Faer’s refusal to look away only served to anger him further. What did she hope to gain from such useless posturing? She had lost.

And yet, he supposed, she couldn’t have possibly gotten half as far as she had, if she had ever lied down and accepted her fate. Even through the anger, he couldn’t help but respect her effort; few understood how hard it was to simply try.

“What...what happens now, then, great-grandfather?” Faer managed to snarl between gasping heaves.

Before Emet-Selch could respond, she buckled under a fit of productive coughing. So productive, in fact, that the very light that she had absorbed was now being spat onto the gilded ground. She slipped, as she tried to stagger to her feet, and folded back onto her knees, panting from the exertion.

His frown deepened; something about her pitiful struggles agitated him, enough that he felt like his skin itched from the inside. To hide the depth of his rage— and genuine disappointment, he realized with belated shock— he took a moment to let out a noise of disgust.

Emet-Selch was still in character, after all.

He reminded her, tutting, “I am an Ascian. My heart’s sole desire is to usher in the Great Rejoining.”

Spitting once more, she looked back up at him, eyes blazing with fury, tears, and the light that glimmered off of them.

It was too much, in particular, knowing precisely how he was about to hurt her next; he looked away, toward her Scion accomplices, and struck: “A hundred years ago, I entrusted my comrade, Loghriff, with the task of increasing Light’s sway over this world. This, we sought to do by manipulating heroes.”

A wet, gasping sob tore itself from Faer’s throat. Emet-Selch hid his wince from her. He had struck true.

Continuing his onslaught, he kept his eyes locked on those lesser servants of Hydaelyn, as he spoke, “When that failed to achieve the desired result, I created Vauthry. But thanks to your meddling, that, too, has ended in failure.”

“What was your true purpose in approaching us?” One of the matching pair demanded.

“By your Twelve, boy, have I not told you before, that everything I said was the truth?” He countered. “You were specimens by which I might gauge man’s potential as it stands.”

As if he had ever lied. As if he had ever pretended. As if he had ever had a choice.

Strangely incensed, Emet-Selch pressed, “I genuinely had an interest in you. Genuinely considered taking you on as allies! Provided that she—”

He spared a sneering glance out of the corner of his eye, over his shoulder, at his kneeling great-granddaughter. What he could see of her, through the light that was seeping through the metaphorical cracks, at least.

“—Could contain the light.”

He managed to pretend at disappointed boredom. The mask was always easier. Always, always easier.

Leaning into his assigned role in Zodiark’s most noble design, he turned to face his failing, fading family.

“If not, then she— and by extension, you— would be of no use to me. ‘Twas as simple as that.”

He couldn’t even muster the strength to straighten his posture; he could distantly hear his old vizier, in simpler times, huffing about how unlike an Emperor it was to slouch. When the yappy one with the gunblade snorted indignantly, he faced the noise, half expecting someone to attempt something stupid.

For a blessing and a curse, the Scions seemed to yet possess their senses, and did not attack him.

Thancred, instead, drolled, “So we’ve been found wanting. How disheartening. But even had we fulfilled your conditions, there was no guarantee that we would cooperate. What then?”

As if it had not been obvious. They took advantage of his good grace, and thought him docile for the trouble? He would remind them of their folly.

“Then I simply kill you all.” Emet-Selch replied plainly, and shrugged. “At the very least, it would restore the world to the way it was before you went about trouncing Lightwardens willy-nilly.”

He shot a glare at the troublesome, unconscious Exarch. The creaky little mischief maker. All the magic of the Allagan Empire, stolen out from rightful fingers, and yet, here he was! Laid low by a bullet. As any murdered king, as any defeated tyrant: they bled, all the same.

“Suffice to say it would be most inconvenient to have all that Light taken away— and I would be lying if I were to claim his actions didn’t have me worried.”

Another bout of Faer’s gasping coughs brough another wet splatter of ectoplasmic light scattering across the broquet. Her back arched with the might of her heaving, as her body tried to force air into her lungs, any way that it could.

It did not bother him. He did not look away again. This was his test, after all. He could not falter here.

The Architect stalked over to where his great-granddaughter of Light knelt there, in all her broken glory. There was a ringing in his ears— it made the dull, purposeful thunk of his boots sound especially loud to him. Nevertheless, he did not stop, not until he was close enough to observe her, and knelt to her level.

It should have been easy, to look at her. It shouldn’t have hurt, to see how she had been twisted, her features bleached out in harsh light, how she seemed almost swallowed by the luminescence that clung to her skin, that radiated from her. It should have even given him some sort of grim glee, seeing his greatest enemy laid low.

It didn’t. He couldn’t look away.

Solus watched his little great-granddaughter, the same one he’d bounced on his knee and read to, his family, his lineage, all that he had left that he could even begin to consider family, and he was killing her.

But Emet-Selch...he had a role to play.

“Hm,” he hummed, seeming unaffected. “You still retain your form, and your senses...but you have all but become a sin eater.”

Faer’s head hung, at the words, “sin eater.” For a moment, she looked defeated. She did not lift it again, until he next spoke.

He should have triumphed, in the moment. Should have taken that defeat and solidified it, right then and there, and made good on his word to kill them all and just be done with it.

Instead, Solus could only softly explain, in a voice he’d heard one of his hospice chirurgeons use with him, toward the end of his life, “Whether you will it or no, your mere existence will serve to engulf the world in Light.” He only half remembered to put a villain’s cruel twist to that kindness, “Those in your company will likewise turn into sin eaters, and, in time, you will succumb to your base instincts, and hunt innocents to feast on their sweet, sweet aether.”

Faer’s head swayed, as she struggled to keep it upright, to watch him as he emphasized, venting some of his anger with bitter delight, “Those few with the will left to fight may rise up against you. But before your absolute might, they will quickly know despair. “There is no hope! We are finished! Mankind is finished!” Ahhh, the irony. What Vauthry achieved through bliss, you will achieve through despair.”

He had taken all he could of watching Faer struggle; watching any longer than this would only bring harm to him, and would gain him nothing in exchange. Ignoring the popping of his knees, he stood.

“But I have overstayed my welcome. I shall look forward to seeing you bring the world to its knees, hero.”

Emet-Selch granted himself reprieve when he turned fully away from the Warrior of Light, and focused on the Exarch, as he snapped his fingers. In an instant, the Allagan pretender was whisked away, in that void between realms carved out for the Unsundered.

Ignoring the whinging of the Warrior of Light’s accomplices crying out after the Exarch, demanding justice, and all of the usual trappings of a squawking hero that he paid no heed, he reasoned, “I have naught to show for all the time and effort I invested in you. He is a small token for my troubles. I did not expect that I could learn aught from man, but I may yet learn something from all the knowledge he had hoarded for his precious hero.”

Emet-Selch had always been above them— figuratively, and literally. He opted for an exit befitting that stature— only the best would to, before their intercession, after all— and with nary a half onze of effort, he lifted himself high above their heads, well beyond their reach—

Or at least, he had intended to; the Warrior of Light lunged at him suddenly, and before he could properly react, clutched at the front of his coat to keep herself upright on quivering legs. With an effort that looked herculean in effort, she pulled herself up by his lapels, trying to draw on her full height. Her eyes blazed with an intensity that threatened to blind him, and she bared her teeth at him in a heaving snarl.

A hero, to the last. A familiar habit, of a familiar, familial hero.

“I pity you, I do.” Emet-Selch drawled, sparing an emphasizing glance at her Scions. “Your friends are now your foes. If you do not kill them, they will kill you.”

He caught her hands, intending to rip them off of him, but he froze at the way her knuckles tightened around the fabric, enough that he couldn’t tell where the creaking of her gloves ended, and that of her knuckles began.

Emet-Selch tried to be angry at that. Tried to be indignant, that she would dare try while she was at death and sanity’s door. He should have thrown her off of him, should have given in to that quiet, almost inaudible whispering in his head, scrabbling about like fingers dancing along his spine, playing him like a puppet, and just finished it already—

Instead, Solus could only ask, in a private, terrified whisper, “Why are you still fighting?”

“Because I have to.” Faer whispered back, just as brave, and no less scared. “I have to.”

His great-granddaughter. Would that he could give her the world. Perhaps, a shadowbox of it that he had made would do.

“Then...seek me out at my abode, in the dark depths of the Tempest.” He commanded. “You’re my great-granddaughter. Act like it. Prove me wrong.”

“I’ll be there.” Faer warned, in a low voice. As if she were in a place to warn him of anything but when she was about to be sick. “And when I get there...I’ll make you see.”

Lacking the strength to respond, to retaliate, to do aught more than tremble with her, Solus let Zodiark take him away. He melted through her fingertips, and even long after he had rematerialized in the shade of his home, he could not reconfigure himself in such a way that made him feel whole.

So Emet-Selch waited. He waited long enough that he had begun to wonder if the Warrior of Light would miss her cue. Long enough that, eventually, he began to question whether or not he had nodded off, at some point, and a whole new buggering age had rolled in, while he wasn’t looking. Again.

But then, there she was, his family, walking the paths of Amaurot. From a distance, he might have pretended that all was as it once was—

Except that, while Faer had, in fact, arrived at his humble abode— she had not done so alone.

There was something about her arriving, accompanied by people that claimed to be her family, rather than him, that rankled Solus. Sure, he had been the one to put them all on this path to begin with, but that didn’t mean he stopped being her real family—

Even as she wasn’t his real family, Emet-Selch reminded himself. He wasn’t even sure why it fanned the flames in his chest.

“This really is unacceptable. I gave you very specific instructions.” He reminded her snidely, to hide how affected he was at the sight of her so withered.

Ignoring the squawking of one of the younger scions, Emet-Selch took a moment to force his expression to match his tone; it wouldn’t do for him to try and convince his captive audience of his indifference with a pitying grimace, after all.

“My invitation was for an abomination, ripe with the power to bring about the world’s annihilation. Not this half-broken...thing.”

A glance at Faer’s face, even paled as it was from the Light, he could tell she wasn’t buying that he didn’t care. In truth, nor was he, at this point. But the show must go on, after all.

“What ever am I going to do with you?” He couldn’t help but ask, with almost fond exasperation and a maimed, maiming smile. Helpless to stop himself, he further barbed, “And I see you insist on keeping the same, familiar company. Are you so lost without them?”

“It is not she who is lost without the familiar.” Quipped the sorceress.

A wince cracked Emet-Selch’s mask in twain— he was well and truly surrounded by the evidence against him, should he try to rebuke that. Not the least of which was, of course, his own flesh and blood, standing beside that same witch.

“I may have gotten a little carried away, in my attention to detail. Added a few unnecessary flourishes…” His petty attempt at a defense died half formed on his tongue. Zodiark did not prevent him from feeling the loneliness, the loss, from the absence of his fellow Ancients. Nor, did He prevent the truth of his plan from being brought to the light bearers. “Weeell, there’s no point in trying to deny it. Yes.

“Once the rejoining of worlds is complete, Zodiark will regain His full strength, and shatter His prison. Then, we shall offer up the Source’s remaining inhabitants in sacrifice, that we might resurrect our brethren who died to bring Zodiark into existence.”

“We don’t have to fight.” Faer replied, dancing around the subject. “You could join us. You could help so many people—“

“Those pale imitations are not people.” Emet-Selch rankled, bristling.

“They don’t stop being people just because you don’t like them!” She shouted, standing straighter, as if her indignation gave her a new well of strength to tap into. “If you won’t stop this, then we have come here to stop you!”

She wanted to continue to champion these lesser beings, in favor of embracing Zodiark’s unavoidable truth, did she? So be it.

“Did you now? One last do-or-die attempt to foil my plans, then? How very, very...heroic of you.”

This was the best he could have possibly hoped for, from humanity. His very own creation, sired and carefully monitored to see how she developed, and this was the best that they could do. He wanted to spit curses at her until her mind had succumbed to the madness. He wanted to scream until his voice fled him. He felt nauseated. This was his family, he was fighting—

This is but another hero. You have been here before, Lord Zodiark reminded him, ever a gentle, guiding hand.

Those distant fingers pulled at the back of his mind, as if to straighten out his thoughts. Rather than think of the great-granddaughter standing before him, he thought back on those who had stood there before. The more he thought on it, the more their armor blurred, in his mind, until he couldn’t discern one from the other; they were all but obstacles in his way. What did it matter, who they were? They were nothing to him. Thank the Dark Lord, for showing him the error of his straying thoughts.

“In every single age, there is always someone who wants to stand up to the evil Ascians,” he echoed Zodiark’s sentiments spitefully. “Always the same arrogance, the same insistence that the world belongs to them. As if theirs were the only rightful claim, theirs the only existence worthy of preservation!”

“Do you not hear yourself?” Faer demanded. “I could criticize your number for those very same thoughts!”

The implication that they were of equal value shifted Emet-Selch’s anger into something frigid as space, and just as dangerous, where these mortals were concerned.

“Even now, after everything, you refuse to see reason.” He said with an unaffected shrug, the calmness in his voice startling even him. “You think it unfair that you are subject to suffering? That your lives will be sacrificed for the ancients?”

That white hot anger, a molten volcano that had rumbled low in the pit of Emet-Selch’s gut for centuries, erupted forth, frothing and flaming and furious.

“Look at me!” He demanded, smacking the flat of his palm against his scorching chest as though it were a hammer on a red-hot iron. He spat out the sparks, “I have lived a thousand, thousand of your lives! I have broken bread with you, fought with you, grown ill, grown old! Sired children and yes, welcomed death’s sweet embrace. For eons, have I measured your worth, and found you wanting! Too weak and feeble-minded to serve as stewards of any star!”

He flung his hand away from himself; his chest had grown too hot, even through his robes, to comfortably touch. Magicks ancient and roiling rose to the surface, needled against his skin, itching to bleed the life out of his enemies. Distantly, he was aware that his chest was heaving with the weight of his breathing.

It startled all in the room, the depth of even a taste of that long-aged anger. Himself, most of all. With more effort than it should have taken, he took a shuddering breath to attempt to calm himself.

Inevitably, it did not work. Their debate would only circle, and circle, and circle, and while he might have enjoyed partaking of that, back when the world was whole, he had no patience for it, while he tried to piece it back together again.

Hero types were always so eager to try and prove themselves, after all— would a test of her strength not be a more satisfactory exam, versus a pointless argument?

With that justification, he visited upon the Warrior of Light the darkest hour of his life. He rained the fall of Amaurot down upon her, bearing the full brunt of those horrific memories, all for the sole purpose of hurting her, of destroying her. She was his opposition: he had to stop her, at all costs.

She was too bright to look at directly; he did not watch her progress, apart from knowing when to elaborate on what forms his trauma took. To make her see, this time. If he had bathed in her light ascending that miserable mountain, then he would drown her in his darkness, descending into his deepest horrors.

Infuriatingly, she persisted, survived, and stood before him again.

Lashing out in a fit of pique, he sneered as he tore down, one by one, the Scions that attempted to close the distance, to cover the Warrior of Light’s last, pitiful hobble toward him, as the Light threatened to consume her.

Eventually, he flung her backward, too, and waited for it all to end. Waited for the Light to take her away, so he never had to think about her and everything that could have been, ever again.

When it finally did, he watched, waiting, praying, for relief. Instead, all he got for his trouble was a momentary glimpse, of the soul that his great-granddaughter used to be. Azem.

In the blink of an eye, that flickering recollection vanished. And all that stood was Faer. Fully restored, ready to fight. In another, the Exarch, clinging to staff and life with equal desperation.

“This ends this day, great-grandfather.” She called, voice calm despite the tears that poured from her eyes. “One way or another, it ends.”

One last do-or-die for the both of them, then. For them all, if he were feeling poetic. He was not; he fought like the lives of everyone he loved depended on it. Because they did.

“Very well.” He said, and began to let the arcane glamours that kept his form human fall away. “Let us proceed to your final judgement. The victor shall write the tale and the vanquished become its villain!”

She did not move. So, he began to stalk toward her. Goading her.

“But come!” He called as he drew near. “Let us cast aside titles and pretense, Faer, and reveal our true faces to one another!”

The symbol of his seat blazed brightly in front of his eyes. Once more, he was a sorcerer of eld, in appearance and power alike. Still constricted by his mortal trappings, he still towered over those who opposed him all the same. His voice reverberated through his ribs as he bellowed,

“I am Hades! He who shall awaken our brethren from their dark slumber!”

He did not claim himself a hero, not just yet. It remained to be seen, which of them were the villain, after all. And so, Hades did not hold back.

Nor did his opponent. Just as he expected.

Somehow, somehow, she still attempted to reason with him, as they traded slashes and spells, staff and shield.

“We can still stop this!” Faer sobbed from behind her shield.

He dipped into the wellspring of eternal darkness that Zodiark bled into their veins, his hands reaching, reaching out with claws dipped in darkness. They scrambled against her shield. He felt it tremble beneath his onslaught, felt her quaking with the effort to keep him at bay.

Hades persisted; he was inevitable.

“Have you not heard a word of what I’ve said? You are not worthy to be successors of this star! You are worthy only of death, at my hands!”

Even casting aside the mortal flesh that constricted his power seemed to be insufficient to snuff out Faer’s light— she burned all the brighter, the darker the force he brought to bear upon her.

Immortal as he was, time had little concept to him already, but the battle between he and Faer, Hades against the Warrior of Light, seemed to stretch out for an eternity before them. He waited, waited for the moment that she would slip, the moment that her strength would falter, the moment she would buckle beneath his onslaught. Just one moment, that was all it would take for either of them to catch the upper hand.

In the fixation on his primary opponent, and the desperation that drove his every attack to snuff out her light, he had left himself open to be struck by one of those damnable Scions— who had prepared ahead of time with that thrice damned auracite—

Hades had heard, in a thousand different voices, in as many tongues, say that the air at a crossroads was always heavier. It was a strange truth, one he had always forgotten to put much stock in, until he found himself standing where those paths intersected.

Now, he found the comparison more apt to crosshairs, watching the Warrior of Light bear down upon him as he struggled, prone, against the shards of auracite that had pierced him.

It should have made him feel fear. Perhaps anger, outrage, hatred, for the fabricated family that destroyed him, and any chance that he might have had had restoring his true family to their former glory.

All he could feel was relief—this fight was no longer his. He had done his part. For good or ill, he had played his role. The failure was, while certainly on his shoulders, no longer his concern.

The Light pierced Hades, and, just as he knew that it would, everything stopped.

Lahabrea had been the scientist of the lot of them, but he had been no slouch in his studies, back at Academia Anyder; he knew what should happen to him, suffused with Light as he now was. He knew what his fate was, the moment his arcane shields failed him.

And so he waited. He waited to lose feeling in his limbs—from the furthest nerve points, inward, he recalled. Waited to feel enfeebled and cold. Waited to feel too tired to keep his eyes open, and to drift off, for the last time, into that quiet dark.

Hades had died before, after all.

Those restful stretches had always played with time strangely, as he awaited his awakening, so he had anticipated the concept to cease to have all meaning, when he was sleeping forever. Even still, when the light faded, and he still felt himself very much breathing, very much alive, a ponderous frown creased his brow.

Well. That was new.

With caution, he opened his eyes— the light in front of him was still brighter than he had been expecting, and he had to blink several times before his sight adjusted.

It shouldn’t have been as hard as it was, to process the dawn cresting over the horizon, shining upon the desiccated, dilapidated remains of his Amaurot—

No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? Amaurot had fallen eons ago—ah, and there was his brain, at last waking up with the rest of him.

His thoughts were alarmingly quiet, for how his mind raced with them. Belatedly, with an awe that dawned on him as the sun rose before him, he realized that he felt strangely empty—but where that would have given him a sense of anxiety, once, he could only breathe a sigh of relief at hearing no one else in his head but himself. The strings that had pulled his thoughts in different directions had been cut: Zodiark’s hold over him, was at last, somehow, no more. A distant pondering on whether he had lived longer tempered or not flitted through his mind, but it dragged his heart up, into his throat, on its way out.

Everyone he had loved, and lost, and mourned, now so many eons passed that not even their stardust remained. Those he had convinced himself, through sheer stubbornness and the magnitude of his lies to himself, that he could save. In the heart of his grief, when he couldn’t see another way to go on, he’d clung to the delusion of “what if,” and tried to manufacture a tomorrow for the dead, stealing it from the living, time and again, and justifying it all the while because they weren’t his people.

In the strange stasis of realizing that he was neither dead, nor tempered, there was a numbness to all that he had done. There was, at least, until his sight focused on more than the sprawling, dilapidated remains of his memories.

For there, standing before him, restored to her true glory, gleaming sword of pure Light in her trembling hand, and looking at him as though she were terrified for him with wide eyes that swam with tears, was the Warrior of Light. Faer: his great-granddaughter. His family.

The family that he had betrayed, a thousand, thousand different ways, until it had shattered in his grip, and the fragmented pieces that remained had to make do with what was left in the wreckage of his rampage. Hades felt as though he couldn’t breathe, as the weight of all he had done, over the eons, bore down upon his unclouded mind.

“Faer…?” He whispered.

The blade in her hand rattled, quietly, from the strength of her trembling grip. For all the ferocity that they had both brought into the fight mere moments ago, it felt like neither of them could find the strength to move. The strength, or perhaps, not knowing how to move in this eerie stillness.

“...Great-grandpa?” She called back, sounding just as shocked as he felt.

“I...my eyes, at last, unclouded...to think that I…” He rasped, his throat feeling as a desert, even when he tried to force it to work, and swallowed thickly.

The vision of her swam before him. Tears, he realized distantly, as they began to flood his eyes, stinging with a distantly familiar saltiness, made new again for its centuries long absence. Zodiark had dulled the senses that were compromising; the anger, the bitterness, He allowed to flourish. The love, too, if only to serve as kindling for the former. But all the inconvenient facets of grief, the paralyzing sense of emptiness, the yawning chasms in long tracts of land in his soul, filled only with a sea of sorrow, Zodiark had walled off from the Unsundered.

If he experienced sadness, it had been a gray, tiring thing; he would sleep, and dream, and awake freshly embittered and ready to enact the will of his Dark Lord. Without that dam to keep the flow of that complicated mass of emotions from flooding him, they spilled out of him, and he could only helplessly shudder to try and keep himself still. He was only as successful as he would be trying to stand in defiance of a flooding river in a hurricane.

Horrified at all that he had done, and the breakdown that was in progress before Faer and her Scions, he sank down to his knees. He could feel the rattle of his voice against his chest; he was speaking, he was saying something— likely pitiful, mourning mewls. He could scarcely believe himself; the depths he had sunk to, the shame that his Ancient loved ones would feel, knowing what he had done to try and bring them back—

Hades wanted to laugh. Resurrection, in direct defiance of everything that the Lifestream stood for? What hubris they had harbored, to think that they could construct a simple solution to the consequences of their own irresponsibility.

They had been poor shepherds of their star. He had been a poor shepherd, and a poorer hero. But he could begin to make right, if he were given the chance.

He felt as though he could scarcely articulate himself, through the aeons of grief catching up to him, at long last. The hands that he wept into were wrenched away from him— Faer had knelt before him, to level with him, without him even knowing she had moved at all.

Squeezing his hands, she gave him a watery smile. “You’re not making any sense. But that’s alright. Breathe. You’re alive. You’re free.”

“How—?” Hades managed to gasp, through the tears that choked him.

“I...I don’t know. I wanted to save you, so, so desperately. I think...I think I just...forced it to happen, is all.” She shrugged, around the shuddering of her shoulders. “I couldn’t bear killing you. I couldn’t. I’ve already been forced to kill my own brother, once. I’ll likely have to kill my father. Please...please don’t make me kill you, too—”

Gathering her to him, he promised, over and over again, through his tears, that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t— given the royal mess he had made his family, under Zodiark’s guidance, she was likely the only family he would be left with. He had already lost so much—

For a few long moments, they knelt together, and just let themselves mourn everything that had brought them to that moment. Every tragedy that had forced them to their knees, together, clinging desperately in the dawn of a new day.

As Hades finally felt like he could breathe again, for the first time since time forgot him altogether, he let that awakening wash over him again: he could take what he had left, and help his family rebuild. He need not truly lose everything. That revelation was enough for those tears that had flooded his eyes to be stemmed; they yet fell, and he yet grieved, but he could at last taste tangible, true hope, beyond that harrowing sorrow. There was a light that, at long last, did not burn him.

“He gets one chance.” One of her friends— Thancred, Hades remembered that he had been corrected on that— said, from a respectable distance. “Surrender, or we’ll spare her our duty.”

“I surrender.” Hades replied, looking up at them. “We lost our home, and everyone we loved, and our grief made monsters of us. I am among the last of them. Let me teach you the ways of our successes, and our stumbles alike. Learn from me, and let me help.”

Hand on his gunblade, Thancred wavered. “I’m not sure that’s enough—”

“Make that enough, or you might as well have struck me down, too, Thancred.” Faer warned, standing and facing him. “Don’t make me lose more family. Please, I’m so tired.”

If Hades’ plea wasn’t enough to satisfy him, Faer’s was; they were the truest sense of family, she and her Scions. Observing them with eyes unclouded, that much was obvious.

Some distance from both the Scions, as well as himself, the Exarch watched, fidgeting. Doubtless, he had his own reckoning with Faer awaiting, for all his secrecy and subterfuge throughout their adventures through Norvrandt. As their eyes met, they shared a sort of understanding that could only come with living a lifetime beyond what most mortals could conceive of, even through the trauma, and all that Hades had put him through, the Exarch could find it in him to empathize with his warden.

To think, he had thought these specimens of mankind insufficient, when they so desperately reminded him of the very people he had loved and lost.

“Lest you have lingering concerns: I can neither see Zodiark’s hand around Hades’ heart, nor sense His touch upon him. Hades is tempered no longer.”

It had been more than enough, for Y’Shtola to make that declaration, for the Scions to accept that he was not the same man that was capable of the things that he had accomplished under Zodiark, but hearing it had been something Hades had not realized he had needed, until it had settled gently over his raw, healing heart.

“Given that, I see no reason I should not immediately start with those lessons— and I know precisely where to begin.” Hades said, finding the strength and steadiness to stand once more.

With a snap of his fingers and a faint, effortless pull from the newly purified fire in his soul, the ruined remains of his home were once more restored to a reflection of their former glory.

“Come: it is high past time I show you the full depth of your inheritance, Faer.” Hades offered, sweeping his hand out, toward the door. “Let me show you my yesterday, that we might better our tomorrow.”

For a few agonizing moments, stillness reigned once more. He feared that he would appear false, now, at the height of their victory, that they would not believe him. For the second time in his life, he feared not being permitted to live.

And then, Faer was beside him, her smile beaming brighter than the morning light that haloed her. When he looked behind them, the Scions, and the Exarch, had all begun to follow behind, though their distance was understandable.

“Shall we, then?” His great-granddaughter asked, hesitantly.

They were far from recovered, from the blood price they had both taken from one another. They would not be for quite some time, he imagined. There would doubtless be confrontations over ugly truths, and rebreaking of emotional wounds that had healed improperly the first time.

But Hades would walk that path, with eyes open and unclouded. Every step of that journey would be worthwhile, to begin to truly rebuild from what was left, for the first time since the Sundering.

“We shall, my dear.” He agreed, and fell into step beside her, into their tomorrow. “We shall.”

#ffxiv #5.0 spoilers #5.3 spoilers #Emet-Selch #faerflowerkid #commissioned writing #tagging just in case for that one reference #thank you again for your patience and patronage!!!#this was such a fun idea to work with that I kind of ran with it akjdgfhsdjglgkdfs

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lgcjungah · 4 years ago

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hiii, everyone!! i’d like to introduce to you choi jungah, a twenty-two year old aspiring entertainer from busan who has ... way too many layers to her personality. will get more in depth about it underneath the cut, or you can read up about her right here ( still wip,,, ). please give this post a like if i can slide into your ims for plotting! twitter or discord are also available. looking forward to writing with you andddd necessary info on jungah + plot ideas ( until i set up a proper plot page ) can be found under the read more cut!

a bit about her bio

she’s from busan, younger twin by 2 minutes to @lgcxjongsuk.

grew up being dotted on by her older brother and was very close to her mother. never had a good bond with her father, however (because he was stricter and she didn’t like his attitude. even less when she discovered he initially got with her mother for the sake of the mom’s fame).

[ TW BULLYING MENTION !! ] as a child she was nowhere near as outgoing and bubbly as she is today. rather withdrawn and shy, easily overlooked at school or bullied for preferring to stick to herself. she saw her mother as her only female friend and her twin brother as the only best friend in her life. [ END TW BULLYING MENTION !! ]

[ TW DEATH MENTION !! ] at age 12, the twins lost their mother due to illness. their father took up on a better paid job in seoul and they moved to the capital. [ END TW DEATH MENTION !! ]

adjusting wasn’t easy. the people in seoul appeared even more uptight and strict than back home in busan and jungah always left like the odd one out with her accent. life really didn’t seem to be too blooming for the girl.

until jongsuk signed her up for a national talent show that was broadcasted on tv. jungah managed to score first place, won the prize money and suddenly gained the affection and fondness of those around her. her classmates took interest in who she was, made attempts to befriend the new transfer. this was ... a brand new experience, but nothing jungah actually seemed to mind. suspicious about their motives at first, the girl soon grew to love the attention she got. she’s never had that before, after all.

throughout the end of middle school and all of her high school time, her personality underwent a huge change. once shut in, preferring books over human company, she did her best to appeal to her peers and stay the focus of attention, the girl they all adored and liked. she was coddled by her twin, still berated by her father, but life was great.

it became even greater when she took the chance of an audition after being dragged there by her classmates. a part of her knew that, mayhaps, all of these people claiming to root for her were only awaiting to see her fail and not get accepted. but much to their dismay, and jungah’s happiness, she passed and signed under legacy on january 2018.

her goal is to become an entertainer and she doesn’t stop at anything to achieve it.

personality !! most of it is covered on her about page, but here’s a summary

she’s ... really something. has multiple masks she wears daily, depending on each situation and company she’s in

they’re not bad, and never mean. maybe not very genuine at times, but she does whatever it takes to be liked by literally everyone around her. she’s very attentive, borderline cunning, notices little details about people and uses them to her advantage to make herself look nice and friendly.

your muse likes anime and mentions it briefly? next thing you know you have jungah approach them about having an anime marathon together when time allows for it to.

she is friendly, outgoing, helpful, can be pretty flirty, likes to talk a lot and likes to make jokes. she appears as the bubbly girl, everybody’s darling, but really? she has no idea what or who she actually is.

the deeper thinking surfaces when she’s mostly alone or in the company of someone she really trusts.

that’s not to say she’s always an angel. she has outbursts of pouting or sulking when something doesn’t go her way, and can display “diva” behavior, namely when she’s required to pay something and simply finds ways to make everyone else pay for her.

honestly, she just wants to succeed and make her dream of being an entertainer come true. she doesn’t react well to the past, especially the death of her mother or the way she used to be as a child. pro tip: just don’t mention these things around her, ever.

plot ideas !! these can be fleshed out more

people/friends/acquaintances from busan who knew her back when she was still very much an introvert. totally different from the way she is now. maybe they kept in contact, or reunited at lgc after years and the chance has been shocking

a penpal friend she’s had since she was a teen, and you two realize now, years later, that you are attending the same company.

ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, she had two relationships. how they ended can be discussed in detail! must be around her age and no younger than 99er.

best friends. whether it’s genuine friendship or not can be plotted out, but basically the people whom she feels most comfortable with, or whom she has no problem sharing her quiet, thoughtful moments. moments in which she’s not that bubbly girl trying to make everyone happy.

anything antagonistic. she’s loud and she makes herself present no matter where she is. your muse happens to not like this kind of behavior at all, maybe even questions whether or not her personality is actually real or if she’s just setting this up for attention and fondness. i’d love to see her being called out on it tbh

fellow anime lovers. she’s a huuuuuuge anime geek and it’d be great if she had someone to be geeky with together, be it by flailing over ships or bonding by binge watching stuff, anything is possible!

someone she tutors in english. she’s never been the best in p.e. but languages? she loves them. she’s been self-teaching herself english aside of the mandatory english classes in school and has reached a pretty advanced level. your muse needs help and she gladly provides them with just that. of course she demands something in return - icecream, maybe? <:

hookups. sef-explanatory. though this is limited to two muses.

i’m pretty sure i’ll come up with more but !!

#lgc:intro #⁽ ⠀ ♡ ⠀ ⁾ ⠀ ⠀ ooc ⠀ / ⠀ * ⠀ intro.#i think i did decently on an intro. for once.

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chrysalispen · 5 years ago

Text

#FFXIVWrite2019 - 1. Voracious

let’s see how this goes

No spoilers, just some fun WoL fluffy kidfic <3

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

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1. voracious

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

The fat sausage links fair gleamed in their casings under the noonday sun.

From his hiding place behind the stack of crates, Sev felt his mouth water. The boy licked his lips, tail lashing against his dirty legs. He imagined the meat, juicy and flavored with all sorts of spices and just ever so slightly smoky, maybe with a piece of fresh baked bread. At the thought of a proper meal, the tip of his tongue slid over his new sharp canines that he still wasn't quite used to just yet. He'd only lost the last of his milk teeth two years ago.

Two years, he thought, surprised. Two years since Mum left.

At least, he was fairly sure that had been two years ago. Sev didn't have the best grasp on time. Like many of Ala Mhigo's smallfolk, the young Miqo'te largely knew the passing of the year by the turn of the cold months. But that sounded right. He'd dropped the first tooth not long before the old king had died, and not long after that the Northmen had come in their strange flying metal machines and impenetrable black armor.

The Garleans, as they called themselves, had put the king's council to the sword and sacked the city, and two years later they had the full run of the place. Not that it had especially changed his circumstances.

His thoughts turned away from his newly sharp teeth and back to the meat they wished to tear, as though his hunger had a mind of its own. The old man wasn't looking in his direction at all! He was helping a woman with her purchase, a heavyset lady in fine linens and new leather that probably cost as much as the whole butcher's stand.

Sev felt a surge of hope. If he was careful he could have what he wanted and no one would be the wiser. His prey was one of several draped over a piece of metal that had been hammered into the wooden pole. One good jostle would cause it to fall.

Why, I could just knock that old link right off its hook.

He'd never have a better chance. Maybe if he just leaned forward as if he were trying to look at the wares...

"Hey!" the lady shouted in alarm. She'd chanced to look up just in time for the boy to lean in from the crates, his hand wrapped around one of the links. "Thief! Thief!"

Sev leapt back with a startled cry, nearly crashing into the crates he'd been hiding behind, and took off running with his prize clutched in one fist and the old man screaming for help at his back.

===========

Two bells later he had to admit to himself that he was hopelessly lost.

Once upon a time, he'd known the way back home by heart. When Sev was little, he always knew when it was getting time to pay the rent on their apartment. Rent week was when the larder was empty and Mum started taking her visitors. She'd hang a length of red cloth outside her door, usually the threadbare handkerchief she kept in the drawer of her ancient desk (which sat under the only window in the whole apartment), and tell him to go amuse himself outside with his friends. When she was done, the cloth would be gone and he'd go back inside and she'd be there waiting to send him to the marketplace and refill their larder.

My Seven, my last and best boy, she'd praise him. Such a good son. Then she'd hug him, her body damp through her homespun, as she pressed a small pouch of gil into his little fingers. Whatever Mum and her visitors talked about, she always bathed before she took her red handkerchief down from the door, and it was that he remembered, his nose full of the stringent smell of lye, and of the scents she liked to use in her bathwater.

Over the next year the red handkerchief had stayed up for longer periods, days at a time, even a sennight sometimes. At first Sev had gone hungry, more than willing to wait for Mum to finish her long visits. But finally he'd given in to his hunger, and sometimes the cloth would be removed from the door and sometimes it would not, and he'd had to dig out his own bolt-holes for sleep, or offer to share his food with one of the other kids in exchange, or. Something.

Then finally one day he'd come home and the red cloth had been gone and so had his Mum. None of their neighbors knew what had happened to her, whether or not the imperials had taken her away or where she'd gone or if she'd ever be back, and none of them particularly seemed to care. One woman had scowled at him and said 'good riddance to that harlot' and closed the door in his face, and Sev had been alone for good.

That first night, he'd curled up on the empty doorstep and cried himself to sleep waiting for her. Eventually he'd forced himself to let those memories fade and grow sepia-toned. He never did return to that little apartment in its old and unfashionable district, a mere stone's throw from the slums where he now scraped out a living. There, the streets crisscrossed and meandered in strange ways into ancient taverns and alcoves so deeply hidden they never saw the blazing sun even in the heat of the day.

But this wasn't the so-called 'Ala Mhigan District' either. All he saw on either side were enormous mansions and iron gates and improbably green lawns.

So, it didn't take Sev very long to realize he was lost.

This place was like an entire world apart from the rest of the city. He stood before a big stone fountain with fresh running water that gurgled prettily out of the top, splashing into a pool with little red flowers floating in it. It was surrounded by carefully groomed bushes and even a stone bench to sit and rest or just take in the scenery. The streets beneath his worn shoes were neatly laid brick lined with black steel, mostly new, free of potholes or chocobo guano, and lined with new trees.

People lived here, he marveled. In the days of the old king, the royals had all lived here. But they were vanished or dead or both and now the only occupants of these fine houses were wealthy merchants and imperial army officers. There'd be no one of his like within walls so grand, unless they were working the grounds as ser-

The loud, thumping rattle of multiple footsteps marching in tandem brought him out of his awed reverie. Sev froze on the spot, his ears laid flat and twitching. He knew that sound well enough: an imperial patrol. They were heaviest in the poor areas, but it seemed even the idle rich saw their share of Garlean steel.

And the patrol was coming this way; he'd be arrested for sure the minute they saw him, thrown in their gaol and left to rot if he was lucky. He knew exactly how he looked: a scruffy, dirty street child, cheeks flushed and golden eyes wild, tearing down the streets of the Palace (no, he self-corrected, that's not right, they call it something else now) District with obviously stolen food clutched in one fist. There was exactly zero chance they would not know immediately what he'd done.

He would have run if he knew where to go, but he didn't even know how he'd got here in the first place. The more he thought about it, the more scared he became.

"You! Boy!"

That voice belonged to a child. His head swiveled from side to side, seeking its owner and finding... no one in sight? Who was talking to him then? Was he imagining things? Was it a ghost? The old folk said the Mad King had killed lots of people, even his own kin; mayhap the streets here were haunted? What if-

He let out a sharp yelp as something hard popped him in the back of the head.

"Ow!"

"Pick that up and get over here! They're coming!"

He bent over to pick up whatever had been thrown at him and saw that it was some kind of red and green fruit that looked a bit like a pear. Then he saw the small hand waving at him. It dangled down from the branches of a low hanging old-growth tree that stood just behind a thick stone wall near one of the wrought iron gates.

"Give me your hand, I'll pull you up!"

The voice was young and rather imperious, as if its owner were accustomed to giving orders and having them followed. Still, Sev dashed across the street and extended his hand, and immediately found himself pulled up, bodily, albeit slowly-- there was a small, pained grunt of exertion as they tried to lift him. He forced himself to stop flailing, bracing his feet against the trunk to assist. His shoes, worn down to tattered flaps, scrabbled at the bark for purchase and his tail lashed furiously, trying to help him keep his balance--but it only took a moment for his natural climbing instincts to assume control.

Once he decided he wasn't going to just drop right back to the cobbled street on his arse in front of an imperial patrol, Sev let go of that sweaty little hand, crept towards the trunk, then carefully balanced his weight across the branches beneath his feet like rough and very uneven stair steps.

"This way," the voice ordered, this time a whisper. "Don't make any noise."

He followed the child down through the tree branches, watching his steps carefully and trying to keep quiet and safeguard the only meal he'd probably get for the next handful of suns. Finally they were clear of the tree and crawling down the trunk to land in soft, manicured grass.

"There, boy. You're safe here," that small, oddly accented voice said, with a supreme confidence he wished he felt. "It'll be another half-bell before they report in. As long as you're gone before their shift change, you won't get caught."

Sev sat down with a small exhalation, cradling his ill-gotten gains (which were by now somewhat the worse for wear), and looked up to see the face of his rescuer. A very small Garlean stared back. Her hair was the color of honey, the sidelocks neatly braided, and her eyes were a very deep blue. She wore a fine pinafore dress beneath an apron currently covered in dirt and grass stains.

She also seemed to have noticed his confusion: that pale brow had knitted in a faint and curious frown, the wrinkle of it pausing just beneath the lower curve of her third eye.

"Boy?" she repeated. "Is aught amiss? Are you hurt?"

"I... n-no. I'm... I'm fine. I just..."

His stomach chose that moment to gurgle again, loud enough for both of them to hear.

"If you're hungry, then eat something."

"But these are raw."

"Ew, not those." She plucked the fruit he'd still had in one hand. "Here, you can have this. It's a mango. From Thavnair. They're good."

He just stared at her. She stared right back, carelessly tossing the fruit (mango?) from one hand to the other, those impossibly dark blue eyes tracking over his face. Then she extended her hand.

"I'm Aurelia," she said. "What's your name?"

"I.. um. Sev."

"That's short for something? Some Ala Mhigan name?"

"Uh, no." Sev stared down at the sausages in their casings, feeling small and foolish. "It's, uh. It's short for 'Seven'."

"Seven," the Garlean said, and her voice was flat and matter-of-fact in a way that clearly indicated she thought he was joking. "Right."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That's a really weird name," she said bluntly.

"It's not a weird name!" Sev snapped, stung by her dismissal. "Aurelia is a weird name. What does it even mean?"

"At least my name is an actual name!" She scowled fiercely at him and stamped her little leather boot-clad foot against the grass, lower lip thrust out. "Who names their kid a number? That's just lazy!"

"My mum's not lazy, your mum's lazy!"

"My mama can't be lazy! She's dead!"

For a moment the two children glared at each other, Sev's tail thumping viciously against the grass.

Aurelia's eyes looked a little too bright, and he almost asked her if she was going to cry before he felt the lump in his own throat and the prickling heat at his eyes, at the unbidden memory of lye soap and cardamom, and realized with horror that if anyone was going to cry, it was him.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things about your mum. Thank you for hiding me from the ironhe-... uh, the soldiers."

She shrugged, as if the entire argument meant nothing to her.

"Are you going to carry that thing around all day?"

"It's not a thing, it's food. It's sausage."

The Garlean girl's delicate little nose wrinkled in distaste. "Whatever it is, it smells gross. I bet it's been out in the sun too long."

"It's not gross."

"It is too. If you eat spoiled meat you'll get a sour belly." She thrust a hand towards him. "Give it over. I'm throwing it in the bin."

"But I'm hungry," Sev whined. It earned him a huffed exhalation and a very dramatic roll of her eyes.

"Ugh, just-- just follow me, you big baby. I'll get you all the sausages you'll ever want."

=========

Thus did a boy named Seven meet a girl named Aurelia, and a hapless cook became utterly convinced that her kitchen was haunted by the vengeful ghost of Mad King Theodoric. Aurelia supposed they might have overdone things a little with the wailing and the creaking door-hinges.

The paring knife and half-dozen mangoes missing from the larder were more difficult to explain when Aurelia helped herself to a perfectly sizeable dinner that night, however. Her governess was perfectly well aware that she loved mangoes, was not herself Ala Mhigan, and therefore had no cause to believe in angry ghosts nicking sausages from the cold pantry. No matter how much Cook insisted otherwise.

But at least now, she had her first real friend ever. And that was worth a few stolen sausages and a night confined to her chambers without dessert.

#FFxivWrite2019 #aurelia laskaris #garlean warrior of light #yet another self indulgent WoL backstory fic #these are actually pretty fun though #prompt 1: voracious

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aj-the-satyr · 5 years ago

Text

Honesty

(Still playing catch up but whatever. Writing is proving to be fun again which is a big plus. So the Day 16 prompt from @thenightofthelivingwriters was Lost. Lets see where this goes...)

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, not an ideal scenario to wake up in after accepting an invite to a Fae gathering, but also, not out of the realm of possibility. Maximus grunted as he struggled to sit upright. The room was plain, an off white colour with little in the way of personality or furniture beyond the bed. “Great. I may not have found religion but it appears to have found me.”

A chuckle to his left made him turn, hand going instinctively to his wrist.

“Easy. You are safe here.” a monk sat next to his bed as if watching over him.

“Where is here?”

“The Monastery of St Brigit.”

Maximus sighed. “I am unfamiliar.”

“We are indeed remote, it is believed that Brigit guides those here who need our help.”

“Other than guidance to somewhere I might obtain passage home I do not think this place can help me.”

“Because of who you are?”

“And what do you know of that?”

The monk smiled, it was a warm, genuine expression. “You are rather unique and we are not that remote so as to have heard nothing of the outside world.”

“So I’m perhaps not as lost as I first thought.”

“Or maybe more so. The Abbot would like to speak with you before you leave.”

“Very well. I at least owe him thanks for a safe place to sleep. Might I inquire as to the date?”

It appeared that he had only been here overnight, easing the fear that the Fae gathering had caused him to lose days or even weeks. Most of the memories were still a blur and may never become clearer. “I would speak with the Abbot soon if I may, for a fear I have a journey ahead of me.”

The Monk nodded. “I will ask him to meet you here then, while you gather your things and prepare to leave. The nearest place that will help you in your endeavour is a days journey away.”

Maximus nodded and prepared himself for the Abbot. Who knew what a man of the cloth wanted with someone like him.

...

The Abbot was old, but perhaps not as old as Maximus had expected. Perhaps the sedate nature of this place had allowed him to age gracefully and without the years of worry and stress Maximus normally associated with those in positions of power within a religion.

“Surprised by something are we?” asked the Abbot.

“No. More just considering things. You wished to talk to me?”

“I did. How are you feeling?”

“No ill effects that I can recognise but I mayhaps might not fully know what my actions have wrought until many years hence.”

“True. Sometimes it takes many years to see fruit grow from the seeds one has planted.”

“Are we to exchange platitudes more or do you have an actual point?”

The Abbot raised an eyebrow. “Pointed, one would say brusque. Others..... rude. Why do you believe you are here?”

“I accepted an invitation that many others would consider me a fool for doing so and I assume that one of your member found me nearby in the early hours and brought me here so that I might have a safe place to sleep.”

“You were delivered here, to our doorstep.”

“Delivered?” Confusion crossed Maximus’ features.

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“The person who answered the door cannot recall that fact, but I suspect you have an idea.”

“Yes. You know who I am, yes?”

The Abbot chuckled. “Indeed. It is why I am here.”

“The person who dropped me off wanted you to talk with me?”

“You do pick up on things quickly.”

“I’m not lost. The only help I need is simple guidance, to somewhere I can charter a boat or a carriage from.”

“Is that true?”

“Look. If you know who I am then I am merely a rather famous poet who has a tendency to party too much and I am thankful that the gathering I attended last night didn’t cost me anything more than this minor inconvenience.”

“And the other life you lead?”

Maximus blinked. “What?”

“Keeping the wheel spinning as you do must get tiresome.”

Maximus’ hand went to his wrist again. “I don’t quite follow.”

Another genuine smile. “You are safe here. None here will judge you for your actions for that is not our place to do so.”

“But you know?”

He nodded. “Yes. There are rumours enough to obscure all the facts but here at St Brigit we have a tendency to see what is right in front of us.”

Maximus wasn’t sure about this. He was far from home, in a unfamiliar place that knew just exactly who he was, seeing past the facade he had so painstakingly constructed. Something wasn’t right. “You know.” He repeated. “Yet you let me stay here under this roof. Surely whatever path you follow condemns someone who has done what I have?”

“And why do you do those things?”

“Necessity. To keep the kingdom running smoothly for there are those that would seek to tip its balance in their own favour. Not everyone is equal but that is no reason to treat people badly.”

“You are transferring the inequalities of your past to your present.”

“What?” Maximus shook his head. “I am protecting a naive king from a world made up of people who would chew him up and spit him out.”

“And how does treating the serving girl with respect achieve that?”

“I earn their trust. They hear things that I can make use of. If they trust me they will talk.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Is that the belief you hold in your heart? Is that what you carry with you wherever you may go? Is it the same for the brothel workers that many rumours have you consorting with?”

“Yes. You know a lot for an Abbot of a supposedly remote monastery.”

“I have my networks as you do yours. But I think that is why you are here. Examine yourself and that flippant reply you give. For I think that too, is part of the facade you present the world.”

“And? What if it is?”

“Where does that lead?”

“To my death, just like any other path I might choose to walk. Can we be done with this now?”

“Pardon?”

“St Brigit isn’t real and neither is this place. Stop seeking to obtain personal information from me.”

The Abbot’s eyes narrowed slightly. “When?”

“As always never, but I suspected. Where are we?”

A laugh. “The woods. Near the shack. You are sharper than even my Lord realised.”

“And the point of all this?” Maximus sighed.

“Fun. As always my dear Prekk.” The fake Abbot bowed and vanished as the world faded away revealing a clearing in the woods being lit by the first rays of dawn.

Maximus sighed. “You’re the one who made the deal then accepted the invite.” He shook his head. “I guess I am now of interest to the Fae. Wonderful.”

(Another prompt, another Maximus snippet. Time to tag the usual suspects. @the-bearded-hylian @jaimistoryteller @anntarinsanitymaterialized now just have to dedicate some time to playing catchup and not either lying in bed or playing video games. Bad Goat! Write more! You enjoy it.)

#TNLW #tnlw writing #the night of the living writers #Maximus Delapore #D&D Character #Yay Writing #My Writing

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shaelstormchild · 6 years ago

Text

Old Habits

Shael couldn’t sleep.

It was the third time she had angrily turned over in her bedroll. And it wasn’t that she wasn’t used to sleeping outdoors; plenty of past smuggling jobs had her bunking down in the oddest of places. It wasn’t for thoughts of any impending dangers either; she had learned in her time in the Resistance that rest was essential to staying sharp, and worrying over the next Garlean bombing or raid would only result in dulled senses the next morning. And that would lead to carelessness and eventually a mistake that could cost someone’s life.

And even that didn’t keep her up most nights. Once a fellow Resistance fighter noted with some measure of disgust that she always found a way to sleep even after participating in a mission that resulted in numerous deaths, Imperials and Ala Mhigans alike. Little did he know that she always had something to resort to, drugs or alcohol, to ease her mind just enough to push her into a dreamless stupor.

But there was a time that even those measures proved futile, despite all the substances she could get her hands on. It was after Shooey died. That’s when the visions and the memories of him replayed over and over behind closed lids. The moments leading to her final view of him always returning with crystal clarity. He flashed her his quirky but reassuring smile as he gave her a thumbs up, when he wired up the last of the explosives. Then an instant later, she bore witness to all of him becoming enveloped in a fiery explosion of fire. Then he was no more. Those visions came to her every night, and even in her waking bells, whenever she closed her eyes for any length of time. There he was, smiling at her, then his flesh was burning off, exposing the bare skull beneath as it cracked and exploded into a thousand pieces. It always woke her in a cold sweat. Shael ran as fast as she could, away from the Resistance, sailing away from Eorzea, fled all the way to Othard and Kugane in trying to escape those memories. Even still, she found no respite until Nabi concocted a special brew for her, and finally she was able to find solace in the dark. Looking back, Shael wasn’t sure when the dreams truly stopped. Was it because the drugs? No… because Nabi withheld them after a while, warning her of possible addictive properties. But without the drugs, how had those visions finally gone away? The soft shuffle of fabric drew Shael’s attention to Nabi’s sleeping form within the same tent. And from the soft whimpers that escaped the auri lips now and then, she could tell that the Xaela’s dreams were not of the restful kind. Shael sat up with a scowl, idly scratching her head as she recalled the exchange that had happened during that sun. Tales of rituals and destinies buzzed annoyingly in her head. Who soddin’ believed in all that shite? Nabi’s long-lost cousin, Arasen, that’s who. And from the look of things, so did some seer and the rest of his tribe. Did they mark Nabi at birth with some magical tattoo that would consume her otherwise if she didn’t return to them?

All for some impossible dream of peace? Shael nearly snorted out loud. She’d known the ugly touch war for as long as she could remember. The taint of it ran through every Spoken’s blood. It seeped into every possible corners of the world, like spilled ink bleeding onto parchment. What insanity made these Xaelas think that one girl could end it? Her mother must have been some deranged fanatic to scheme up a birth of a child to fulfill some enigmatic prophecy -- false promises that were likely the results of a drug induced hallucination rather than a gift from gods who never gave half a shite in the first place. Shael knew all about visions, how they could plague the mind. How they could make someone either want to desperately flee from it or accept it wholly and blindly. She took all of Elam’s drugs after all, as he snuck it into her drinks. Not only did they temporarily turn the burning inside into a distant simmer, but in some rare instances, it brought forth the face of a ghost that wasn’t being immolated. The smuggler glanced down to her hand that had started to tremble, and she clenched tight to still its twitching. She didn’t have time for that. She reached into her pack and drew out a vial, uncorking it with a thumb and tossing her head back as she swallowed the contents whole. She grimaced as the bitter taste stung the back of her throat, but eventually she eased into a breathy sigh as she felt the drug quickly working its way into her system. She flicked another glance to the sleeping Xaela, almost guiltily. After all, Nabi worked hard to get all the drugs out of her system the first time. She worked patiently with her through the withdrawals, easing what she can with her own herbs and medicines. And now, Shael was right back to her old habits again. The smuggler knew that the Xaela would not approve. But it was for Nabi’s sake, at least at first. Shael had to let Elam believe that he had her under his thumb. But as the charade went on and she discovered the true perks of those drugs, she couldn’t stop the cravings. They were like a familiar old friend, just like the glimpses of her former first-mate. Shooey wouldn’t have approved either. Sod it, Shael groaned to herself as she began to slide her boots back on. Who cared who approved of what? Shooey was dead and Nabi was… Even as she glanced to the sleeping Xaela, her earlier nearly tearful words echoed in the Highlander’s mind. “If I fulfill whatever it is that my mother intended? Or if I don't? Does... does some horrible death await me??" The girl was shaking with fear and dread. That sight made Shael want to break something. Arasen warned of some ill fate if that mysterious mark on Nabi was left to grow on its own. It was quickly followed by promises of help and guidance if she returned with him to her mother’s tribe. Where he and some old crone could perform another bloody ritual that he could only vaguely speak about. Well, they can rot in all the hells with that. Shael reached for her gun, suddenly hungry for some cold air. She was starting to crawl out to relieve Saltborn early of his watch, when she heard quiet murmurs filtering in. She leaned forward, just barely parting the fabric of the tent to gain a glimpse. Speak of the devil...

Saltborn was talking to that Xaela, Arasen.

Shael nearly brought her gun forward. Mayhap a single bullet between the Xaela’s eyes would solve the problem and end this entire dilemma.

But Shael knew better. That would still leave the mark on Nabi with no leads to follow. She didn’t quite hear all the words that were exchanged between the hyur and the au ra, but soon Nabi’s kin rose and left, leaving Saltborn alone by the fire.

She watched his back awhile longer, before she rolled to the other side of the tent. Undoing a few ties, she slid out the end. She holstered her gun on her back and moved away as quietly as she could, as to not draw Saltborn’s attention.

She would have her own words with this Kharlu.

#cigarettes and fireflies #Shael Stormchild #Nabi Kharlu #Arasen Kharlu #Anchor Saltborn

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progeny-of-the-fury · 6 years ago

Photo

The Comet’s Call: Subduing Peak, the True Griffin

Log date: 6/17/18

OOC Note: The text in these logs are strictly for the reader’s enjoyment. Anyone using the knowledge displayed within this text without the participant’s knowledge risks the potential of blacklisting from future communication and roleplay. Please do not meta-game!

Tags: @floating-city-of-nem

Rhuli'a Kanjun frowned, uncomfortable at the sight of the Castrum

The Resistance member guarding the gate gave them a small pause, demanding a writ of passage from Rhuli'a. Playing along with the formalities, the party soon found themselves crossing into a scene from the Liberation.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Bah, as gruesome as ever."

Fiona Delaine seems ambivalent about the approach of the old Imperial fortification. At most, she finds the Cermet plating and brutalist design distasteful. Perhaps she hasn't had much personal stake with the Imperials. It's at the sight of the gunned-down ruins of the great towers that she pauses, grimacing.

Ghalleon seems visibly more comfortable inside the walls of the fortress than outside them.

Hestia De'bayle twists her lips from under her helm. "I was present for one of the campaign battles here... I will never forget the horror of when the entire building collapsed."

Fiona Delaine: ".. this was a place of .. much death. I can feel the pain and dying in the air. Even now."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "I had fallen ill, I think I would have been slain if I were not. I always get chills."

Fiona Delaine: "...you were there, dame Hestia?" Fiona's eyes widen.

Hestia De'bayle: "I was lucky to have even made it out alive, period. Pulled from the rubble as I was. Those nights were filled with terrors of 'what could have been'. But more importantly, what was."

Fiona Delaine: "... gods..."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "And you Flora? Where did you find yourself?"

Fiona Delaine shivers. "Fury be praised you made it. It- many did not."

Hestia De'bayle lowered her head solemnly, as though the very thought brought her pain.

Flora seems largely numb to the scenery around her-- she just keeps walking with her eyes pointed forward, and keeps walking. "The Striped Hills, when we heard. It's-- we come through here often, running supplies, but it's still..."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Change will be invoked soon enough. You've my word on that." Rhuli'a turned, making to continue on.

Ghalleon taps his lips and says nothing for the time.

Duties to others had obviously seen the Resistance fret their time elsewhere. Much of the ruins of the outpost still lay untouched, mechanical corpses strewn about as plentifully as the shards of steel and stone. Crouching low, Rhuli'a turned to address the party. "Peak, the griffin in question, makes his home in the uppermost reaches of this accursed place. The hired tamers have set themselves ready, hidden among the ruins by way of scent, sound and sight alike. On our mark, they'll spill a mixture of Griffin pheremones, signalling a challenger. Peak ought to take with it with gusto. We've kept watch, and he's been nigh unchallenged for mayhap a moon by now." Putting a hand to his forehead, Rhuli'a spoke then to Hestia. "Once he's drawn out, bring him to ground. You've ample time to prepare, so I do not doubt you'll miss. 'Tis up to you on the severity of your strike. See to it that you weigh mercy and might equally, aye Dame?"

Flora seems to visibly brighten up a little, at the idea of finally coming to blows with this beast.

"My husband has parted me with sedatives,” Hestia declines, “ While he will need be wrangled with still, I will do so only until I can inject him with such. I aim to avoid hurting him as much as I can."

"...hm. With time to prepare I can like line the area with runes of binding to snare Peak once he hits ground. Might make it easier."

"Then see to that preparation, Fiona. Yet, there be one more thing..." Handing out a wealth of tinctures, Rhuli'a began to explain the next step.

Flora frowns. Mayhap no griffin for dinner, after all.

"Once aground, our tamers will begin their work. Peak is wild and proud, we'll need to hammer humility into him in order to bring him to heel. Set up the three tamers with as much leeway to work with as you can. They're not combatants like us, so if they draw his ire, there's little they can do in order to protect themselves." Motioning to the concoctions each party member carried, Rhuli'a continued his explanation. "These carry a dizzying mixture among them. If you've no ways to taunt or disorient Peak, you can trust in these. However, if you toss them near enough both Griffin and tamer, it will befuddle both. Take care."

"Ah, thank you,” Flora nods.

"Do you wish for one, Ghalleon? I'll not pressure you into violence,” Rhuli’a asks.

Hestia accepts it, storing it away within one the small packs on her abdomen.

Ghalleon Helseth seems chary. "I wish to be of help in whatever way I can," he says, accepting one. "I expect this to be a handful, so I will stand by. I will wait to act, though, until necessity demands it."

"Oui? Let me know. I'll prepare the site- ah. Alright. Good to know."Fiona stows the vials in her bandolier, and then moves forward. Time to get to work. She draws her dagger- and slitting her palm again, she gets to work. Ink and blood mire together, spilling forth to creep across the area between the three towers, shimmering glyphs creeping to settle upon convenient surfaces.

Looking all over, Rhuli’a spoke once more. "Questions?"

Fiona bustles between sites, adjusting and creating new runes. In short, she was making a gravity snare- something to ensure the griffin wouldn't be able to fly freely away once grounded.

Hestia De'bayle steps forward herself, pulling her lance free. "Nogelle. Prenu la altan teron," she spoke out toward the wyvern on her shoulder in what sounded like practically gibberish to those around her. From her shoulder, the little creature took flight - distancing himself from Hestia.

"None, no." Flora responded.

"Steel yourself and make ready. Once Fiona prepares her trap, we'll smash the bottle, and herald the beginning,” Rhul’a ordered.

Ghalleon hides--that is... tactically positions himself, behind a mass of rubble.

".. this is about as good as I can do with what I have on-hand," Fiona calls over, the area covered in a series of intricate crimson lines between clusters of elaborate sigils. They don't look like typical arcanima- too spidery and sinuous. And then she ducks behind a fallen pylon.

Hestia De'bayle peers around the rubble. Her expression is unreadable from behind her helm, but her hands tighten audibly to the haft of her polearm.

Rhuli'a gave a gesture. A signal. Three tamers appeared, ropes and nets aplenty. One reared his arm back and tossed a bottle!

With the bottle broken, the challenge was issued. And answered it was, almost instantly, a typhoon of rage and fervor that swept throughout the remnants of the outpost. Machine and pillar alike were blown apart in a gust as the griffin they sought to neutralize flew overhead! Blue eyes surveyed searchingly at the ground, confused for but a moment at the lack of a contender to his domain. Now was the opportunity to strike!

Directing her gaze toward the sky, Hestia hopped up onto a higher piece of rubble - the wind at her feet gusting once more as she was thrusted up into the sky toward the flying beast. Out reaching her lance, Hestia latched it onto one side of the beasts neck to hook and toss herself up onto its back. Grabbing a hold for just under the blade, the young woman tightened the polearm to its neck, attempting to cause it to struggle and fall.

Beleaguered, the True Griffin cried out. Flapping madly, it soon realized it was unable to wrest the woman off! Going to ground, it made to roll itself upon the rubble, in an effort to unseat its oppressor!

And as it lands, Fiona springs her trap! Rather than rely on proximity, she instead remained tied to the wards- and with a snap, discharges the stored aether. The area suddenly feels much heavier as the air thickens, umbral earth triggering a manifestation of gravity to weigh everything down. It'd be a struggle to fly, to be sure.

Rhuli'a Kanjun started, his right hand dropping low. With his shield strapped to it, tears sprang to his eyes at the sudden shift of pressure. Blinking them away, he roared out, "Forward! See it brought to heel!"

Flora Valerian begins to ease herself out of her hiding place, halberd held tightly in her hands. She takes a moment to survey the situation before charging in.

Hestia's Gae Bolg loosens against the creatures feathers - a weapon clearly not built for such. Being flung off, the woman manages to twist her body, landing on her feet - if not at least with a stagger. "Do not kill it! Whatever you do!" Rushing forward, Hestia reached into her pack to retrieve the sedative. "Force it still!"

A wealth of ropes and nets were being sprung onto the Griffin! A shrill cry echoed out, and it flapped its mighty wings once! It bucked fiercely beneath the ropes, yet remained in place. Two tamers, however, were thrown to the side, their nets beginning to lose their grip...

Hestia holds her ground, awaiting for others to move toward binding the ropes so that she might have a clear path toward sedating the beast.

Ghalleon is, as yet, still processing what is happening before him, and trying to assess the situation. Trying not to make a a mess of anything, he takes no action at this moment.

Peak thrashes about in captivity, growing wearier by the passing second. Turning to the side, he bats his wings once more, sending a gust screaming towards Fiona, interrupting her spellcasting. However, distracted as he was, Flora and Rhuli'a have an easy time in holding him down. The griffin seems to tire...

Ghalleon enthusiastically nods, as if this is helping the situation improve.

Rhuli'a's binding came free! Leaving his wounds untreated, and being in an unfamiliar environment causes him to balk, his rope slipping from his hand!

Despite the others struggling with the bindings, Hestia leaves behind her spear as she jumps up and onto the Griffin with the injection in hand. Holding to its plumage as it thrashed around, the young woman managed to stick the needle into the creature, injecting only a portion of the substance into it before she is forced to rip it out and hop back away to safety.

Recovering from her befouled spell and shaking off the wind-gust, Fiona makes a few swift hand gestures, ink flowing without blood to bolster it. Sigils form in the air between her hands, sharply aspected to umbral, and then she lets her augmented gravity pull her down to hands and knees- and press that sigil to the earth. A field of shadowy tendrils erupts from the cermet panels beneath Peak to loop and wrap around it. The freezing, strength-sapping grip is not very tight, but it's something.

Flora continues to hold tight, gritting her teeth as the game of tug of war intensifies. Certainly she'd give, eventually, but not just yet....

The griffin thrashes once, twice, thrice. And falls. Eye wild, its claws opened, closed, then opened again. From his position on the ground, Rhuli'a barked out a hoarse, "Forward! Sedate it fully! Dame!"

Adjusting the injection within her hand fittingly, Hestia lunged forward again with a mighty cry. Thrusting the needle into the creature one last time, she inserted the rest of the contents into them before freeing it of the vial and tossing it aside. Hopping down off the beast, Hestia moved toward one of the ropes to assist in binding it down, hoping to keep the Griffin from hurting itself in the process.

Quieting down finally, the beast gave a final, gusting blow of its wings, the combined might of the nets, shadow magick, and sedatives finally overcoming it. Fainting away cleanly, it lay like a corpse, albeit with odd breaths coming from it.

"... Hundreds of thousands of gil wasted on charlatans who thought themselves able to control this beast,” Rhuli’a scoffed.

And finally, with the great and noble beast asleep, Fiona ceases channeling. She wipes at her brow- and places a hand upon the Gravity ward as well. Soon, it too unravels into motes that she rapidly absorbs in a swirl of shimmering lights. And immediately, the area's easier to stand in and breathe in.

Ghalleon smiles broadly. This group is competent indeed.

Releasing the ropes with an exhale, Hestia stepped forward toward the creature. Reaching a hand up, she patted its feathers calmly and silently.

"You've a fondness for the beast? I had not desired its death, but you seem to go above and beyond. Dare I say, a hint of compassion?" Rhuli’a teased.

Flora breathes out-- she's unsure if it's too soon to stop holding the rope tight. "Is it over?" she calls out. "All done?"

"Aye, Flora! 'Tis.,” Rhuli’a answered.

"I have no malice toward beasts. My mother is a Beastmaster. I find fondness in most all of them. He did nothing wrong to deserve pain for his living. I do hope they will treat him well," Hestia lowers her helmed head to its slowly breathing chest.

"I hope the same," Fiona whispers.

Flora looks curiously to Hestia, canting her head to the side. She makes a prolonged hum.

The tamers soon hefted the beast onto a massive cart, which had rumbled up the ramp behind the party as they spoke. Soon rolling on and out of sight, Rhuli'a reaffirmed Hestia. "They're tamers. Think of it as sending an unruly child to a trade guild. Tough, but fair, and all the better once they've come out of it."

"And they'll put it to use?" Flora asks, her voice dry and flat.

"I know the trade. Ishgard is known for its Chocobo's after all, and they are just as unruly. If perhaps not worse," Hestia says in some dry amusement. "There is an innocence in those eyes I wish to see protected. Not just for beasts who wish to live in peace." She moves back to fetch her spear, latching it onto her back once more.

Ghalleon Helseth: "You all are very competent. It was well done."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Only the best, Helseth. It would be remiss of me to accept any less."

Flora Valerian's gaze shifts over to her husband. "I'm glad you think so."

Hestia De'bayle: "Some beasts do well free, others on the other hand may find their lives shortened for it as spoken get in the way of their lifestyle. It is a cruel trade of life, but if it means their life will be extended and they can continue on. I find no complaints or anger."

Fiona Delaine: ".. supposedly," Fiona murmurs. "Ala Mhigo's known for its griffin-riders and has great respect for the beasts. I hope so." She softly hums.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Griffin-riders, lancer legions, Fists of Rhalgr..." Rhuli'a's shortlist was filled with pride, the nationalistic Miqo'te wearing a wide smile.

Ghalleon Helseth: "Like as not, it shall fare far better than had it chosen to alight in this place in former days with its Imperial occupants."

Hestia De'bayle: "I have faith. After All, faith is all we can have," the woman looks forward, "their very image is that of the great white beast, I would think they would show it some respect."

Flora Valerian: "Well, I hope he makes someone a passable steed, or he'll end up on someone's plate."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Anyroad. This be the end of this journey, for now."

Fiona Delaine decides not to talk about her grandfather's accolades for his valiant showing in the Autumn War.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "I'll not require anymore from any here."

Fiona Delaine: "For now," she nods, slowly. "T'was good working with you all."

Hestia De'bayle: "Thank you for allowing me the honour of assisting in subduing the creature, rather than having it slain."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Know full well that this endeavor was only made possible by contributions from all of you. Gyr Abania, and by extension, Eorzea grows stronger."

Ghalleon Helseth: "I am very, very glad to know you all," Ghalleon says with enthusiasm. "Please do take care until we meet again. Traders bless your fortunes in the meanwhile."

Hestia De'bayle moves her hands up to remove her helm, once more, offering the man her crimson gaze.

Flora Valerian: "Aye, I'm headed out, as well. Strength in Rhalgr." Flora strides on over to Ghalleon's side, suggesting she's leaving with him.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: " 'Twas why I sought you ought, Dame. The other option was a ballista."

Ghalleon Helseth smiles faintly at his wife.

Fiona Delaine: ".. I might try and see if I can't get a look at that Ziggurat."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "And, I did not wish to see such an important icon taken in such a way."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "If you wish. Take care, the Qiqirn are not known for their hospitality."

Flora Valerian: "To Thanalan, or to Ala Mhigo?" she asks.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Is there more you wish to say, Dame?"

Fiona Delaine: "I'll like.. send a familiar, Veil-shifted, to record what it can for me.."

Ghalleon Helseth: "Shall we spend the night in Ala Ghiri? I know you care not for it, but I would spend the coin for comfort."

Hestia De'bayle: "Forget not of that boy left in Ala Ghiri, Sir Rhuli'a," Hestia gestures up a hand.

Flora Valerian mutters something that sounds like a reluctant agreement.

Rhuli'a Kanjun 's mouth turned up into a smile. "I shan't. But Jel will hold him for a time. As it stands..." Rhuli'a looked to his wounds, less severe from before, but still present. "May I trouble you for a moment longer, Fiona?"

Fiona Delaine: "Certainly. I'm surprised you didn't ask me to tend them before we bound Peak." She approaches, having a closer gander up and down the Keeper's body.

Hestia De'bayle: "I have nothing more to say. I will begin to take my leave. Do take care, and call upon me if you need my services. Though, I may not be able to assist in such rigorous tasks in the moons to come," she nods, stepping aside.

Fiona Delaine: "Au revoir, dame Hestia... Non?"

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Safe travels, Hestia."

Hestia De'bayle: "You all take care."

Flora Valerian: "Strength in Rhalgr, yes."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Comet guide."

#Journal #Fiona Delaine #Rhuli'a Kanjun #Flora Valerian #Ghalleon Helseth

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pyropsychiccollector · 7 years ago

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“Monokuma… already revealed we stole their memories…!?” Mitarai was stunned as they all watched the events in the virtual world unfold. The first motive had been presented after a day of reprieve; it seemed like everyone was going to come together, in spite of the insane rules forced on them. Unfortunately, Monokuma seemed to want to nip that in the bud early on, as he told them about how Monomi had stolen their memories, and their loved ones might not be as safe as they last ‘remembered’.

… And they weren’t. Most of them were dead. Whoever tried to kill one of their classmates would be coming back to a reality where, in all likelihood, their loved ones were dead… Such an outcome fit Ultimate Despair’s modus operandi perfectly.

Not everyone from Class 77 had been able to come check on Nagito and the other Remnants of Despair, upon Hajime contacting them. Some were out in the field, and others had important work that couldn’t be put off. Yet there were those who put aside their Foundation duties to morally support their former classmate…

“Fuck!” Fuyuhiko punched the computer terminal he was standing next to. “This is like the last Killing Game! Exactly the same…!”

Sixteen people, thrust into a “game” to kill each other in order to escape. Motives presented to “inspire” people to murder… This wasn’t a coincidence. Somebody was mimicking Junko and her twisted ideas…

The Imposter sighed resignedly.

“We should believe in the people they are now. The people they were. In this moment, they are not Ultimate Despair… They are our underclassmen. People we failed to protect. Doubting them, worrying over them, we’re doing them a disservice.”

Mikan moaned anxiously, clutching her hands to her bosom.

“I don’t think it’s bad to be worrying about them… Th-They can still be hurt in there, can’t they?”

“They can.” Hajime confirmed with a grave nod. “It’s cutting-edge virtual reality… It’s designed that way so they’re none the wiser to everything just being a simulation. If they get wounded, nothing might happen to their actual body, but their mind will be convinced they’re actually hurt. And if they die… we’re not sure if we would be able to bring them back. They might remain in a coma for the rest of their lives.”

Natsumi scowled as her eyes stayed fixed on the main monitor.

“Never mind who did it for now… Why the hell are Ultimate Despair doing this to their own people? To prevent ‘em from being cured?”

Tanaka turned his head away briefly, his mouth concealed by his scarf.

“We lack the information needed to draw conclusions… We should watch, and mayhap we will pick up a hint to the mastermind’s identity that they will not.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the who, why, how, whatever… Soon as we have ‘em in our hands, I’m smashing their teeth in…!” Fuyuhiko growled, clenching a fist tightly.

Peko placed a placating hand on Fuyuhiko’s shoulder, getting him to relax, marginally. The rest of them were hoping their kouhais could hold out until they could regain control again on their side… At this moment, there was nothing they could do but watch.

~*~

Though tensions were high, Makoto had proposed a party the next evening to rekindle bonds. They’d spend the whole day getting ready, and then they’d party all night long. Ishimaru, being the self-designated leader, tried giving out tasks for everyone to do, but Nagito, Makoto, Mukuro, and Sayaka all volunteered for the broad tasks that needed to be completed. Nagito would clean the old lodge, having drawn the short stick for it. Makoto would get all the supplies from the supermarket (Mukuro ended up helping him). Mukuro, though not a world-class chef, had some experience cooking for her and her younger sister when they were kids, and so took up that responsibility. And Sayaka would provide music for the party – Leon assisting her with the setup of speakers and other music equipment.

It was a long day for everyone that was setting up for the party, but eventually they all met up at the lodge when the nighttime announcement came.

Well. Everyone except for Togami, but Ishimaru seemed fine with that so long as he was the only one absent.

For some reason, the Ultimate Moral Compass was on edge, giving everyone who entered the lodge a fully body search before putting anything that could be considered a weapon into a duralumin case that he kept at his side at all times. This obviously upset a lot of people, making some downright uncomfortable, but the hall monitor was satisfied no one had come brandishing weapons… aside from Fukawa, who bizarrely had a number of scissors on her.

… Ishimaru had a long talk with her in private about that, but the author was unwilling to divulge anything.

“Ah, Miss Celestia Ludenberg…” Nagito greeted as she entered the dining hall. “Do you like it?”

Celes hummed as she looked around.

“You are referring to how you cleaned everything up in here, yes…?”

“Yeah, I got it all decorated for the party… I even brought in the carpet.” Komaeda explained.

“The… carpet…?” Celes trailed off, perplexed.

Nagito just nodded.

“I brought it from the supermarket. I actually wanted to cover the whole floor, but I guess the carpet wasn’t big enough.” Nagito laughed sheepishly. And it was true, there was a perimeter around the carpet that showed the natural floor underneath, which looked to be rotting in some places… Nagito rubbed his forehead in annoyance. “There was a lot of dust and cobwebs all over the place, too. It took me all day to clean the dining hall just because of that.”

Celes intertwined her hands beneath her chin as she beamed at the older Luckster.

“Ehehe… You are commendable, indeed. Keep up that dedication, and you might exceed D-rank one day…”

Nagito rolled his eyes but smiled good-naturedly.

“You don’t have to lie to my face, Celes. I know you don’t exactly have a high opinion of a lot of people here…” He then turned his back, waving over his shoulder. “Well, I hope you enjoy your evening!”

Celes stayed rooted in place for a while after that… While she couldn’t deny a word he said, it really was astounding that such a suck-up could be so perceptive.

… She would have to be careful around him…

As he set a platter of food on the table, Makoto noticed Fukawa shivering and huddling in a corner of the dining hall. A look of pure disgust was etched all over her face.

“What’s up, Fukawa?” He considerately asked.

Fukawa just sent him a bitter glare that was oozing with loathing.

“H-H-He rubbed his hands all over me…!” She squeezed her eyes shut and clutched her head, letting out a howl of frustration and anger. Makoto sweatdropped.

“Well… While I will say it was pretty excessive, Ishimaru’s just trying to look out for all of us. I’m pretty sure he gave the guys body searches that were just as thorough…”

Fukawa howled again as she raised her twitching hands up in melodramatic fashion.

“He rubbed all over meee!” Clearly, that was just unacceptable, no matter the ‘excuse’. So… Naegi just backed away slowly…

Asahina pouted as she stewed in her own frustration at the Ultimate Moral Compass’s… thoroughness.

“Maybe Fukawa’s a little melodramatic, but she kinda has a point! I mean, Ishimaru didn’t have to treat you so suspiciously, Sakura! He took way longer inspecting you than me!”

Sakura just smiled wryly.

“Ishimaru harbors no ill intent. I do not mind him being cautious. His passion to ensure there are no killings should be admired, and we should all follow his fighting spirit.”

Asahina kept her arms crossed before she sighed in defeat.

“I guess…” Her stomach then growled as she noticed a platter of donuts set out on one of the tables. She looked to Makoto, who was rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “Did you get those just for me, Naegi?!”

The younger Luckster laughed softly.

“Well, yeah! We might not know each other too much yet, but I wanted you guys to enjoy yourselves! This party supposed to bring us together.”

Asahina wept tears of sheer joy at the Luckster’s considerate nature. Oooh, she was gonna pig out tonight… She didn’t care what anyone else had to say!

… Well, except Ishimaru got in her way, as he arrived with the last of them – Mondo, Hagakure, Kirigiri, Fujisaki, and Yamada. Sayaka and Leon were setting up final preparations with the sound equipment in the back of the dining hall, and Mukuro was in the kitchen.

Asahina repeatedly kept trying to get at the donuts, but the Ultimate Moral Compass brought up the fact that the case with the confiscated weapons needed to be guarded. He had the key for that case stored in the other one, which also had a self-defense kit inside, but he thought that distancing the key from the lock would make them all the safer. Fukawa volunteered for guard duty, since she didn’t feel very comfortable eating around or socializing with others, so she left the dining hall with the case rather promptly; it was decided she would guard the case in the abandoned building’s office.

The other order of business was to make sure Monokuma didn’t sneak in and spark anyone’s intent to murder. Makoto volunteered to stay outside the lodge, but a pout from Sayaka Maizono and a reminder that he’d promised to listen to her concert, and the Luckster capitulated and allowed someone else to take up that task. Ishimaru had been going to suggest they do it in shifts, but Kirigiri volunteered in order to keep it from turning into a huge argument. Makoto tried to convince her to stay, but Kirigiri was rather nonchalant about missing out on the party, feeling this was an opportunity for a detective to do something before another murder happened…

With all of that sorted out, Ishimaru had intended to dive into a long discussion about the night’s itinerary. But by that point, he’d lost control of the crowd – especially Asahina, who just wanted her donuts – and the party entered full swing.

… If only it remained peaceful like this.

~*~

It came without warning. But blackouts seldom have them.

There was no real buildup. Some of them had been having too much fun – like Hagakure, Mondo, Asahina, Yamada, and Leon – but they were high school students. Things were bound to get out of hand. But it was all in good fun, and… it was as if they could forget all about their troubles since coming to this island, so long as they stayed in this dining hall together.

Maizono held her concert, and it was amazing for the teens. Sayaka’s soothing voice helped them relax.

The food wasn’t “world-class” or anything, but Mukuro was a pretty good cook, at least in the humble opinions of Asahina, Hagakure, Sakura, and Mondo.

Yamada got up to some perverted antics, but one well-placed baseball to the face from Leon shut up the otaku and put him in his place…

Fujisaki revealed he got a camera from the supermarket, and he snapped a lot of good pictures of everyone having a blast.

Everything was going well. Ishimaru had to keep some fights from escalating, but even with those, no one was seriously going to get hurt. They were high schoolers who were just being their rowdy selves.

And then… it happened.

“What was that…?” Ishimaru tensed as there was a beeping noise.

No one recognized that noise, except Makoto, who knew that was the AC turning on for whatever reason.

And then… darkness. Complete and total.

“It’s dark…?” Makoto mumbled.

“It’s a blackout!” Sayaka cried net to him. Somehow, they were able to fumble around enough to find each other’s hand and intertwine their fingers. It didn’t do anything to help their situation, but it did make them feel safe, having someone they could trust by their side in this turn of events…

“Hey, I can’t see anything!” Mondo shouted irritably.

People began to stumble about in the dark in fear. Makoto and Sayaka stood rooted in place, in fear of bumping into someone… Plus, they didn’t know if this blackout was an accident, or if it was… premediated.

… Neither of them liked to think of that possibility.

“It’s pitch black!” Asahina cried.

There were the sounds of screams and frantic footsteps, but they were quickly swallowed up by another voice…

“Everyone, remain calm!” Sakura urged. “We must remain composed in these situations…”

Suddenly, there was a malicious aura that filled the room. Makoto didn’t quite know how to explain it, but it felt very angry…. When the next person spoke up, he understood.

“Did you… have the audacity… to stomp all over my feet, Porky!?”

Yamada squealed in terror.

“P-Please have mercy, Miss Celestia Ludenberg…!”

“Die…!”

Makoto sweatdropped as he could hear the telltale sounds of roughhousing from that quarter. Yamada brought that on himself for trampling Celes’s feet, though…

“What the hell! What’s going on here!?” Ishimaru demanded heatedly.

The windows were completely covered with those iron plates, so they were surrounded by total darkness. And it was because of that complete darkness that their eyes would never adjust, no matter how long they waited…

“Wh-What is…!? Ow!” Ishimaru suddenly cried out. There was some sort of thumping noise – possibly the Ultimate Moral Compass falling over.

“Turn the damn lights on, would ya?!” Leon growled.

And then, the soldier’s voice joined the cacophony. She’d gone to the kitchen to bring out more food, and she must’ve been on her way back for her voice to be heard now.

“You guys? Where are you…?” Mukuro asked warily. “Wasn’t the blackout… just in the kitchen…?”

“Maybe the breaker overloaded.” Yamada suggested.

“To whomever stole my goggles…!” Ishimaru suddenly called out again. “I must demand you return them at once!”

Makoto could almost hear Mondo roll his eyes.

“What are you going on about now?”

“I had brought night vision goggles for just this occasion!” Ishimaru revealed. “However, someone bumped into me, and I presume they stole the goggles in my disorientation!”

… Well, at least he was honest.

“Huh?” Nagito abruptly said, though he said it so quietly that Makoto thought he was hearing things. In the next few moments… there was a much softer thump, and some rustling of cloth…

What was going on?

“H-Hold on!” Hagakure called out. “I’ll… I’ll go along the wall and… do something about it…!”

There was a long, anxious wait for the darkness to lift… From the various cries, it sounded as if Hagakure was bumping into people way too easily.

After a while… the lights finally came back on…

And it seemed everyone was fine… Well… to be honest, there had been a small accident…

Mukuro blushed, as she had been bumped into at some point, and had fallen in an awkward position, allowing most people to see up her skirt… She wouldn’t have normally allowed it to happen, having good response skills even in dark conditions, but the fact Naegi would have chided her for hurting their friends… It gave her pause, and now… she was like this…

Somebody would pay. .

Mondo flushed deeply as he realized that it was him that had bumped into Mukuro, resulting in her compromised position…

“Shiiit! Shit, shit, shit, shit…!” Mondo hurried to help her up, but the damage had been done, and he got punched into a wall for his trouble. “… I deserved that…”

The red on Mukuro’s face didn’t go away as she dusted herself off, eyes closed. That was humiliating…! He deserved a lot more than that, but for now she’d let it slide… Accidents happen…

And again, Naegi would disapprove of violent retribution…

Leon grinned as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Nice job, Hagakure! You managed to get the lights back on!”

However, the fortuneteller didn’t look like he could take credit for that miracle…

“Yeah, uh… In case you couldn’t tell, I hadn’t even left this room, let alone make my way to the office, where the circuit breaker is!” The dark-haired boy laughed weakly.

“Then… who did get the lights back on…?” Celes wondered.

No one had an answer to that…

“Um…” Everyone turned to Sayaka when she shuffled her feet awkwardly. “Not to worry you guys… But where’s Fujisaki?”

As Makoto looked around, he noticed she was right. There was also something bugging him about Nagito, as well, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then again, with them having moved around in the darkness, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was just the fact Nagito was now standing closer to him and Sayaka, rather than his initial location by the table with the lamp on it. Celes and Hifumi looked about as he’d expected; Asahina looked relieved to have the lights back on, and Sakura was checking over her for injuries; Ishimaru was looking around for those night vision goggles…

But Fujisaki was nowhere to be seen.

“That’s weird…” Asahina muttered. “He was here earlier, taking pictures!”

“Did he run somewhere during the blackout…?” Yamada wondered.

“I’m… a little worried.” Nagito confessed. “We should split up and go look for him. I’ll look in the storage room, so can I ask you to check the entrance, Makoto?”

Feeling no need to object, Makoto complied as he walked out of the dining hall. Sayaka offered to check the office, and the others split up to search the building. The programmer couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air.

~*~

Kirigiri said Fujisaki hadn’t left the lodge, so that meant the programmer still had to be inside. However, when Makoto turned around to go back in, there was a sort of chime that rang out from the screen over on the hotel. Makoto could make out Monokuma on the screen as he sipped a martini and casually made an announcement.

“A body has been discovered~! Everyone please make your way to the dining hall in the old lodge!”

The screen flickered off.

“The… dining hall…?” Makoto whispered faintly. But he’d just been there! There’d been no body!

“I’m assuming one of the others searched the hall…” Kirigiri said, as if reading his mind. “Come on. We have to go see for ourselves.”

“Y-Yeah…” Makoto just couldn’t believe it…

However, as they made their way back in, Makoto’s feet feeling a hundred times heavier as he plodded along, he knew the moment he saw the crowded dining hall that it had happened… There’d been a murder, despite Ishimaru’s security.

For in the far corner of the room, under the table with a lamp, was the corpse of Chihiro Fujisaki. His throat was slit, there was a blood spray on the cloth that covered the table, and there was some night vision goggles near his body…

Chihiro Fujisaki was the first victim.

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statonelisabet · 5 years ago

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The Fool of Saltwater Springs, Part 1.

The third son of a lawyer in the town of Boston, Jack Wilson was a man of whom much was expected, though the only truly spectacular thing about Jack was how creative he could be about disappointing those expectations. Had he been the first born of his brothers, he may have had a chance in life, so it’s a wonder he didn’t choose that position. The only logical solution to that quandary is that inheriting the family fortune and law firm would have been too much responsibility. With that in mind, his choice to be born third makes a great deal of sense. The entirely true and not at all ridiculous or falsified circumstances regarding his place in the family birth order actually had no bearing whatsoever on his ventures in the southwest of the country, where, relying on intelligence from a colleague that the “folks in Texas will believe anything if you can make it rain,” Jack chose to try his luck at making it rain.

He had been in the dusty ranching town of Saltwater Springs for three days, skulking in shadows and planting his tricks. He slept in a tent on the outskirts of town. Naturally, none of the nosey old biddies or suspicious ranch hands noticed a skulking stranger in their town. He had an unmistakable gift for sneaking and hiding, so the good townspeople had absolutely no idea what was waiting for them when he decided that his time had come. Just after dawn, when the milkman was making his rounds and the ranchers were waking, Jack set off his first round of fireworks.

The firework soared. Explosives burst through the deep blue of the sky, piercing it with glittering streams of gold and red, pink and yellow. The noise spooked the milkman’s mule and the miserable beast took off as fast as he could, which was not very fast at all. The milk cart tipped over as the mule tried to avoid a cactus, and spilled the large tank from which the milkman filled the townspeople’s personal jugs. The mule, stuck on his side and kicking up a mighty storm, mewled and whined like a bitter ex-wife. A sleeping horse had been tied to a fence in front of the inn, and spent that early morn’ minding his own dreamy business. Until a city-slickin’ firework went off. Having had his dreams of rolling, open hills and spur-less boots rudely broken up by heretofore unjustified and unexplained explodin’, the creature ran off, takin’ his saddle and damn near half the fence with ‘im.

Jack got a decent cloud of dust and dirt in his eyes, chokin’ up his throat and dirtyin’ his pretty clothes something mighty. His eyes watered mercilessly and turned the dust on his face to mud, which caused a blindness he’d tried his very best to wipe away when the inn keeper burst through the inn’s doors. The large man, mightily bearded and thoroughly aproned, marched into the road to see a milk cart toppled over, an aimless horse, a bewildered milk man, and a stranger with mud in his eyes. He carefully approached the horse and pulled it back, tied it to a post once it was calm, and approached Jack.

“You want to explain what happened here, friend?” His tone was not friendly.

“Yes, perfectly simple, my good man,” said Jack with a winning smile. “Animals often have this sort of response to magic, I do regret any fear I caused them. I have, however, come for a very good reason which I do believe will incur the forgiveness of whatever mishaps may happen to occur during my time here.”

“Magickin’, eh?” The innkeeper replied, with one salty eyebrow reaching for the heavens. “What sort o’ magickin’ you got in mind?”

“Why don’t you wait and see?” Jack said with a wink, before he lit a smoke-ball behind his back and walked away. The desired effect, to seem as though he had disappeared in a cloud of tinted smoke, was unfortunately unsuccessful. The sun had a nasty habit of risin’ of its own accord, and Jack had a nasty habit of guessin’ its own accord quite wrongly. The two men and the cranky animals watched in dumb-founded silence as Jack scurried behind the nearest wall. They shook their heads, wondering at the wild buffoonery before them, and turned their stalwart attention to righting the milk cart and calming the ass.

Jack returned to the scene of his dusty humiliation early the next morning. So early, in fact, that the sun hadn’t done much risin’ at all, and his smoke-ball was about as invisible as it had been in the mornin’ light. Nonetheless he was eager to greet his awaitin’ public. Much to everyone’s surprise, there was quite a public gathered there that mornin’, ready to see the Great Magic Man with them own two eyes. They all had to see for themselves what kind of an old fool could make a fuss like he had.

“My good people!” He cried, raisin’ his voice so as to be heard by every man, woman and child misfortunate enough to find themselves in the town square at the dark end o’ dawn. “For too long, you have been plagued by drought; by troubles; and surely by the devil himself in some of your more unfortunate cases! I have heard the cry of your spirits from a faraway land, and have come to you, to deliver you from your misfortunes! I will begin with the matter of rain.”

The townspeople listened to his speech with patience and good grace. None of the Baptists noticed his sacrilegious phrasing, none of the science men minded his talking of magic and devils, and none of the young ladies noticed his leering. Perhaps that was his true talent – to leer at every young woman in attendance while shouting nonsense at them. Of course it’s possible that none of that was true, and they were all gettin’ fed up with his shoutin’ and thesaurin’ faster ‘an Bessie’s milk’ll go sour. I’ll never tell.

Jack finished his speech with a magnificent bang. He had lit a long fuse to a larger set of fireworks, set up behind the doctor’s office across from the tavern. He had timed his speech to end just as the fireworks erupted and he raised his hands, so that he created the image of controlling the explosion. The fuse was slightly longer than he had anticipated, though, and all was awkward silence behind him. He raised his hands higher n’ higher, like he was tryin’ to pick a fight with the sky. Nothin’ happened, then nothin’ happened, then still, nothin’ happened. His timing was about as sharp as my sense of humor.

Finally… finally, the fireworks flew. Missiles laden with canteens of precious water soared upward and exploded in mid-air, showering the townspeople with water. The fireworks’ smoke looked like clouds in the sky, and one can hardly deny being splattered with water.

That crowd was mighty perplexed, and gettin’ mighty grumblesome the longer they were kept from breakfast.

And poor Jack’s trick had fallen flat. This is truly the worst fate for any self-respecting con man, though few of them fail their entrance so miserably. Nonetheless, before Jack could take more breath to speak, thunder started a-rumblin’. Heavy, black clouds shrouded the risin’ sun and without the heat wrappin’ ‘round you like your best sweetheart, the desert chill settled into each and every soul as stood and watched the sky. Soon giant rain drops fell and the people marveled, amazed at the magic man’s skills at calling rain.

One fella, of particularly ill repute among the lowlifes, who stood in the back, mentioned the possibility that this magic man might have been a medicine man instead, but another fella of slightly less ill repute slapped him on the chest. The man of most ill repute was being stupid. Of course, the people of Saltwater Springs, a deeply cynical, untrusting group of folks, were utterly convinced.

“Josiah,” said Matthew the sheriff. “Wasn’t it you was sayin’ there’d be rain this week?”

“Yessir,” Josiah said, watching the sky. They were hanging to the back of the crowd, watching the commotion from afar. “I tell ya, Matthew. We sure do get a lot of rain makers ‘round these parts.”

“Yep,” the sheriff replied as he adjusted the leather holster on his hip. “I don’t know as what to say, Josiah. On account o’ the drought, I s’pose. That’s broke now. Supposin’ he thinks he did it?”

“Mayhaps he does. Mayhaps he did,” Josiah the innkeeper said with a wink. He stepped through the crowd to have a word with the rain maker.

To be continued! Part Two: https://statonelisabet.tumblr.com/post/615081909712814080/the-fool-of-saltwater-springs-part-two

#amwriting #amreading #booktumblr #stories #statonelisabet #andafterthis #diecozy #partone #comedy #sarcasm #conmen #western #westerns #westerngenre #cowboys #ranchers #rainmaker #cons

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aethersmoke-and-ash · 7 years ago

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A certain shade - pt 4

Armand Tremaux is lounging on the couch, box just out of reach. Milloux Allard slipped quietly into the room, tray of tea and a few pastries in hand. Whatever pleasant face she had been wearing was replaced by one filled with quiet concern. "You're safe?" Was the first thing she uttered, concern for him apparent.

Armand Tremaux lifts a brow at her then gives a shake of his head before he smiles. "As if such were ever in question. The travel from home to here was quiet, in truth, among one of the quietest journies I have ever taken." Milloux Allard raised a brow as she set the tray down, and then settled nearby. "You'll forgive me worryin' a little over you, aye?" Her voice had softened some, a hand placed on his knee. "Quiet or not...what y' said was...troublin'." Armand Tremaux smiles and places a hand atop hers, "I can forgive such a thing, yes." Winking, he drapes an arm around her shoulders. "Mm. Tis why I took something of a...scenic route to make my way here. Whether I was followed entirely is up for debate I suppose." Armand Tremaux: "But it was certainly quiet all eve."

Milloux Allard inhaled slowly, resting up against him nonetheless. Tension was nigh apparent in everything about her - even the way she curled her fingers around his. "Small miracles. Still, a feelin' like that doesn' come out of nowhere. Mm. What did y' think of Miss Rainier?" Armand Tremaux shrugs his shoulders, "I think that she could be useful more than aught else. Is there more I should consider?" Milloux Allard shook her head, frowning a little. "T'is probably nothing. She doesn' seem th' sort t' be associated with...my visitor. Still. Someone starts pokin' around our books an our shippin' rolls within days of a certain...delivery. Coincidence, aye?"

Armand Tremaux: "More than likely not but...if such is the case, well she's surely being used without her knowledge. That one seemed all too honest." He inhales for a moment, "My thought however, was that perhaps we could use her connections to trace the shipment that Ashoix had received some time ago..and discover exactly where it came from." Milloux Allard: " Y' mean Alexois." Milloux Allard rolled her eyes. "I'd rather -not- know what Ashoix is bringin' in here, harmless though it likely is."

Armand Tremaux pokes her side playfully, "Just making certain you're paying attention, clearly." Milloux Allard smirked up at him, leaning in to steal a brief kiss. A small source of comfort, if nothing more at the moment. "Oh, testin' me, aye? -Clearly-, then. I suppose you've the right of it when it comes t' Miss Rainier though. She don' seem th' sort. Mayhap we ought t' keep an eye out though...I'd hate t' see someone like her bein' used for anythin' ill-imagined." She shrugged. "An' she will be useful in unravelin' th' mess Alexois left." Armand Tremaux: "I could not agree more, when it comes to watching her but such is usually one of my suggestions, in truth." Armand Tremaux returns the kiss and brushes fingers through her hair, winking down at her. "You handled yourself well this eve. Just think, mayhaps shortly this whole matter will be passed...and Halone willing, it will do so quietly." Milloux Allard smiled back up at him. "Aye, even when it includes some well-placed shrubbery." She murmured, a little too innocently, before settling in a little more comfortably. "Y' think so? I'm tryin'. Twelve knows I'm no healer, but I'm glad t' handle what our healers can't. I... I might be startin' t' like it." Sighing quietly. "Is anythin' ever so simple, darlin'? Feels sometimes like your Fury is as like t' keep testin'." Armand Tremaux stretches and settles in as well. "Though we can hope it is more fruitful than -that- particular instance." Giving her a gentle poke, he nodded slowly. "Well I cannot imagine some of the others handling such matters -and- tending to healing. Tis best to separate their skills so they can be best utilized. As for the Fury well...only time will tell, I suppose." Milloux Allard: "I mean no disrespect there. T'is...jus' an earnest observation." Armand Tremaux: "But better men than I have tried to 'predict' such things." Milloux Allard let out a rueful little sound. "I'd not ask th' astrologians t' predict it. I jus'... I don't know. Anythin' t' do with th' old shark landin' on my doorstep like this. It doesn' feel right." She sighed. "I'll contact my new 'friend' on th' morrow. I want that..." She paused, gesturing sourly at the box. "Far from here as possible. An' I've half a mind t' start askin' some contacts about her, too..." Armand Tremaux continues idly playing in her hair. "Mm, could be wise just to be on the safe side. I've found there is rarely such a thing as knowing -too- much concerning potential opposition." Milloux Allard: "Too close t' th' flame an' I'm likely t' get burned...but it is important we know. T' keep, well..." She made a gesture around her - one that seemed to include him as well. "--safe." Armand Tremaux nods slowly, "I understand. I would offer to follow them myself but I imagine you'd like me present during the exchange." Milloux Allard: "I would, aye." Milloux Allard admitted this quietly.

Armand Tremaux gives her hand a squeeze. "Then I shall be."

Milloux Allard rested her head against his shoulder, as though wordlessly trying to convey just how much that meant to her.

Milloux Allard: "Let's hope it goes quietly. An' that this is th' end of it."

Armand Tremaux hugs her a little closer. "It would be appreciated...but if it is not, then we shall deal with whatever comes next."

Milloux Allard: "Aye, as we always do, darlin'.

(Not the most eloquently written rp log, but it was 1am after finishing up Open Clinic Night and we were Tired. @immcrtalised , @heretic-borne , @bound-starlight , @ashoix for mention!)

#rp log #they are sweet sometimes #when they are plotting and fretting #ss shade & blade

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mercenarypark · 7 years ago

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“ hotaliens said: WHEN U CAN talk about medic and his birds, red scout and blu scout mayhaps, ANDdddddddddddddddd what the mercs do on the weekend “ hey guys remember how i said i was gonna talk about hcs well let me finally get around to that hours late here we go

[Medic and Birds]

[these go for RED and BLU medic]

-Medic’s mother had a cockatoo, she absolutely ADORED him even when he was a baby, though ofc his mother made sure to monitor their interactions together; and even as an infant he always treated that bird with surprising gentleness, never pulling or prodding hard. that cockatoo never bit him harder than a warning nip, and she would somehow always know how to calm him down from a tantrum.

the bird died of illness right around the time the war started, and to this day he believes that somehow, those were connected.

-medic stole his flock of doves[technically homing pigeons] from a wedding in England, not realizing that the catering van he’d stolen had an entire flock of birds and a makeshift aviary inside. the method with which he retrained them is,,,,,,, unconventional and spoiler-y for some things i have written but not published

-he holds full conversations with birds, often- not just his own, but birds in the trees, on the street, in pet stores and houses.

-the flock is mostly his homing pigeons from his stolen wedding flock, and their children; with a couple of fancy pigeons stolen from pigeon shows[because lord knows the poor things need some help, esp the ones who’ve been bred to fit a certain standard at the cost of their health and ability to function], and a few feral street pigeons he’s adopted

-the flock mostly refers to him as “papa”, “Vati” or “Opa”

-he speaks to them in German, Yiddish, and English- they understand all three

-he cries every single time an egg hatches. every time. sadly he cant let EVERY egg that they lay, hatch, because he’d never be able to care for them all, but the flock understands this and lets him remove eggs as he pleases, and in return he gives them all as much love and attention as he can

-medic’s office is his makeshift aviary, though he very rarely keeps them cooped in there- for the majority of the day they have free roam of the base. they all know where home is

-heavy, pyro, and scout all are allowed to play w/ medic’s birds whenever they want, heavy and pyro both have a key to medic’s office so they can get into the aviary without having to ask [scout WOULD have one but she’s notorious for losing keys]

-----

[RED Scout BLU Scout]

-for clarities sake, again, there are a lot of things i[and gabby+em]’ve written but not published that i dont want 2 spoil, and the reason that theres two of every merc is one of them; but i will say that yes, there are two versions of scout who mostly have the same backstory shit, but things differ when theyre hired as mercs

-[also, both scouts use she/her and occasionally they/them]

-both scouts have a long standing hatred for the other, and absolutely target each other on the battlefield

-this is at least a LITTLE BIT because of self loathing, IE “im gonna beat the shit out of the person who looks exactly like me”, though neither of them realize that

-RED scout is the one who comes to terms with the fact that she’s trans first and that just amplifies how much she HAAATES the BLU scout

-but RED scout is also the first of the two to go through character growth and become a genuinely better person, as she slowly comes out to her family and friends, finds support in her teammates, accidentally adopts medic as her unofficial dad, unlearns a lot of internalized bullshit,

-which infuriates BLU scout because suddenly RED scout doesnt seem to really care about fighting her anymore

-and then BLU scout overhears one of RED mercs refer to RED scout w/ she/her pronouns and has a fucking crisis of confusion [but also validation]

-and after a lot of internal turmoil brought on by the UNBELIEVABLE Mental Fuckery that has got to come with realizing that the alternate version of yourself is openly trans while you’re still confused and closeted,

-BLU scout decides yea u know what. im trans and im not gonna hide it anymore, esp since apparently all the RED versions of my teammates are accepting so like, the BLUs should be too right???

-and they are

-BLU scout and BLU medic aren’t as close as RED scout + RED medic, for multiple reasons, but in both cases the scouts came out to the medics first [because, Hes Doctor]

-after BLU scout starts going through her own Character Development[tm] and mellows out, both scouts are pretty chilled on the battlefield towards each other, even joking with each other about their teammates, nowhere near as violent and vicious as they were before

-most of the time that they DO fight its more casual and more like rough-housing, with bullets and also spiked baseball bats

-sorry this mostly turned into Gender Stuff hdfjghh but i took that prompt to mean “both scout’s relationships 2 the other” and the answer to that is, well, “fight” ----

[weekend]

[some of these are specific to the RED versions of everyone, sorry, though most are more general]

-demo is usually working one of his other jobs- piano gigs at fancy establishments, art commissions[hes a pretty fantastic painter, he prefers more abstract pieces and he has a very distinct style with a strong sense of movement and fluidity], and some volunteer work at the ol’ kitten orphanage [he’d work at the regular human orphanage next door, but, well. he’s got bad experiences with those. and hes scared of messing up around children]

basically even when hes technically off duty, hes still always working- its the degroot way, whether he likes it or not

but when he can relax, he usually spends as much time as he can with his parrot, keeping her entertained and socialized and happy; he also spends a lot of time in engies workspace watching him build and repair stuff while they drink together, with pyro playing whatever game they’re hyperfocused on at the moment, and, in the old days, he would spend a lot of time sneaking out to be with BLU soldier... Those days are gone in the times of WAR, of course

-engie, of course, is usually still working as well. honestly he doesnt even notice the fact that its the weekend half the time unless someone tells him, he’ll just keep pouring over blueprints and fine tuning designs.

if you do pry him away from his work table long enough, though, he will crash on the nearest soft surface and sleep for 15 hours. rancho relaxo time motherfucker

-medic becomes a cryptid every goddamn weekend, unless you check one of four places: his bedroom, heavy’s bedroom, his office/aviary, and the morgue. you will not see him literally anywhere else. he is also only seen with at least 5-6 birds on his person at all times, as opposed to his usual 1 or 2.

he spends most of the time on the weekends being v overaffectionate with both his birds and heavy; and the rest of the time cutting open dead bodies in the morgue and injecting them with weird shit

-heavy spends a lot of time reading and writing on the weekends- editing older drafts of books he’s written, translating things to and from English to practice his skills with the language, and just, reading books he’s had recommended to him or old favorites. sometimes he reads out loud to medic while medic is busy with other things [IE he’s distracted by birds or corpses]

-spy? literally just this textpost by gabby.

http://thefrenchiestfrytisi.tumblr.com/post/161502800096/ok-before-i-go-to-sleep-though-this-image-from

you dont need any more info than that. this is perfect. spy spends like 5 hours in the bath every saturday and 6 every sunday and its always like this

-pyro is the other cryptid at the base, no one can ever find them unless pyro WANTS to be found so they can show off a drawing they did, or a card trick they learned, or just so they can hang out w/ someone for a while

-scout is either playing Video Games[tm] from the moment she wakes up until she passes out, or she is outside jogging for 3 hours straight and then she impulse steals a golf cart, there is no middle ground here -every single saturday, soldier doesnt realize its the weekend, gets completely ready for battle, runs outside, and only sees the other soldier. and they just both fight each other for the next couple hours until someone gets them both to come inside. the rest of the weekend she’s “taming” her raccoons and planning for the next fight

-i dont care about sniper

#hotaliens #IVE STILL GOTTA RESPOND TO BIRCHMERE'S BUT THAT WONT BE TOO HARD #ilu both #long post /#text heavy /#ive literally been writing on this on and off for hours hdkfhgh #frend #birds /#medical /#death /#medical abuse /?#ask to tag /#reblog if u want idc /#captain's log #tf2 posts

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pomegranctes · 8 years ago

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u could stop at 5 or 6 stores... or jus 1

vesper ophelia reeve !

this is vesper my mc’freakin BABY.......

hayley law fc whom is not a tragic ass shit full of teenage angst despite that bein my speciality bcos i lov torturing my chars xDD

was raised by two hippie, nirvana searching, lush loving moms who cherished and loved vesper after finding her abandoned in a stroller at stanley park </3

despite being adopted and left on a huge fricken island she really doesn’t feel any resentment towards her birth parents ? she jus p much feels indifferent like isn’t in any rush to meet them and is jus content with where she is rn so don’t count on any philo soul searching

so like i said her moms were hella hippie and vegan and socialist and true believers in becoming one with the world, saving it, etc like they were jus super passionate bout making everything a better place and after adopting vesper that need only intensified as they wanted the best for their lil girl<3

like her parents, she grew up super healthy and earth loving and all-in-all an advocate for peace on earth and all this

it was NAWT easy to make friends tho bcos she was always the weird girl who only ever had thrift shop clothes ( before it became a #trend and was jus a sign of how broke u were xDD ) and never wore makeup but being the toughie she is, she stuck through it without complaint

she still shops at the thrift store tho bcos capitalism

attempted to have a rebellious teen stage after watching thirteen and took up smoking, ate some meat, pierced her nose, and did all this stupid stuff to fit in with everybody else but knew it wasn’t her crowd so she gave that up pretty quick and chalked it up to a learning experience

after graduating, with a heavy heart she said good bye to her moms and took off her london to study environmental law and she says it’s to save the bees and all this and convinces herself that’s why but she’s got an ulterior motive which p much just to have a mc’blast in london but her whole “i am above insouciance, all for the greater good, etc” mindset makes her feel almost guilty about it

since being in london tho she’s seen some things, learned some things, is p much now realizing that wanting to have fun for herself without the whole vegan guilt catching up to her isn’t that bad??? she knows that u gotta put urself first huns Xx

has a bubbly and approachable exterior but lowkey inside she still gets self conches about being the weird girl and will have these bouts where she doubts every fricken friendship she’s ever had

loves trying new things all the time and even if that restaurant you ate at last week gave you the shits but the food was good she’ll take the risk of food poisoning just to have that experience

is hella quirky but not in a bella thorne licking gregg skulkin way more in a hippie who listens to the weirdest music and loves orange pulp

works as a radio host for imperial college where she talks philosophy, feminism, and plays indie rock trash

leeder matheus sousa !

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zU13Ql0HRJc

i was not memeing around when i said that i was gonna make a rudy cult leader muse after watching that vid

his name is leeder but prefers people calling him leeds bcos even he can see the disgustign pun

grew up in vegas to some major gambling parents who ran off to sin city for a good time but got caught up in the fancy lights and found that they jus couldn’t leave ? eventually got knocked up and had leeder and would you know it, he was named after a slot machine

his life fluctuated from dinners at upscale restaurants to panhandling outside a casino and p much grew up having to take care of himself all the time what with his parents gone all the fricken time wasting their money

he tried confronting them about it once but things got out of hand too quickly and he ran away from home for a week but his parents hardly noticed his absence the times that they were home and just figured he was in his room or at a friend’s

at 15 he knew he had no savings or anything, he figured as much with his parents, so ever since his first job he started saving up whatever money he could in some last ditch self preservation

at 17 now he runs away just to see what would happen and he isn’t that shocked when there’s no milk carton portraits and no breaking news stories about a missing kid in vegas but some small part of him still held out that hope and was resentful for it

that stunt hella shaped him and hardened him and ever since then, he grew up bitter and spiteful and is p much hella self preserved and will almost always do whatever is best for himself even if other peepz are collateral

so anyway at 22 he basically formed his own cult :P he would scout and pick up these lost runaways and tell them all about “finding themselves” and all this load of bs and got them to believe they were leaving behind their old messy lives in favour of a sort of paradise which was p much just them being high off their minds a good amount of the time and strumming some shit music around a bonfire while they slept in tents outside his own decked out bungalo

so yea he got this cult going and on the low was dealing w some hella drugs and trafficking p much anything and everything and then disater strikes, shit hits the fan, there’s people after him, the whole lot which drove him to leave the country and come to london, hence why he’s here now :P

he still got some connections so he used those and got back into the whole drug thing and is now jus trynna find some new recruits to join his cult ( plot idea mayhaps :P )

hudson kirk schrader !

nickname is schrader but feel free 2 call him hudson, he jus goes w the flow :P

honestly been watching too much fricken workaholics

he’s deadass 100% blake and so catch me copying and pasting his bio

a hella burnout who faked some bullshit illness he searched up on wikipedia and got a medical marijuana lisence for it. how he pulled it off exactly is still unknown, even to himself ( believe it or not, he was high when he did it )

grew up in rancho cucamonga his whole life and the only time he saw outside of it was the one roadtrip he took to los angeles but he surprisingly hated it and he says its bcos the city is too big but he knows it’s bcos some guy he met at the beach called his sandals ugly and people laughed

his parents divorced when he was like 9 so he’s got two younger half siblings but he only sees them like once a month. he doesn’t mind though, they’re all p close and there’s not some family vendetta or anything lolz his parents still get along and all that

despite being stuck there though, he made the most of his small city life and grew up with a positive outlook on everything like u really cannot catch him thinking the glass is half empty

lives for the weekends. only works as a telemarketer/salesperson and yea it’s a shit job with no time off and a poor salary but does he care ? as long as it’s enough to keep living, he’s content

diet p much consists of cheap beer and delivery pizza. ihop breakfasts when he’s feeling rich or p much jus craving pancakes at 3am

took a stripper class one time for the sicc experience but he tells everyone it was to look at half naked peepz

can and will shove an entire party platter of sliced salamis that fell on the floor into his mouth if it means he’ll make some money off of it, even if it’s only $5 bcos hey, that can at least cover his tab at the bowling alley

he's the guy at the party who makes a massive cheese and cracker sandwich called the eliminator

enjoys pitting people against each other but not in a shit ass annoying naslund way or a devil reincarnate lourdes way more in a “hey what’ll happen if i do this” knowing dam well what will happen but going for it anyways

strange personality makes him interesting and fun 2 hang with but also a lil bit misunderstood bcos he jus trynna b himself </3

is a good friend who’s willing to take risks and try new things and he’ll trick u into joining him for a night you’ll never forget mostly bcos of the tattoo and the scar and the croatian wife u now have

a weirdo w self confidence who can pick up on that rude thing u said about his mom but spends too long thinking of a slick comeback and by the time he figures it out the conversation has already taken four different turns

understands human psyche and knows that u lose a woman when u forget 2 cherish her but honestly he’s always there if u need a pal to lean on and he will do anything in his power 2 make sure ur okay

spends his off time people watching on top of his house. deadass has got lawn chairs, a cooler, and everything set up on there and even after breaking his collorbone when he fell off, he refuses to listen to the safety concerns of his neighbours and p much the general public

truly has no story for how he got to london, jus decided to pick up and leave one day and is p much living the same life he lived in america but different setting :P

#holy fu #smoke:ooc

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supportforindieauthors · 6 years ago

Text

Remember! by Colin Anders Brodd

You awaken in the dark. Where are you? How did you get here? You don't remember. Why don't you remember? You must try to think! Remember!

There is a throbbing in your temples, your eyes hurt as if you have had them open too long in dim light – but nay, did you not just awaken? In truth, your whole head hurts. Why? Did you hit your head? Is that why you were unconscious? Why you cannot remember? What is that smell?

You feel around in the darkness, and feel that you are still wearing your chainmail byrnie, still have your sword belted on, still have your lindenwood shield near your left arm. Were you wearing a helm? You cannot remember. You do not even really remember the arms and armor you bear, except in a blurry, instinctive way – your hand reached for the hilt of your sword almost without thought, as if it were a movement made so many times as to be habit. You must be a warrior of some sort, but you just cannot remember!

As your eyes adjust, you see that it is not completely dark where you are. You're in a cave. A natural tunnel of some kind. It is neither cold nor warm in this place. As you slowly climb to your feet, you realize that there is a dim glow, a very mild greenish and purple phosphorescent light, which seems to be emitted by some of the fungal growths that cover every surface in sight. There is a thick, heavy smell in the air. Earthy, but not pleasant, not clean. A smell of rot and decay. A fungal odor. The smell of a cave, you suppose.

A cave? What are you doing in a cave? You must remember!

You take a step forward, stumble, recover. Your boots crunch in the gravelly debris of the cave's floor, and the sound seems unnaturally loud in the stillness and the darkness. You still feel a little dizzy. Lightheaded. Aye. The fungal stench does not help matters, either.

Another step. Crunch. Deeper into the cave. Or are you going out? You do not remember whether this direction leads out of the cave or not. You are lost.

You are lost, your head hurts, the air stinks, and you cannot remember anything. This makes you angry, frightened, nervous . . . your grip on your sword and shield tighten. In truth, your sword is gripped in a white-knuckled grasp of terror and rage. But you are well-armed. You are not hungry or thirsty, but can not remember when you last ate or drank anything, or if there are more provisions nearby.

Sword and shield? Arms and armor? Are you here to fight someone . . . or more likely, something? Mayhaps some terrible monster inhabits this cave, and you have come to slay the beast! A troll? A dragon? Whatever it is, did it do something to your mind? To your memory?

You will not find out just standing here. You have to move. So you begin to walk forward again, slowly, carefully, through the dim phosphorescence. The crunch of your boots on the debris-littered floor of the tunnel seems loud, but the sharpness of the sound is dulled by the thick moss and fungus covering everything, as though the abhorrent growths absorb and devour the sounds you make.

What is this place?

You walk carefully along, almost creeping, sword and shield at the ready. You wish there were a breeze, a breath of air, that might tell you whether or not you were going the right way. A breeze to clear some of the stink from your nostrils. You must be ready for anything. Anything! If only your head did not hurt so much. If only you could remember.

If anything lies in wait to ambush you in the darkness, it must surely know that you are here. Every step crunches. You look down at the floor of the cavern. There is moss and fungus growing there, too, but the growth is not thick enough to muffle the sound of your steps. But what is that horrid crunching sound you hear? Something white gleams in the dim phosphorescent light.

Is that . . .? Could that be . . .? Is it bone? Old, rotted bones, breaking and crunching under your ruthless tread? Surely, not . . . not human, though? But it is. You can see it clearly now. You are walking on rotted, decayed human bones that burst under your boots as you progress through this strange underworld. What killed them? . . . And is it going to kill you, too?

You continue forward through the gloom. What other choice do you have, really? It looks like the tunnel opens up into a larger cavern up ahead, but you see no sign of sunlight, no sign that this is the way out. How long will you be trapped down here?

As you approach the larger cavern, you hear something. Faint at first, but growing louder as you come closer to the source. A wet sound, water trickling over rock. There is water ahead! At least you will not die of thirst! Although, strangely, you still do not feel any thirst . . .

You emerge into the larger chamber. It is roughly circular, and only about forty or fifty feet across. There is better illumination here than in the tunnels from which you have come, but it takes you a long time to realize why it is so much easier to see. There is a pool of water here, fed by little streams that trickle down the walls of the cavern. The water has something growing in it, some algae-like substance, and it causes the water to sparkle and glow. More phosphorescence. Also, the larger open space means more room for the fungal growths that emit dim light to spread out, shedding weird illumination everywhere. And it grows over several large, strangely shaped boulders that litter the floor of this cavern, causing disturbingly suggestive patterns of shape and shadow . . .

You look away from the strange boulders, all around the walls here. There are more tunnels branching off from this chamber, so you do not really have any better idea of how to find a way out than you did before. If anything, your head hurts worse than before, and you cannot shake the sudden conviction that you are being watched, or at least that you are not alone. Not alone . . .

Suddenly, your gaze is pulled back to the strange, misshapen, moss-covered boulders. They are not rocks, you realize. They are people. Or they were. With growing horror, you realize that what you first thought were strange rocks are corpses in varying states of decay, covered over with moss and lichen and fungus. Your eyes did not want to see the leering skulls at first, the faces contorted in agony, but even buried under hideous growth, the play of phosphorescent light and shadow reveals their true nature.

Many people have died here. Right here. In this chamber. Suddenly, your eyes flick to the tunnels, searching for any sign of movement, of ambush. Nothing moves, except the trickling water.

Feeling dizzier than before, you slump down to sit by the pool of water for a moment, carefully avoiding disturbing the corpses. Just for a moment, you tell yourself. Need to keep moving. Got to get back up and keep moving. Got to find a way out. Your motion dislodged a pebble; you watch it roll into the water and send glowing rippled through the sparking pool.

You wonder if the water is safe to drink. Maybe there is a poison in it. Maybe that is what killed all theee people before you. Something in the water . . .

You lean over and look into the rippling water. Every ripple sparkles with phosphorescent light. You can see your reflection, distorted, in the flowing surface. Your face is dirty. Your hair is filthy. In fact, it looks like you've got some of this mossy stuff stuck in your hair. You reach up to scrub it out of your hair, and it mists the air with a thick green and purple cloud of dust and spores. Ugh! That was in your hair! What is that gunk?

Looking around at the corpses that surround you, you realize that it is the same with each of them. The green and purple fungus grows thick on the heads, on the skulls. The cold horror that seethes under your skin awakens strange thoughts. Memories. Oh gods. Oh gods. You remember something! A warning. Someone tried to warn you about a green and purple moss like this once.

What did they say? What did they call it? You can almost remember . . . almost . . . .

Minna-mosi. That's what they called it. Memory-moss. It looks like simple moss and fungus, but it is nothing simple at all. It can enchant anyone who gets too close to it, and begins to drain the mind, starting with the memory. The spores get on you, get inside you, and begin to grow, and pretty soon you have an organism growing on your body, feeding off your body, while feeding on your mind as well.

Minna-mosi. You have been breathing the spores for some time. How long? How long were you unconscious? The panic is making you breathe hard, you are panting, and the realization that every lungfull of air you gulp down is filled with more of those spores makes you feel ill. You want to vomit, you even wretch, but nothing comes out. Your stomach is empty, Has been all along. Why do you feel no hunger? No thirst?

The minna-mosi has been working on you for some time. As it grows on you, grows in you, it negates feelings of hunger, of thirst. The host simply stops eating, stops drinking, eventually stops moving, and then dies. Then the minna-mosi consumes the body, draining the minds and infecting the bodies and brains of any living things that come near.

You are in a cave full of those corpses.

How long were you unconscious before you woke up? How did you get there? You must have already been infected, then. That is why you woke up with the headache. That is why you woke up with no memories. The minna-mosi has been draining your mind.

But some part of you remembers! Some part of you is resisting! You must resist! You MUST! You need to get out of this place now.

You struggle to get to your feet. Every movement feels slow, sluggish. You wonder how long it has been since you ate anything. The pain and pressure in your head has increased sharply; they say that the minna-mosi is sentient, aware, and it must psychically sense that you are fighting it. It must be fighting back. Waves of pain and nausea roll through your body. Another wretch, another dry heave, another stab of pain in your skull.

You must get out! NOW! You stumble a few more steps, and stop. The pain is unbearable! You can feel it draining everything from you, everything . . .

You stumble again, trip, fall. Your landing is softened by the carpet of minna-mosi growing on the floor of the cavern, but kicks up as massive cloud of spores. You cannot breathe, you are coughing, you feel as if your head were spinning . . . .

It all goes black.

You awaken in the dark. Where are you? How did you get here? You don't remember. Why don't you remember? You must try to think! Remember!

Why can you not remember? You must! Why? You cannot remember that, either! But it was important! You must remember! You MUST! REMEMBER!

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quonit-aceattorney · 7 years ago

Text

1-3 Reaction

Rules:

Q = Me, Quonit.

BF = Bardic Feline, the friend that made me spend 30 dollars on the game and whom I am messaging

I don’t use those when I send the messages close enough my username doesn’t appear.

Any typos (unless they are funny and part of the conversation) will be fixed.

Index

—

BF: are you still on case 2?

Q: nope 3, the samurai dude.

Me: Okay so he was sleeping during the time of dead. the producer was telling everyone where to move and what to do and later told everybody not to tell anyone. It could've been their fualt.

:nobody in game thinks this:

Me: Am I dumb or are all of you

I keep going to that place but I can't go get the key or whatever because first penny was blocking it and now oldbag is. Better go to every other place I can and examine and talk to everything before I can.

(edgy-boy)

oooo i found somebody :o

Q: yaaaaay time moved forward. Probably the 3rd grader mentioned earlier.

Q: YAY I FINALLY GOT THE KEY

now to wait until I get stuck again

BF: hahah yeah, I've played through that case multiple times and I STILL sometimes get a bit lost in the investigation phase

Q: yay I'm not alone!

BF: there's that one thing were you have to do a trading card exchange between multiple characters that can get a bit fetch questy

I still love that case so much though

Will is such a sweetheart!

I like to imagine him and Juan being friends.

Q: I haven't met him yet, I'll tell you my thoughts on him when I find him

BF: Will is the client of the case. :O

Will Powers, the Steel Samurai!

Q: oh ya!

BF: the big scary lion looking dude who's actually a big softie

he's a recurring character even hahah

Q: I like that guy. I disliked it when the first thing Maya said about him is "he looks like he's definitely killed people before". How dare she. I knew right form the start he was innocent.

yaaaay he appears more :D

BF: lol she changes her tune fast

but yeah...I have some speculations about how the victim of this case is connected to Juan, but I'll tell you about that later

Q: She does at least, I am still mad at her though haha

and phoenix, he also still seems suspicious of him.

ahhhhh juan is in the game

not even enough to get colored

BF: WELL it's a very very LOSE connection.

To be fair, the creator hadn't even conceived of 2-4 when he made this case, and it's a detail I had to really search around to find

it's more like a connection between one of Jack Hammer's old movies and Juan's show.

Q: hehe

oh ya I forgot Juan has one huh

fanthoeries!

Does Juan do anything more in the anime? I heard he got colored

BF: he got an official color for his jacket, and you get a few more full body shots of him that you get in the game

it's not much, but considering what we had before. :/

Q: aww oh well

JUST LEAVE IT TO THE FANS THEY ENJOY IT

Q: "Some people take their jobs a little too seriously" says the lawyer.

should I comment while I play or would that just be annoying

BF: nah, keep going! I actually like getting people's live reactions to games I've played before

Q: yaaaay :D

I just had to stop, pause the game, and sit a minuet after he said that.

"YOU'RE A LAWYER, IF ANYBODY SHOULD BE TAKING THEIR JOB 'TOO SERIOUSLY' IT'S YOU"

Q: Penny just tell please I don't wanna wander around for another 30 mineuts looking for a lead

oh yay penny may have the ultra (really super?) (some stupid namde) card

yaaaay

why not fucking trade! this is a spare card the kid doesn't want and she has the card we need to get him to talk!

Q: thought i'd have to look a lot more... guess not

HEY KID I GOT YOUR DAMN CARD

BF: Oh Cody...just gotta keep reminding yourself that he's too young to know any better

HE'S NOT OBSTRUCTING JUSTICE ON PURPOSE

Q: "WHO WAS THE PERSON WHO KILLED THE GUY IN THE VILAN SUIT? NOT THE NAME OF THE CHARACTER HE WAS DRESSED AS BUT WHO THE GUY WEARING THE SUIT WAS."

Q: hehe, the last option is the worst... I'll probably have to say fighting because that is probably what the kid would want most is an answer

yaaaay Cody likes me

See if this was made today Cody would have a phone instead of a camera

People give stuff to mia because she never wears any fucking clothes. YOU'RE IN YOUR SISTERS BODY, GIVE IT SOME RESPECT.

BF: hahaha

BF: TO BE FAIR, IT'S NOT LIKE MAYA RUNS AROUND WITH A LARGER SET OF ROBES FOR WHEN SHE WANTS TO CHANNEL HER SISTER

Poor Mia...she's honestly a great character, but no getting around the fact that she's a walking boob joke

Q: Least she isn't as bad at the April May character

BF: I don't think there's anyone in the original trilogy as bad as April

Q: man what if Cody actually pulled out his sword and stabbed gumshoe

BF: couple of ladies in the spinoff games starring Edgeworth who can rival her

yikes! poor Gumshoe!

Q: none of that guys name is good. He should get a nickname.

Edgy-boy

"Dick Gumshoe". He doesn't like being called 'dick' and gumshoe is just not really a good name.

Q: WHY IS EVERYBODY STILL SO SUSPICIOUS OF WILL

ALL THE KID SAID IS THAT HE SAW THE GUY IN THE COSTUME KILL THE GUY WITH THE SPEAR.

THIS CHANGES NOTHING

Q: yaaay savepoint

**BF: hahah YOU'LL FIND THAT ARGUMENT COME UP A FEW TIMES IN THESE GAMES And I'm not gonna like it is annoying **

'yeah I totally saw them! From the back!"

"I saw them there! I recognized them by their full body, figure concealing, face covering costume! it was them alright"

"what do you mean, of course no one else could have worn that outfit"

hahah there's one character in the spinoff games who calls him Gummy

Q: hehehe

Well Gummy is better then being called dick or dumshoe so

Q: "we're going into this trial utterly defenseless" NO WE'RE NOT MIA >:(

yaaay finally trial time :D

I really like the trials I finally actually get to do something

Q: hehe the guy is scared of Edgy-boy

that name will stick with me till the end of time I swear

BF: hahah yeah investigation time is your getting evidence period and such

but the trials are where you make it happen~

Q: yaaay

this guy condridicts himself so much why

Q: "Haven't we had enough of this pointless line of questioning???"

NO EDGEWORTH

WE HAVE NOT

They couldn't have gone to studio one because a tree was blocking it...

Pheonix why are you so upset YOU ALREADY KNOW THIS

Q: THE THIRD GRADER IS PART OF THE TRIAL???

Great. time for a break where everybody tells me how hopeless it it even though it isn't

BF: hahah yesss the BADGER THE CHILD

Q: LET US DO SO >:D LET THE BADGERING COMMENCE!

hehe he's too short for the stand. Are they gonna give him a step stool or something

yep

BF: the creator's logic for including Cody like this: a child would have a different reason to lie than an adult would, and he wanted to explore that. :3

tee hee

poor tiny cody

I love that you can see the box in the distance shots

Q: I do not feel for him. The adults should phrase it differently, I'll rephrase questions as we go for fun.

hehe i wanna see the box

2nd????

he's 7???

BF: I think he's supposed to be 11?

Q: but then he's be in 5th or 6th

BF: though that seems a bit old to think that superheroes are real

Q: so he's either 7 or 8... imma go with 8

BF: you can check his profile and get his in-game age haha

Q: alright imma do that

he's 7

BF: dang, younger than I recalled

Q: we already have is book why do we need the camera

BF: okay, so maybe not TOO old to believe superheroes are real, but a super young to be running around unsupervised like that

BF: mayhaps the camera contains some photos the book does not. 83

THE GAME RARELY GIVES YOU EVIDENCE YOU HAVE NO USE FOR

Q: wonder if his parents know about the trial

Mom: Hi honey! Where were you today?

Cody: I snuck into a building I wasn’t allowed in and went to court as a witness for murder! It was so cool!

yaaay

the guy in the flashback is wearing a mask

why did they let him bring his sword

BF: hee hee...this is one place where I have to credit the anime adaptation. in the anime version of this case, Phoenix questions Cody at the studio, and no one forces him to take the stand.

Q: hey if he went through there so could the adults

yaaay

good anime

this is a murder trial kid

Q: he's dead

Q: hmmmm

I mean the picture could be of use, but the only time I really present is when there is a contridiction

Q: ...should I try it? I don't think I'll get anywhere if I don't

ill look at what i have again

Q: "still learing how to use camera"

maybe he did have it he just didn't take a picture

Q: http://imperfectapollo.tumblr.com/post/172111532663/ananxiousraccoon-ananxiousraccoon

BF: remember: when in doubt, you CAN take a few hits to your damage meter without getting a game-over

and if you are REALLY REALLY In doubt, you can save your game before making a decision

Q: :(

fine I'll try it out

ooooo

BF: some of the penalty dialogue is funny enough to be worth the damage to your health meter hahah

Q: I've only gotten two so far, funny but disappointing still

Q: :D

I was too scared about my first idea so I use my second one: Are you sure you didn't take a picture? I have your camera

hehe the box

BF: hahah you should try to prove why he WOULD take a photo

Q: yaaay

because it's every battle he's won

BF: yep! And the samurai always wins!

Or DOES HE

Q: DUN DUN DUN

Q: he isn't mentioning the spear he didn't watch it but i don't know why

BF: Well, think back

what did he say about his camera?

Also we know he couldn't have used the spear for an important reason that came up ages ago

Q: yaaay i was right he was trying to photograph it but couldn't because it isn't working

BF: or more to the point he couldn't get it to work fast enough!

still learning how to use iiiiiit~

Q: yaaaay

BF: So he looked down to fiddle with the camera, and looked up to see? 83

Q: See mia what this boy says means nooooootttttthhhiiiiiiiing.

Q: moving strangely either from ankle or the person wasn't used to wearing the costume

Q: how dare you erase the pictures

honestly he would not have though, he would want to keep them and put them in his scrapbook

Q: SEE I WAS RIGHT

Q: what truth???

what am i supposed to be thinking???"

only reasonable one is he didn't win _ DUN DUN DUN_

Q: aww :(

BF: YOU GOT IT. :(

which raises one very very sad possibility about the fight...

Q: oh dam

who is the victim? the guy wearing the villan outfit, right? they taped around his helmet

BF: yeah, Jack, the guy who plays the villain character

Q: and hammer wasn't there, he was sleeping wait no

not hammer his name is will

who is hammer???

BF: No, Will Powers was sleeping

Jack Hammer, tee hee

Jack Hammer was the vicitm

and he WASN'T sleeping...

Q: :o everyone in the court is confused

BF: hahah cause you just hecked up the timeline! :D

Q: i like how during the rest of the trial the kid just sat there and quietly watched

it's just a funny idea to bme, thinking about what he thought about

Q: the sky is clear how can you be watching it

Q: 5 years ago what I'm pretty sure happened is that the guy accidentally killed another guy and then the girl covered it up and i think it's blackmail not and that is why from now on the other guy didn't work for big studios anymore

names, too tiered to memember

(I beat the case but didn’t record it)

0 notes

survivormalibu · 8 years ago

Text

“I’ll be back in this game VERY soon...” - Darian - Episode 5 (The irony is... he didn’t return.)

And ofc im on a tribe with all the ppl i DIDNT want to be on a tribe with. yippee. i win a challenge for my team then this happens. im just praying i can find a solid footing on this tribe in which i can float along on in peace

colin, tyler f, me, brian? maybe andrew? solid core? mayhaps. let me float in PEACE. end tribe swap culture.

Well, I knew Darian's plan was not going to go as we had hoped, and I am sad to see him go to the resort. But, I can honestly say, I love my new tribe as well! I'm glad I have Zach back, as he and I really connected from being on Escondido together (before we voted him out on his terms). I'm also glad I have Nicholas and Owen, as they are strong players. As for the others, I am looking forward to getting to know them!

Fuck tribe swaps tbh

I hope sitting out of this challenge didn't put a target on my back again. That being said I know I was targeted at the last tribal so who knows.

Y'all really fuckin did that huh. Put me on a tribe with everyone I don't know, I see what y'all are doing. I felt so secure in the brawn tribe and I was in a strong majority alliance and now all I got is........... Carson K. Who ofc saved our asses in the trivia challenge but he's also the person on the brawn tribe I was the least close to. I talked to Tyler F. a little bit when we were in One World at the beginning. But Andrew, Allison, Tyler S, Regan, Brian who??????? Oh well. Hopefully I'm not voted out next. I'm going to bed.

Alright. Round 2 of writing this because it got lost to the internet last time. Alright. Yay!!!! I'm so happy my tribe has slayyyed. Well pescador did. Carson k literally killed the trivia challenge. I'm so glad we had him. Honestly. The dream team would be the five of us (me, Carson k, Carson c, Colin, and Nicholas) I'm really bummed that I didn't make an alliance chat when we were on the same tribe. But I also really do like this new tribe. I think we are going to kick ass. Me Carson c and Nicholas are all together and I think Zach and Casey would vote with us for sure. But I really like Luke, Molly, and Owen. This sucks. But that's how the game goes. But hopefully we just don't lose. I really like these guys and I hope it works out. I'm seriously so worried about Carson k and Colin over there. I really hope that they will find a way to make themselves safe from votes. I need to make the Hpecdor alliance chat!!!! And I want all five of us in it when merge comes. I'm having a really great time playing this season. Next stop, make it to jury! Let's go!!! #honolulutribe #hpecdoralliance

I really like my sundae so I really hope I can win this one for my tribe since I'm usually not very good at the other challenges. The little flag I made is so cute! It's going to be a good keep sake of he season. Haha. Plus, this tribe is also really sweet and awesome!

So. Disregard that last confessional. I got voted out because TYLER AND BRIAN are SNAKES. But don't you worry about me. Ill be back in this game VERY soon and Ill be changing my strategies when it comes to you boys. I hope my Boo is ok! I love her! and I need her to stay alive in this game. I can't wait to come back and shake everyone up

So heres how my week has been . . . . . That was a list of all of the things said in the resort chat. NOTHING. Im stuck with a bunch of inactive people. Which is fine by me now because I was the only one who made an ice cream sundae. AND I won reward. AND I found a MOTHERFUCKING IDOL. So I'm not even close to out. Im just chilling on the resort. Petting my idol. While y'all bitches get voted out left and right. But lowkey I want off this island bad Like Im missing the action

This tribe swap has the potential to either be really great or absolute hell. I came over with Nicholas and Lily, both of which I was really close to on Pescador. I'm really looking forward to working with them so we all can just make it to the merge. If all the brawns got back together, I feel like we'd have an unstoppable alliance come merge. I'm so glad Regan played that idol because now we know none of the beauties have it. That makes it a lot easier to target them for a safe vote since we cant get blindsided by an idol. Lily was telling me it might be easier to align with the beauties, but if we know they dont have the idols then we should try taking them out. Still, it could be too early to judge this, so I'm not making any deals until i have too.

WHEW so we got a new tribe. I remained on Humaliwo along with Owen and Molly which is GREAT because I connected with the both of them the most on OldHumaliwo so I'm happy about that. My new tribe mates are really cool. I connected with Lily the most because we have a mutual friend but Casey, Zach, Carson and Nicholas are all really cool too. I think we're a strong tribe, I think we have what it takes to win immunity challenges and avoid having to vote anybody out but I guess we'll see!

I'm so proud of myself for actually submitting a decent score. I really hope we pull off the win! Lets go #honolulu #humaliwo #whatever :P

So, I have another idol. Brian found the page, but I finished the maze first and then told him I didn't find anything. The only person who knows about either is Andrew, so here's hoping he doesn't fuck me over. I have the Escondido and Humaliwo idol at this point. So, unless someone found the Pescador idol before it was killed, I have all the idols currently in the game. That's exciting, and a lot of pressure. I'm just glad I have someone close enough to talk it over with so I don't fuck it all up, because I could 300% see myself doing there. I don't think we're winning immunity, but I have Tyler S, Andrew, Brian, and through extension Tyler F. I also think Colin and/or Regan would vote with us. Carson K may be an easy vote unless everyone wants him gone because he literally got 24 on the challenge and I'm shook. Like, I get not knowing, but like, 24? I'm shook. I'm just hoping Humaliwo and Original Escondido can do that thing tbh.

Lowkey pissed that I keep being the only one who volunteers to do things and then we have challenges where more than one person just doesn't submit.

I... I don't know what to say. I told Ty on call that the only way he'd be safe is if we won, and that I would try and help him if we lost, but I couldn't really... um... say much about his usefulness to the tribe when he submitted 24. In fact, both Tylers submitted a combined score of 50-something. I cackled when I saw the results because we shouldn't have won. Now I just have to hope that Casey goes bye-bye (she didn't submit and tends to submit low scores anyway... plus the advantage she won from the reward) so we don't have to worry about her in this game for awhile. I just don't want Owen going. Please. PLEASE. He's like the one person I want to work with in this game aside from Allison and Ty, and like... it needs to happen, pretty please. As for Regan... hm... she's a m-e-s-s. She got upset with me and Ty because we saved her???? GURL, WHAT?! It honestly doesn't make any sense why she's like, "I'm alone!" but we flipped for her. We told her not to use her idol either, but she didn't trust us? Okay, that's a little okay because we coulda been snaking her, but after we didn't... I don't know. She dumb. But whatever. She genuinely confused me, but I'll get over it. I hope she goes if we go to tribal because fuck her. Finally, some fucking loser got the advantage before I did... with no clues? Fuck me up!!! Unless Allison's lying (I did give her the clue before solving the maze), but even if she is, hopefully it doesn't mean my demise. I trust Allison a ton, and I would consider her probably my second closest ally aside from Ty, but that doesn't mean she necessarily shares the same sentiment.

wow we somehow actually won immunity whew! I def didn't expect it, but I'm happy nonetheless. I was kinda worried about this round tbh Tribe dynamics are still... weird. Regan and Tyler S are pretty inactive, and the only people who like actually respond to me when I message them are Allison and Andrew. I have no idea where I fall into the mix, for all I know I could be at the bottom of the new Escondido totem pole. fuck. I miss my old tribe. I miss the chicken in a bucket alliance :((((

Feeling very anxious about this vote as any vote would go. I really like everyone and feel like everyone helps the teams. I'm currently watching season 1 and I can't remember who said it but someone basically said losing a member of the tribe will not make the tribe stronger but weaker because each person is important. I also feel this way. But someone has to go and I don't want I to be me or Nicholas and Carson so Molly seems like the best choice for us. Molly is a really awesome person and I will be sad to see her go if the plan actually works. It should be me Carson, Nicholas, Casey, and Zach all voting for molly.

THIS VOTE. A MESS. Lily, Nicholas and Zach want to vote Molly. I wanted to vote Casey because if she goes to The Resort and meets us with her bestie Darian then it eliminates the chance of a strong duo being in the main game and being reunited in a merge situation. I talked it over with Owen, my closest ally and he talked to Zach and Casey who apparently wanna vote Lily? Owen/Molly/Zach/Casey are an alliance. Since I don't want to vote against Lily, Owen told Molly to tell me to vote Zach. I'm perf with this becaue I'm not betraying Lily because she could come back from The Resort. My hands are clean. I just pray that these uglies aren't playing me.

IM HONESTLY SCREAMING RIGHT NOW SO Of course my bitch ass forgets to link the post which like... I respect the host's choice to make the rule and enforce the rule and stuff I just also have never ever ever had to do it before so it's hard when you play games for three years to all of a sudden have to change something you're used to doing without thinking. Tea. ANYWAYS I THIUGHT I didn't have a vote but anyways I was really getting close with Lily because we have a lot of mutual interests and we are both from Michigan and actually know some of the same people irl?? We really clicked and I love her to death and I wanted so badly to be close with her in the game. So I suggested to her that me Luke her and Carson make a group and pull in Molly and Nicholas since they were on our old tribes to target Zach. He had already been voted out so we know he doesn't have an idol, he's gonna try in the challenges, etc. it made sense like.... honestly that would been so good for them because that's two easy votes right there for the whole tribe!!! BUT THEN TODAY Ashe comes to me saying she wants to vote Molly because 'there are too many brains in the game' And I....? I'm a brain??? Why would you say that? And I gave her numerous reasons WHY it should be one of the others and basically she ended up saying she was gonna vote Molly anyways. I asked if we could compromise, and she said 'I'm sorry'. So instantly like... damn. She also said Zach and Casey were gonna vote Molly already but that didn't stop my gay ass from TRYING. Here's the thing I do not like feeling like I'm helpless??? So I went to zach and casey and I basically like really REALLY exaggerated and told them that lily was pitting us against each other! And that the brawn wanted to keep zach and casey as shields to vote out later and I really played up the fact that they were playing both sides and... and it actually worked. They both talked to Molly. And luke warned me that zach and Nicholas were close so I made sure to make it seem like it was all lily and Carson's doing lmao And zach was sayin all this stuff about how lily and regan know each other irl and I'm like... literally lily lives nowhere near Regan right but I didn't say that!!! Lol Zach and Casey made a group with me and Molly and after I planted the seed all I had to do was just sit back and watch it grow . I was like 'yeah I'll do anything!!!!' So hopefully they aren't lying and they do vote lily... I'm sorry this has to happen, Lily. And honestly I kind of expect they're lying and it'll be me voted out. But whatever! I was put between a rock and a hard place and I wiggled my ass out of there. Sorry, but if you're not with me, you're against me :) cute!

Honestly Luke, Molly, and Owen should vote me off. I feel horrible. Everyone is so awesome. I hate tribal.

#imeltformalibu #confessionals #announcement

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